(Edit: This is one of those posts that didn't go where I thought it would. I'm glad I wrote it.)
We've all heard of the "fight/flight" response to a perceived threat. Well, apparently there are more options than those two.
A few years ago, I heard the "freeze" response added to the list: fight, flight, or freeze. Still more recently, a true crime podcast introduced me to the fourth—and so far final*—member of the list: fawn.
When you're confronted with a perceived threat, your body produces hormones (maybe adrenaline and epinephrine? I'm not a scientist) that fire you up to handle the danger in one of those four ways.
Until about ten years ago, I operated under the assumption that 1) there were two responses to a threat: fight or flight, and 2) that everyone was predisposed to favor one response or the other. Since humanity's threats are now less "a sabertooth tiger is chasing you" and more "your inbox is overflowing," I assumed that we got to choose our stress response, and the choice was more personality-based than anything else. Some people are fighters, some people are flighters.
Naturally, I wanted to be categorized as a fighter, and between those two, I think I probably was.
Was.
The thing about stress** is that it puts a lot of—well, stress on your body. It's exhausting. It's unsustainable. We cannot operate under stress forever, at least not without real consequences, like depression and anxiety and hormonal imbalances.
I think I spent a lot of my life being a fighter, and kinda thriving off of it. I always enjoyed arguments and challenges. I have a sign in our kitchen that says, "Underestimate me. That'll be fun." My character Ember is 100% a fighter.
But...I think I got tired?
As for most people, age 18–22 was a season of change for me. And for me, it wasn't a season of good change, at least on the whole. Yeah, I went to college and won awards and learned a lot and made friends that are still with me today. But a lot of the trauma I carry with me happened in those years too. I internalized a lot about relationships that I'm still unlearning. I shoulded myself out of 95% of the college experience in favor of a GPA that I couldn't even tell you today. I sought counseling and couldn't get any. I went to church alone for a couple of those years and cried and felt invisible. I watched out my dorm window as people played in the snow and realized I didn't have anyone to play with. I sank back into an eating disorder for a bit. I just...
Basically, I got really, really tired and stopped being a fighter. And I don't know that I ever really "rested" from that season in a soul kind of way. I'm not sure I know how.
I'm doing a lot better now. I was doing a lot better by the time Gabe and I got married, and holy CRAP am I doing a lot better now than I was when we got married. I think the Covid years hit all of us pretty hard, and I'm still processing all that too.
But I still don't feel like a Fighter. A while ago I told Gabe that I feel like my brain has been living in fight/flight mode for years and I'm so exhausted that all I can do is flight***—from just everything. Like some days I can't even face getting up, much less working or cooking dinner. I hate that because I consider flight to be the coward's way out, the weak way out. Stand and fight your battles, dammit. Stand and brush your teeth.
When I heard about the other two stress responses, freezing and fawning, I had to reconsider.
Freezing is what it sounds like: neither fighting nor seeking shelter from a perceived threat, but becoming paralyzed by it.
Fawning is a learned trauma response and it applies when the perceived threat involves another person. "If I can please/placate/flatter this person who threatening me, maybe I can avoid conflict with them."
Maybe I am worse than a flighter, I thought. Maybe I'm a freezer. When it comes to certain types of interpersonal conflict, I'm a fawner too, although maybe that's the ENFJ. It ain't the Eight, that's for sure.
As I sit here and write this post with no point as of now, God has suddenly struck me with two things:
1) None of the stress responses are inherently dumb or cowardly. They're all designed to save you in different scenarios. If you're faced with a sabertooth tiger, fleeing is probably the smart course of action. In a situation where you've hidden from a threat, staying frozen is probably wise. In some kidnapping situations, fawning has bought victims time and allowed them to escape—or fight—at more opportune moments. God didn't wire our brains with one "right" stress response and then three others for those too weak to use fight. The stress responses are all tools and we need to use wisdom to understand which to employ at what time.
