Why Happiness Makes You Nervous

For the girl who thinks the tightness in her chest is normal

Good times make you nervous, don’t they?

You don’t call it fear—you call it “being cautious,” or “not getting your hopes up.” But the truth is quieter: you’re not used to peace. For so long, love has felt like tension, panic, apologizing, overthinking, and walking around someone else’s moods like they’re landmines.

So when something finally goes right… Your whole body glitches.

You look around, waiting for the explosion.
You wait for the tone in his voice to shift.
You wait for the moment he decides you’re “too sensitive,” “too emotional,” or “too much.”

And if nothing happens right away, your brain fills the silence with dread: Is this the part where it all turns again?
You don’t trust happiness—not because you’re broken, but because you’ve survived too long without it.

Girls like us learn early that peace feels like a trap.
A setup.
A calm before the next storm.

No one told you that real love isn’t supposed to feel like bracing for impact.
No one told you that safety isn’t the same thing as “keeping the peace.”
No one told you that if your body relaxes only when he isn’t home… that’s not comfort. That’s survival.

Listen, sweetheart—if happiness feels foreign, it’s not because you’re incapable of it.
It’s because someone taught you to expect pain.

And here’s the part I wish someone had whispered to me sooner:
You don’t have to keep living in the story where fear feels like love. You don’t have to keep shrinking yourself just to fit into a relationship that was never safe to begin with.

Real peace doesn’t make you nervous.
Real love doesn’t make you flinch.
And real happiness doesn’t feel like a setup—it feels like finally coming home to yourself.

You deserve that kind of happiness.
And I promise… it won’t explode.

When someone ties despair to God Himself, it buries you in a deeper kind of fear. You stop dreaming. You stop believing in the better. And every time life gets quiet, you brace yourself, because you know the calm never lasts.

I remember once, after one of our rare calm seasons, we tried to dream again. We made a little vision board together — nothing extravagant, just things a normal couple would hope for. A peaceful home. A reliable car. A future that didn’t feel like walking through broken glass.

But his face went dark, the way it always did when anything felt too good.

He looked at me and said,

“God hates me. We will never get any of this.”

And just like that, the air changed.
The hope drained out of the room.
My body learned — again — that peace wasn’t safe, and happiness wasn’t to be trusted.

My Gut Reaction: Living with Public Anxiety, IBS, and a Submarine Emergency

A funny, honest essay about navigating IBS, hidden anxiety, and one unforgettable moment in a submarine that led to personal healing.

I never considered myself an anxious person — but the swooshing in my gut, the bubbles, the ache — it happens too often to ignore. And it only ever happens in public places, which made me start to wonder: maybe this is anxiety.

We were on a little weekend getaway and decided to go to the Arkansas Inland Maritime Museum before heading home. The USS Razorback (SS 394) submarine is harbored on the Arkansas River. The tour starts in the visitor center, where I went to the restroom one last time — just to be safe.

Walking across the plank, I looked out at the foggy river, thinking, I love Arkansas; it’s so beautiful here. It was bizarre but amazing — a real submarine in the middle of the Arkansas River. It made me wonder if there were others.

Our tour guide opened the hatch door and pointed to the 14-foot ladder leading down into the vessel, instructing us to climb down. I was cursing my choice in shoes that morning. I wore wooden-heeled pumps, not knowing we were going on this spontaneous side adventure after breakfast.

I chose to be the last to go down. Each step made me tremble with fear.

She talked, leading us down narrow pathways, stepping through doorways. There was so much machinery, equipment, and living necessities squeezed into this tiny space. It was warm and damp, and you could still get the faintest waft of sweaty sailors.

I usually welcome warmth, but this day my belly was giving me a different type of heat. I knew I shouldn’t have eaten the eggs when we were not close to home. Eating eggs was always like playing roulette. I might have explosive diarrhea, I might not. We would wait and see. Of course, if I had known we were going on a side trip before heading home, I would have ordered something safer.

Every time we go out, I calculate the distance from the restaurant to home because these bathroom emergencies, we like to call them, had become a part of my life. When we go to shows or concerts, we always choose aisle seats so I don’t have to walk in front of a bunch of people, clenching my butt, praying I don’t pass gas in someone’s face.

But here we were in this submarine — tight and suffocating, with recycled air that clung to your skin. Not even a quarter of the way through our tour, I couldn’t hear what she was saying. All my focus was on the swooshing and bubbles in my intestines, calculating how long or how much time I had to climb up that dreaded ladder and get to the bathroom.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if we had been the only people on the tour. But there were others. And I was about to have to interrupt and explain my situation.

