hey, it’s me again…

I’ve been noticing something about myself lately.

The reaction usually comes first.

The explanation comes later.

There are moments when my chest tightens, my shoulders creep up, or my patience disappears before I can explain why. For a long time, I treated that as a flaw — something to override, control, or calm down as quickly as possible.

But now I think it might be something else.

I think my subconscious picks up on patterns — familiar behaviors, tones, or dynamics — long before my conscious mind puts the story together. My body recognizes a threat response before my brain has language for it.

And that realization has changed the way I understand myself.

If that’s true, then my reactions aren’t random. They’re protective. They’re information. Especially for women navigating anxiety, ADHD, and nervous system regulation, that matters.

That doesn’t mean every reaction is accurate or needs immediate action. But it does mean those reactions deserve curiosity instead of criticism.

For a long time, I rushed past that space.

Feel it. Judge it. Move on.

Now I’m learning to pause there.

This is where writing comes in.

Writing has become the place where I slow down enough to listen. Where I can take a reaction and gently ask, What are you responding to? Not to fix it. Not to silence it. Just to understand it.

On paper, patterns start to emerge. Connections form. What felt overwhelming becomes specific. What felt like “too much” begins to make sense.

I can see where past experiences are brushing up against present moments.

I can name when my nervous system is responding to familiarity instead of actual danger.

I can better tell the difference between intuition and anxiety — or at least move closer to that understanding.

Writing doesn’t rush me toward clarity.

It walks me there.

Sometimes clarity isn’t a dramatic breakthrough. Sometimes it’s a quiet recognition: Oh. That’s why that felt heavy. Or, That reaction makes sense now. Or even, I don’t need to decide anything yet.

There’s something deeply kind about that.

I’m realizing my body has been doing its job all along — paying attention, recognizing patterns, trying to keep me safe. My role isn’t to shut that down. It’s to partner with it.

To listen.

To slow down.

To connect the dots without forcing them.

Faith has a place here too. Not in a loud or performative way, but in the quiet trust that understanding doesn’t have to come all at once. That God can meet me in the pause, not just the resolution.

I don’t need to react faster.

I need to be gentler with the space between reaction and understanding.

Writing gives me that space.

And right now, that feels like enough.