2) I always think about the Fighter/the Eight part of myself as being the "real" one, and maybe that's not true. I have this idea that I need to get back to being able to fight all the time. I need to get back to not feeling so much. (Even though I'm also on a journey to feel more?) I need to get back to being tougher and more active and more aggressive and more sarcastic and more "me."
But maybe that's not the truth. Maybe—just like God didn't make one "right" stress response and three loser ones—God didn't create me to be one side of myself. Maybe the Fighter/the Eight is me, but so is the part of myself that's really, really tired. Maybe that part of myself doesn't need to be amputated; maybe it's telling me something important. Maybe the part of me that's bubbly and attuned to other people's emotions isn't an overly sensitive people pleasure, but represents virtues like compassion and mercy.
Maybe the "realest" version of myself is an integrated version where all the parts have an open dialogue with each other, and all four of the stress responses are available to me as appropriate.
Well huh. I don't know where I thought this post was going, but not here. I think I meant to talk about the four Fs and define them and ask everyone to consider which one feels most accessible to them? But now I think the goal is to have all of them accessible and not be angry at yourself for choosing a "dumb" one.
The thing is, we're all doing the best we can. The ultimate goal is to increase our capacity for better, but until then, you're fine. You're okay. Have a little compassion. You're not going around hoping that you do a bad job of your day or wanting to sabotage everything you love. On a day when you only have 40% to give and you give 40%, you gave 100%. Everything you do or don't do is a part of you trying to talk to the other parts. Maybe we just need to get better at listening.
And, as always, I'm talking to myself, I'm just doing it in written form because that's the only time I actually listen to me. I do hope something in here was encouraging to you, even if the journey was a little indirect.
~Stephanie
* In the midst of Googling for this post, I did see a list of five: fight, flight, freeze, flop, friend. I'm guessing that in the list of five, "fawn" was broken up into flop and friend.
** She says with authority, having done diddlysquat research and relying only on things she thinks she remembers hearing on podcasts and YouTube videos.
*** I know it's "fly" or "flee." I don't care.
I can be a really high-energy person. I can be really social. I can make conversation with all types of people, genuinely care about their life and job and pets, and share fun related anecdotes. I can laugh and learn and make new friends.
I can be this way—but I am not always this way. I cannot always be this way.
When I was younger, I think I could be. Age 2–18 was one long streak of social butterfly-ing broken up by a few bouts of preteen and teen depression. For the most part, I was comfortable and confident in my own skin. I had a lot of social energy, and enough outlets for it. This is the version of me that you met and got used to if you met me when I was age 2–18.
I am no longer that way, and it's really difficult to reconcile.
For the past few years, I've struggled with depression, and maybe that's it. Maybe I just don't have the hormonal composition to be Miss Life of the Party as often. Maybe it's something else. But the why isn't the point of this post. This post is about when I learned that there is apparently a difference between "being rude" and "having lower energy."
Sometimes when I have an evening to myself, it's great. I make the dinner Gabe doesn't like and watch my own shows. But more often, I get really down and dark and it's a good idea for me to get out and do something, see people. It was armed with this knowledge that I went to a late afternoon social function full of people who met me when I was age 2–18.
I was not doing well that day. I was in the middle of my Anti-Shoulding campaign, and this event was kind of riding the line. I went mostly because I thought I should, even if it was because I thought I should get out and do something, see people.
But I wasn't doing well. I didn't have the emotional energy to show up like I normally would. I didn't have the energy to initiate or even prolong conversations. I didn't have the energy to smile with my eyes or relate to people in an engaging, appropriate (I thought) way. I felt like a ghost of myself haunting the event and everyone could see through me.
I was being rude. I was bringing down the energy of the group. People were judging me and wondering what was wrong with me. They were probably thinking to themselves that I used to be so cool; what had happened to me? Who or what had sucked the soul out of my body? Maybe I had peaked in high school, or at the very least, something must be terribly wrong?
When I left the function, I blared music on the drive home and screamed and cried. I felt like I was utterly losing my mind—my identity, even. Who the hell was I if I wasn't who I used to be? Someone worse, that was for sure.