I crossed my arms across the top of my bloated belly as if to say, “No. I refuse to let you do this to me,” but honestly, I was praying I could just make it through the tour.

Then I felt it.

The drop — when my stomach contents fall into the next chamber like a trap door has opened. That’s the signal: time is running out. Once that happens, the rest of my system tends to follow suit in a panic. Maybe that’s why they call it “taking a dump” — because once it starts, it’s all downhill from there.

I raised my hand like a shy elementary student asking the teacher to go to the bathroom — but in a whisper, so no one close by could hear me, so they wouldn’t laugh and make fun of me.

I said quietly, “I think I’m going to throw up.”

I learned that if you tell them you’re about to toss your cookies, they are more sympathetic and quicker to get you out of there because no one wants to deal with vomit. This happened to me on a cave tour in Colorado. They stopped the entire group, handed me a barf bag I knew I wouldn’t need, while everyone waited for someone to rescue me and take me back above ground.

She led me to the porthole, climbed up to open the hatch, and stood there watching as I clumsily made my way up the ladder in my wooden-heeled shoes.

Once outside, I walked as fast as I possibly could to the bathroom, feeling it crowning like a baby fixing to be born. I don’t know about your bladder and other systems, but as soon as I see the bathroom, my systems think it’s time to release — steadfast, I keep my gaze on the ground, not wanting to make “eye contact” with the bathroom door.

I barely had time to pull my pants down before the rest of my digestive tract let go. It was a speedy, high-volume exit.

And that was it.

I breathed a sigh of relief, wiped the sweat off my forehead, and — being too embarrassed to return to the tour or wait for the next one — we drove on home.

That experience prompted me to reflect.

My stomach doesn’t betray me — as long as I don’t leave the comfort of my home. Conveniently, I work just down the driveway, so even work feels safe. But as soon as I round the corner to head toward town, leaving the comforts of our rural home, my gut will start doing its thing.

There have been times when I was driving that I felt I would pass out. It happened so often that I started keeping a closer eye on my glucose and blood pressure, thinking it could be a physical cause. But my vitals always came back normal.

Then I read something about how, when we’ve been through traumatic events, we often create an environment for ourselves that’s so comfortable we don’t want to leave it — and become afraid to.

And it dawned on me.

I have it really good at home. From the deck, we have a view of the mountains, surrounded by trees, and it’s just a short walk to a creek — everything I ever dreamed of and more. It even makes searching for vacation homes difficult, because not many places can beat the one I live in.

But leaving this wonderful, comfortable place gave me anxiety. And that anxiety was taking control of my life.

So I decided to start therapy.

When she asked why I was there, I told her I think I have anxiety — and how my gut liked to let loose in response. Little by little, she helped me peel back the layers to understand why it was happening.

That was two years ago. Now, I can safely go places — tours, car rides, even crowded events. The gut thing has only popped its ugly head up once recently, after getting bad news from two of my adult children — separate events in their lives, but both deeply upsetting.

I’m learning to live with a gut that feels everything — and to finally listen to what it’s been trying to tell me.

When You Take the Blame That Wasn’t Yours to Begin With

To Every Woman Still Carrying the Weight That Was Never Hers

I used to believe that everything was my fault.

The slammed doors, the silence, the yelling that followed the silence, the fists that followed the yelling—I took the blame for all of it. If dinner was cold, it was my fault. If he had a bad day, somehow I caused it. If he lost his temper, I should’ve known better. I should’ve stayed quiet. I should’ve smiled more. I should’ve been less.

When you live under the same roof as someone who thrives off control, you learn quickly that survival means shrinking yourself. It means bending until you barely resemble a person. It means learning the art of swallowing blame for things that never had anything to do with you—because arguing only brings pain, and agreeing brings temporary peace.

But what they don’t tell you is that even when you get out—when you finally pack the bags, find the courage, or flee in the middle of the night with nothing but your breath in your chest—that voice follows you.

Even in freedom, I found myself taking the blame for things that weren’t mine.

If a friend was upset, I’d replay our last ten conversations, convinced I did something wrong. If my boss looked stressed, I’d take on extra work, hoping it would ease a tension I didn’t cause. I’d apologize for everything. For asking questions. For not asking enough. For existing, sometimes. I was hunting for ways to feel terrible, and life kept handing me proof that I was right… because that’s what trauma does. It warps the lens.

But here’s the truth I’ve learned—he was wrong.

I was not the problem. I was not too sensitive. I was not too loud or too quiet or too emotional or too needy. I was not weak for staying. I was not selfish for leaving.

