Last week, I finally cleaned out my locker from the hospital.

It’s been years since I worked the COVID unit — years since that version of me pulled back-to-back shifts, lived on caffeine and adrenaline, and thought “I’m fine” meant “I’m still standing.”

But as I opened that old locker, it all came rushing back.
There was a locker half full of Pepcid for the heartburn I pretended wasn’t from stress, pain patches for the tension I tried to ignore, and antidepressants I never wanted to need.
It wasn’t just a locker — it was literally evidence of how much I’d pushed past my limits.

The Breaking Point

It was a Tuesday morning — I was the lead nurse that day and had just gotten report on the patients. They weren’t even that sick, not like the height of the pandemic. It should have been totally doable.

But my hands were shaking. I was super anxious. I remember doing my little morning thing — organizing the entire unit to my liking (annoying, I know) — because that’s how I tried to quiet the rising panic. I was already ruminating about the day and all of the mandatory tasks I’d need to check off.

Then the manager came in with another list of impossible demands.

On top of trying to keep a pop-up unit running with minimal resources, keeping terrified nurses feeling safe enough to show up, and doing the bare basics of self-care (drink water, breathe), I just… lost it. I wasn’t professional. I couldn’t hold it together. I remember thinking I just wanted to punch her in the face.

That afternoon, I called my doctor and started the paperwork for a stress leave.
It was the first time I said out loud what my body had been trying to tell me for months: enough.
I had to wave the white flag and step away.

The Three-Month Pause

I ended up taking a three-month sabbatical from nursing — the first real pause I’d ever given myself.

I thought time away would fix everything. I pictured rest, sleep, and finally feeling like me again. But even after three months, my body didn’t get the memo.

I was exhausted but couldn’t rest. My heart still raced for no reason. I jumped at small noises. My brain kept looping like I was still on the unit, waiting for the next alarm.

Over time, I started to see that it wasn’t burnout at all — because my body was still running on emergency energy, long after the crisis had passed.

What Anxiety Was Really Trying to Tell Me

For so long, I believed my anxiety meant something was wrong with me.
But what I’ve learned since is that anxiety is your body’s alarm system — it’s not trying to ruin your life, it’s trying to protect you.

When you live in constant crisis mode — when your system spends months or years on high alert — your body forgets how to turn it off. Even when the danger is over, it keeps running like it’s still in the ICU.

My system wasn’t broken.
It was just stuck in overdrive.

Learning to Feel Safe Again

Nervous system work didn’t change me overnight.
It was slow — like teaching my body a new language after years of speaking emergency.

Little by little, I learned to heal myself from the inside out:
through breath work, through sound, through EFT tapping, through rest that actually restored me instead of numbing me.

Those tools didn’t just help me feel better — they helped my body, my mind trust life again.

And that’s why this is what I teach now. Not quick fixes or mindset hacks, but real regulation — the kind that reminds you your body isn’t the enemy. It’s been on your side all along, just trying to keep you alive.

Because if you’ve been living in high alert for too long, you don’t need more motivation or discipline. That's not going to work.
You need safety.
You need softness.
You need permission to finally exhale.