At the time, I had no further thoughts or revelations. I did feel better after the music and the screaming and the crying, and I managed to turn the lonely evening around, which I'm really proud of. But since then, I have had two revelations.
One revelation was brought to me by my therapist when she asked a lot of probing questions about the event when I tried to gloss over it. How dare she see through my façade and want to dig into my despair.
I described my experience at the event and told her that I didn't know what was wrong with me and that I didn't know why I hadn't been able to avoid being so rude. She asked me what I had done that was so rude.
"Well, I—I didn't make a lot of conversation," I said. "I wasn't the super energetic, social self that these people know and love and expect."
She kind of cocked her head. "Okay. That doesn't sound rude."
And this was a new branch of thought for me. Maybe being lower energy isn't rude. It isn't as though I actually scowled or avoided eye contact or refused to speak to people. Basically I was just quieter. Not being the life of the party isn't being rude, even if it's a deviation from what (I think) I've constructed as the norm.
The second revelation is all my own: I was bringing down the energy of the group? They were probably thinking to themselves that I used to be so cool; what had happened to me? Maybe they were not thinking about me like that at all. Maybe I was thinking too damn much of myself when, in fact, no one cares that much and I do not have that kind of control over the atmosphere of a group. Maybe I need to get a grip.
Either way, it's some good stuff to think about. Some days I have the energy to be ~Social~ and some days I don't. I can be polite on either day. I do not need to feel guilty for taking a backseat or a supporting role at a social gathering. Sometimes simply showing up is okay.
I'm tentatively trying to believe this and notice it in action. A few weeks ago in dance class, I felt myself Trying To Be Social and pressuring myself to respond with emotion to everything said by someone in the group, even when it wasn't addressed to me specifically. I did not have the emotional energy to be that way that day, but I was forcing myself to try anyway.
Then I remembered that I don't have to do that, and I stopped. I settled for making eye contact and smiling and not forcing myself to say anything or contribute further.
And that was enough. No one was angry. The vibes were unharmed.
And that was big for me.
~Stephanie
My brain is obsessed with efficiency, to the point that it becomes inefficient.
When clearing the table, most people probably think—or do without thinking—"I will take my plate and cup to the dishwasher at the same time." It just makes good sense. Both things are there in front of you and both of them will be going in the dishwasher. Just make one trip. No big deal.
Well, at some point, this normal mindset grew so big that it's been trying to eat me for the last couple of years. Sometimes I'll be trying to do something—often cooking—and I'll get in a state that's an oxymoronic combination of being in a frenzy and being paralyzed. THIS FIRST—NO THIS FIRST WHILE THIS—NO, THAT—WAIT, OVER THERE—NO, GRAB THA—NO, STOP. It feels like it has something to do with my having OCD. I need things to be the most efficient:
Open the cabinet, grab the pepper THEN the salt behind it, leave the cabinet open, season the meat, put the salt back then—no, you need the salt for the brussel sprouts—leave the salt and pepper on the counter—the cabinet door is still open, which bothers you, but it's okay because it doesn't make sense to close it yet—wasted energy—chop the brussel sprouts, get their bowl—while you're on this side of the kitchen grab the spoon you'll need, close the silverware drawer—open the other cabinet, get the oil, don't close the cabinet door because you'll have to put the oil back in a second, now two cabinet doors are open, which bothers you, but it's okay because it's efficient, pour oil in the bowl with the brussels, add salt and pepper, put the salt and pepper away FINALLY, close the cabinet door, while you're on this side of the kitchen—oh, should've brought the cutting board with the brussels sprout ends on it because the trash can is on this side of the kitchen too, wasted trip, ugh, go back and get the cutting board, yes, now you have the cutting board and you can put the oil back and close the other cabinet FINALLY and slide over and step on the trash can and the lid opens and scrape the brussel sprouts ends into it with the knife and while you're here you should get the tin foil out of the drawer, but your hands are full of cutting board and knife but you're here so put the knife on the cutting board and balance it and grab the tin foil out of the drawer and take everything back with you, the drawer is open and that bothers you but it's okay because you'll just have to open it to put the tin foil back in a minute and do you think you could get the maple syrup out of the fridge too though because you're right here beside the fridge and efficiency and—
Slowly but surely, my OCD brain has become consumed not just with counting sounds and making sure I blink right, but with efficiency. Everything has to be as efficient as possible. No wasted time, energy, effort—
Except that I am wasting time, energy, and effort. My brain comes up with cost-saving plans only to abort them and replace them halfway through with new, grander, more efficient plans, filling me with artificial urgency and robbing every moment of its potential for quiet joy.