Healing isn’t linear, and it sure as hell isn’t clean. Some days, the guilt creeps back in like fog through a cracked window. But I catch it now. I see it for what it is: a ghost of the past, trying to convince me that I’m still that powerless woman I used to be.

I’m not her anymore.

I don’t carry blame that isn’t mine. I lay it down and walk away from it.

Now, I advocate. I speak. I write. I sit with other survivors and tell them: you are not crazy. You are not broken. And you are not to blame.

If you’re reading this and you’ve ever felt like the villain in your own story—take a breath. Hand back what was never yours to carry.

You deserve peace. You deserve love. And most of all, you deserve to be free from blame that was never yours to begin with.

You survived.

Now it’s time to thrive.

Why You Always Zero In on What Hurts

When trauma teaches you to fear the good, trusting peace can feel like betrayal

Have you ever noticed how fast your mind finds the crack in the glass?

Something good happens—and before it even settles, you’ve already ruined it in your head.
You pass the test, then tell yourself you’ll probably fail the next one.
Someone says they’re proud of you, and you immediately wonder what they really meant.
You finally get a moment of peace, and instead of resting in it, you’re holding your breath waiting for it to explode.

That’s not you being dramatic.
That’s trauma.
That’s conditioning.

When you’ve lived in survival mode long enough—when love came with punishment, when silence meant danger, when even your joy got twisted into a weapon—you stop trusting anything that feels too good.

Your brain starts treating calm like a trap.
It looks for warning signs even when there aren’t any.
Because in your experience, the good things never came without a price.

So, of course, your mind zeroes in on what hurts.
That was your safety plan. That’s how you kept yourself alive.

You learned to listen for footsteps. You studied his moods like they were gospel. You walked on eggshells because they were safer than landmines.

So when someone tells you to “just think positive” or “celebrate the good,” it doesn’t land. It feels fake. It feels dangerous. Because in your world, hope always came back with bruises.

I remember the day I reached for help.

I wasn’t even expecting a miracle—just someone to see me. I told the truth. I admitted I was scared, confused, and unraveling. I laid it all out there: how small I felt, how broken I had become, how the God I was clinging to didn’t feel like He was anywhere near me anymore.

And the answer I got?

“Just go home and be a good wife.”

No rescue. No comfort. Just a command.
That broke something in me.
I learned right then: honesty doesn’t guarantee help. Hope can backfire.
So I stopped reaching. I started bracing harder. I got quieter.
Because at least silence couldn’t slap me in the face like that again.

That moment shaped me. And not in a holy way.

But here’s what I want to tell you—what someone should have told me:

You’re not negative.
You’re not broken.
You are conditioned. And you can unlearn it.

But not by pretending. Not by slapping affirmations over your scars.

It starts small. Like this:
When the voice comes up that says, “This won’t last,” or “You don’t deserve this,”
just pause.
Don’t fight it. Don’t obey it. Just notice it.

That voice isn’t your truth.
It’s your trauma.

And slowly, you can start choosing differently.

Not because you’re suddenly healed. But because for once, you’re finally allowed to be aware of how deep the damage goes—and how much more you were made for.

You’re allowed to want peace without fear.
You’re allowed to hold joy without bracing for pain.
You’re allowed to believe something good… might actually be good.

Even if your brain’s not there yet, you are.

Why No One Can Cheer You Up (And Why You Don’t Want Them To)

It’s not that you can’t feel better…it’s that you don’t trust better.

When you’re upset, it feels like nothing can touch you. Friends try to cheer you up, but their words bounce right off. You shut it down with,

“You don’t understand,” or “I can’t help the way I feel.”

Here’s the thing: you’re not wrong for wanting to sit in your feelings. Pain can feel safer than pretending everything’s okay. But sometimes, without realizing it, you hold on to that pain like proof. Proof that you were hurt, evidence that your feelings are real, proof that you’re not invisible.

And letting it go? That feels scary. Because misery, as heavy as it is, can start to feel familiar. Almost like home.

You’re not broken for feeling this way. You’ve just learned to live with despair for so long that happiness feels foreign. But here’s the truth: you deserve more than the familiar depression. You deserve peace, even if it feels uncomfortable at first.

Such was I. I lived in an abusive marriage for 24 years. When I finally dared to leave, I started reflecting and asked myself,

“Why had I stayed so long?”

In the future, I knew I didn’t want to make the same mistake. I didn’t want to end up in another abusive marriage. So I looked back at my past relationships, and they were all the same. Abusive.

Wow. Who am I? And why am I choosing this path?

