Hijacked: When My Nervous System Took Over

What justice work continues to teach me about mental health, belonging, and staying present 

The Conversation

Recently, I was in a small group discussion of colleagues committed to equity and belonging. We were debriefing the city’s response to Operation Metro Surge. The question became: How do we maintain care for one another across communities and across race? More specifically, how will white people continue to show up, given the pattern of stepping back when the work gets hard or less urgent?

I was the only white person at the table of six.

After a few people spoke, there was a pause. And then… silence.

In that silence, my body lit up. My heart started racing, my thoughts scattered, and I felt heat rise in my face. I became acutely aware of my own sudden visibility. I didn’t want to sit in silence -I know white silence can be harmful. But I also didn’t want to speak up and center myself, or say the wrong thing.

Both alarms were going off at once. And instead of slowing down, I sped up.  I opened my mouth and started talking.  I don’t remember exactly what I said. But afterward, I dropped straight into shame. My thoughts spiraled quickly:

I did it wrong.

I’m not a good ally.

I’m not a good person.

 When the Body Sounds the Alarm

Looking back, I can see what was happening. My nervous system had moved into a hyper-responsive state—what some might call fight-or-flight. There was too much energy in my system: racing thoughts, a flushed face, a pounding heart, and an overwhelming urgency to act.

In moments like these, our brains are not carefully choosing words; they’re trying to keep us safe. And they raise the alarm.

My mind filled in the blanks quickly. I assumed people were judging me or wondering why this white woman was talking. I don’t know if any of that was true, but I moved straight into interpretation instead of staying grounded in what I could actually hear and observe.

Even as a coach, someone who teaches tools for moments like this and has spent years practicing them, I got hijacked.

That’s the reality of being human.

The Urge to Repair or Disappear

Afterward, I noticed two strong impulses. One part of me felt the urge to rush to each person at the table, apologize, explain myself, and make sure they knew I was “one of the good ones.” Another part of me wanted to disappear entirely. To never go back. To avoid the discomfort and humiliation altogether.

If you’re familiar with nervous system responses, those impulses won’t be surprising: fawn and flight.

But instead of acting on either of them, I sat with them. Not perfectly, but with intention. I offered myself what I try to offer others, curiosity and kindness, and I reached for support.

I talked the situation through with my therapist and a trusted friend, both of whom are grounded in somatic healing and racial justice. Slowly, I was able to reconnect with something my therapist often reminds me of, something inherent in every human being: essential goodness.

It’s not other people’s job to reassure me that I’m a good person. That’s work I have to do internally. And so is the work of reckoning and repair.

What I Might Have Done Differently

Justice work is essential to me, and it’s not easy. It requires practices that help us stay with discomfort rather than run from it. Reflection and processing with others helped me imagine what I might do differently next time:

• Pause and breathe: I can take a moment to name for myself exactly what is happening in my body.
• Reframe safety: I can remember that discomfort is not danger.
• Ground in values: I can lean into the practices and tools I’ve spent years developing and teaching.

Maybe then, I would say something like: “I’m noticing some uncertainty coming up for me as a white-bodied person. Would it be more helpful for me to add thoughts here, or to listen more closely?”

Or maybe I would choose silence. Not the kind that disconnects, but the kind that listens. Whatever I choose, I hope it will come from a place of greater grounding and choice rather than urgency.

Returning

The truth is, there is no perfect response in moments like this. There is no script. What feels thoughtful to one person might feel frustrating to another.

This work isn’t about getting it right; it’s about practicing, returning, repairing, and staying present. For many of us who are white, part of the work is building the capacity to stay connected when discomfort, shame, or fear arise.

Because the harm is collective, the healing has to be collective too.

So I will go back. I will keep practicing. I will keep using the tools I teach – imperfectly, but intentionally.

Because belonging is built one imperfect moment at a time.

A Note to My Community: If you are looking for support building this kind of awareness—whether in conversations about race, leadership, or everyday moments of tension—I’d love to be part of your community of support. My life and my work center on helping us all stay present, connected, and grounded, even when it’s hard. Reach out, and let’s practice together.