I can't just brush my teeth. I have to be catching up on work messages or listening to a podcast or—hey, what about BOTH? You could TRIPLE-task, wouldn't that be the MOST efficient?
This is much more than just getting the groceries in one trip; this is...not being able to take out the salt and pepper unless I can find a second activity to pair that with, to make the most of every second.
Where is this coming from? Who has told me that things must be fast and efficient?
No one, really. It might be the mental illness, or it might be "society." We are a people obsessed with instant gratification and a fast pace, which might be related. I'm not sure, but I am sure that this growing obsession is making me a little crazy.
For a few months, I've known that this is something I need to get ahold of. I'm heaping huge amounts of stress onto myself for absolutely no reason. I am rarely in a legitimate rush. There is usually no one around me to impress with my speed. I have nothing in mind that I want to do with my saved time or energy.
So, in December, I decided to slow down. I decided to go so slowly. I decided to be as inefficient as possible.
After folding laundry, I made myself take each stack into the bedroom separately. I took only my socks to the closet and put them away, then I went back and got my underwear and put them in the drawer right under my sock drawer. I could've easily done that in one trip, but I chose not to.
When I refilled the water pitcher, I stood in front of the sink and watched it fill. I only did that. I didn't rush to the pantry to get my drink mix before the pitcher overflowed or try to put something away while the pitcher filled.
When I unloaded the dishwasher, I took out the silverware holder and unloaded it by itself, even though it would've been more efficient to take the cutting boards with me since they go in the cabinet right under the silverware.
I've continued to discipline myself to do this in the new year.
How much more time does all of this take? Negligible. Cannot even tell a difference.
How much more peace am I able to retain?
I N F I N I T E L Y more.
There's no rush. There never has been any rush, I just convinced myself there was, for no reason.
When I die, I don't want to be able say that I saved the most time putting away the salt and pepper. What the hell? I would like to be able to say that I enjoyed my life, that I noticed little things that made me happy, and that I was able to confer peace on others.
I'm sharing this for two reasons: 1) It clearly falls under the umbrella of "becoming me." I'm trying to become a less hurried person. But also 2) I wonder if other people struggle with the tyranny of efficiency. You know, if you choose to slowly, it's not "losing." You can't lose a game you're not playing. Don't play the efficiency game. Go slow on purpose. See what happens.
~Stephanie
Twenty twenty-three was a weird year to define. It was a year where people would ask, "So what's new with you guys?" and we wouldn't have anything to say. Nothing was new. Except...
Things were fundamentally changing, and I mean that literally-metaphorically :) Things were changing at the foundation, at the core, deep—where no one could see it.
We had zero visible life changes in 2023. We didn't move. We didn't change churches. We didn't get new jobs. No family members were born. I didn't finish the Fire Faery Story Book 1. We didn't even do a Random Roadtrip. We didn't do anything in 2023.
Normally a realization like this would fill me with frustration and discouragement. What a waste of 365 days. Nothing happened.
But that's not how I feel at all.
Twenty twenty-three was a year of readying, and I know that. I feel that. We may not have done much, but we became; we changed.
I started therapy.
I started saying "I'm not lazy, that just isn't within my boundaries right now."
I read some non-fiction books for fun—and actually enjoyed it.