That’s when I realized I had an addiction problem. I was addicted to pain—the pain and the drama of the chaos. I was stuck in a cycle, like a revolving door. So I constantly had to remind myself why I was leaving. I had to remind myself that I deserved better and that I should look for someone who was the complete opposite.

And that’s precisely what I did. Today, I stand on the other side of abuse. Stronger, freer, and committed to helping others find their own path out.

Need help?
If you or someone you know is struggling with addiction, emotional distress, or abuse, support is available 24/7:

Addiction Recovery: Call 866-606-0182 or visit our treatment center directory
Suicide & Crisis Lifeline: Dial 988 (free, confidential, 24/7)
Domestic Violence Hotline: Call 800-799-7233 or text START to 88788
Sexual Assault Hotline (RAINN): Call 800-656-4673 or visit online.rainn.org

You are not alone. There is help. There is hope. And you are worth the healing.

Not All Storms Are Destructive

“The wise man in the storm prays God not for safety from danger but for deliverance from fear. It is the storm within which endangers him, not the storm without.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson

It was black outside, dark as night. The wind was blowing so hard that the tops of the trees were bowed, touching the ground. Our trailer shook from the wind’s fury. Alvarado was rural in those days, with no audible tornado sirens. It would not have mattered. We did not have a storm shelter and did not know where one was located. I grabbed my son and we sat in the middle of the living room floor. I held him tight, rocking back and forth. “What time I am afraid I will trust in thee. When I am afraid, I will trust in thee. What time I am afraid I will trust in thee.” I quoted repeatedly. Praying, “Please, God, protect us. Please do not let anything happen. What time I am afraid I will trust in thee.” I was shivering, not from cold but from fear. The wind whipped around the trailer. I am sure there was thunder, but I only remember the wind and the feeling that I could be transported into the heavens at any moment.

People have often asked me, “What is worse, a tornado or an earthquake?” I used to answer, “Earthquake, because you can predict a tornado.” But living in the infamous “Tornado Alley” has caused me to change that answer.

I have heard Preachers say, “You’re either entering a storm, in a storm, or coming out of a storm.” Although this statement might be true, it is such a pessimistic philosophy.

Bear with me while I give you some statistics. In 2022, 1,329 tornadoes were reported in the US. 160 of them were in Texas. Only one of them hit Houston, the biggest city in Texas. Harris County (Houston) has the most tornadoes reported in the state. From 1950 to 2022, 246 tornadoes were reported. That averages to 3 a year. If Houston is only seeing three tornadoes a year, then what is Houston doing during the other 362 days of the year? Are they stressing about the next approaching storm? Are they talking about how horrible they have it because they go through so many storms?

The only thing affected by the storm that day was my faith. There was no damage to any of the surrounding homes.

“I am not afraid of storms for I am learning how to sail my ship.” – Louisa May Alcott.

You cannot or should not live each day worrying about the next storm of life headed your way, nor should you fixate on the one that just passed. Not all storms are destructive. Most are just a sideshow, a distraction. Enjoy the days in between the storms. Don’t worry yourself sick about the things you cannot control. It usually isn’t as bad as you imagined.

Question Everything

“Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow. The important thing is not to stop questioning.” – Albert Einstein

Have you ever asked God, “Why?”

Have you ever questioned His existence?

Have you ever screamed out in agony, wondering why YOU even exist?

Have you ever wondered how a “loving God” could allow such pain and suffering?

Have you ever sat in a puddle of your own tears and felt you couldn’t go on?

Have you ever felt the hatred burning in your bones?

Have you ever tried to wake up, hoping it was just a nightmare?

Have you ever sought answers but found none?

Have you ever wondered, “Why me?”

Have you ever put on a fake smile so that you didn’t have to talk about it?

Have you ever wanted to start all over?

Have you ever wanted to give up? Everyday?

Have you ever wondered why you couldn’t get on the good side of life?

Have you ever felt cursed?

Have you ever felt depressed and regretted so much of your life?

I have.

“The power to question is the basis of all human progress.” – Indira Gandhi

How many times have you been told that you should never question God? I lost count of the times I was told that. But guess what? He understands. We were born questioning everything around us. That is how we learn and grow. The only ignorant question is the one that is never asked. Asking questions clears confusion, gives us a better understanding of any given situation, and helps us find answers. Questions help solve problems. It is absolutely fine to question our life; it shows that we do not accept our current position or status and that we are willing to improve.

What kind of God does that?

“Oh my god what have you done! This is all your fault! You are such a fucking idiot! You’re such a dumb fuck! You fucking bitch, how could you do this?” His anger was strong, his face was red from screaming. His eyes bulging, as he paced back and forth flaying his hands in the air.

I sat sobbing, my face in my hands, heart broken for my daughter.

I had no idea the puppy would jump off the porch. I tied her there so I could clean the laundry room, where we kept her. I didn’t know she’d jump, didn’t know it was a life threatening action.
He continued screaming.”you fucking bitch! I hate you! Everyone hates you! Ahhhh! All of this is your fault! This is a sign from God that you’re living in sin, your not right with God! You better listen! You better wake up!”

Now he is within inches of my face. I could feel the heat from his words and smell the morning coffee on his breath. Flicks of spit were hitting my face with each word he muttered.

I had ceased to hear what he was saying. I had gone into my catatonic self preservation state. Staring through him, at nothing. My own thoughts screaming in my head, “Why God, WHY would you let this happen??”

It all started with my daughter wanting a yellow lab puppy so bad.

We couldn’t afford one. Every time she would ask we would tell her to pray for one because she was determined to have a yellow lab.

Finally she decided to do just that, she began praying. I instructed her on how to pray and how to ask God for a promise. She had her bible verse promise and she prayed daily for that puppy. I told her “sometimes God might give us something a little different then what we pray for”. So not to expect it to be a lab.

One day one of our church members heard she had been praying for a puppy and said their daughters dog had a litter of pups and asked if we were interested in the last one. When we asked what kind they were Mrs Kennedy said that Lynettes dog had a litter of full blood yellow labs.

My heart fluttered and a small tear entered my eye. God was answering my daughters prayer exactly how she wanted! But there was still the issue of money, Pure Bred dogs are expensive. We didn’t say anything to Lydia, we just told her to keep praying that God would “give” her a puppy.

Later that evening Mrs. Kennedy called Phil and told him that she and Ed wanted to give it to Lydia as a gift.

I could not contain my happiness!

The next day Ed and Bonita brought the puppy to our house. We kept it a secret. When they handed the pup to Lydia she burst into tears. Dottie was absolutely everything she had been praying for.

I felt such accomplishment. We had taught our daughter to pray for the things she wanted and also taught her that God answers prayers.
He has turned his anger up and out yelling and screaming at God, “where are you? You don’t exist!” Then he’d turn and scream into the air in front of him, “Satan I hate you! Get out of my house!” As spit fell down his chin. He gripped his grilling spatula and started beating his brand new grill. A fathers day gift from all the children. He beat it over and over repeatedly until it was nothing more than a curled up jumbled mess.

I’m thinking past all the screaming words and violence. I do not care what he’s saying about or to me or to God, Satan or that grill.

Where is my daughter? Is she ok? Her gift snatched from her in just a few short days – what kind of God does that? What kind of God answers a prayer exactly the way you prayed it and then suddenly takes it away? Who does that? Why?

I never received an answer that day. My daughter has pushed the incident to the back of her memories calling her the “dog who committed suicide”.

I wanted to die that day. It wasn’t the first time nor would it be the last.

May 10, 2015

I have found myself saying, “the hardest thing I’ve had to do”, over and over again. But here goes another time: the hardest thing I’ve had to do is let go of trying to keep my son alive.

He has attempted suicide twice, talked about it numerous times.

His 13yr old sister looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, “Mom, you can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.”

She is so right.

He is in a “treatment center” and they’re putting him in antidepressants… I told them he would just try to take the whole damn bottle. They told me that since he is a minor I am responsible to administer them to him.

Oh great! Now I have to buy a safe? A lock? Wtf? Where am I supposed to hide these? The last bottle of pills he took … He took them right out of my purse!

He is almost 17, I’ve not treated him as a child, but now they want me to administer medicine to him as if he’s a baby.

I told the therapist who is supposed to be “helping” him, “I do not want to just treat his symptoms. Suicide and Major Depressive Disorder are only symptoms of something else going on inside of him. Can we please try to deal with the cause?”

Oh… ((Insert big sigh here))… This is another one of those “hardest things I’ve had to do” this past year.

April 24, 2015

CONFIDENCE

Suppressing my feelings is nothing new to me. It’s a learned trait. I’ve been doing it for 20 years or more … I hold in my feelings because I don’t want to hurt anyone, yet I am breaking and bleeding inside, hurting myself instead.

I want to say all that’s on my mind, but I fear the outcome. Fear that whatever I’ve been worrying about is really the truth and reality. Maybe I do live in a fantasy world. Maybe I do wish for things that are unattainable.

Is it too much to ask for stability? Too much to ask for something that my kids can put confidence in? At this point i feel like I should teach my kids to only put confidence in themselves because everyone else will

disappoint them.

Yoli's Write To Sanity

Just Breathe And Write

Category: anxiety