I re-established the habit of going to the gym.
I learned the importance of validating kids' emotions first, before following up with my version of reality.
I uncovered the toxicity of my level of "shoulding."
I began to couch my work communication in fewer "maybes" and "I thinks" and "justs."
I learned that there's a difference between "being rude" and just having lower energy.
I learned that there's more to tracking my cycle than predicting ovulation and periods.
I discovered that I can write something other than the Fire Faery Trilogy.
I started trying to believe that other people are doing their best.
I started giving Gabe the benefit of the doubt instead of reacting in conversation.
I started coming to Gabe to say, "Can you talk about this feeling with me?"
I became more comfortable trying to learn things that I should've known already.
Gabe and I both began working to be less codependent.
And that's mostly just me. Gabe would have his own list, just as long.
There wasn't a lot to take pictures of in 2023, but damn, a lot changed.
In the language of "ready, aim, fire,"* last year was a year of readying. We were actively preparing to be the people we will be in 2024.
I don't know what will happen in 2024, but I know we'll be better prepared for it, and I am fully satisfied with that.
~Stephanie
* Hence the photo :)
I'd been meaning to blog ever since we got back from Nebraska, but now I'm glad I didn't. I want to say something different than what I would've said a week ago.
A week ago, I planned to blog about the epidemic of loneliness that has been exacerbated by social media and Covid, and maybe I will eventually. There are some discouraging stats out there about the state of friendships or lack thereof. I've been sort of filled with resentment lately, feeling lonely and powerless.
But last night and this morning, things have felt different. Actually, let me be more accurate: *I* have felt different.
For a long time, New Year's Eve was my second favorite holiday, but I think it's moved into first place. I am a sucker for fresh starts: blank journals, Mondays, hair wash days. I LOVE making lists and setting goals and getting "streaks." January's fresh, clean, blue vibe is one of the best parts of winter.
I've always been big into making New Year's resolutions too. When I was younger, it didn't bother me if I didn't achieve my goals; it was fun to forecast the year and dream. But as I've gotten older, my goals have started to feel more like tests to pass than personas to try on. I've started to feel like a failure when I don't achieve my goals year after year. I've started to feel like my life isn't real if I don't check certain boxes, like Gabe and I are in the waiting room of life.
Every once in a while, I'll get hit with the realization (accompanied by the Switchfoot song) that no, this is my life. There's no waiting. There's no "until." This is IT. We can't live like this isn't it. We can't just WAIT.
And that'll buck me up for about twelve hours or so, but then I start to melt into the Slough of Social Media and the worthy task of pretending to watch TV while scrolling on my phone.
This year, I didn't make traditional New Year's resolutions. I do have some specific, measurable goals divided into six categories (personal development, relationships, finances, career, attitude, and health), but here's the thing:
THEY'RE ALL THINGS *I* CAN ACTUALLY DO.
I'm going into this year with a completely different mindset than I've ever had before—and I didn't even realize I had my old mindset until today.
Until today, I've thought of each new year as a sentient creature with agency who could grant goals and bestow gifts on me. I would look out over the new year and wonder what it was going to do for me, bring to me. I didn't know the future; the future was in the hands of the year.
This year, it's like the blah blah blah my therapist has been telling me about "control" finally clicked.
Twenty twenty-four isn't going to DO anything. It's not a creature. It's not conscious. It's just a unit of time. There's nothing special.
Terrible things might happen in 2024. Amazing things might happen in 2024. There are things I can control, and things I can't.
I can't control how other people drive. But I can control if they make me impatient or grumpy.
I can't control the housing market. But I can save money and talk to Katie Little.
I can't control how close I feel to God*. But I can read the Bible and pray every day.
I can't control the prices at Walmart. But I can choose gratitude that we have enough to buy what we need.
I can't control the weather. But I can turn the damn thermostat to a comfortable temperature and eat the 12 cents.
I can't control my acne. But I can eat well and change my pillowcase more often.
I can't make the world quit social media. But I can show up in person the best I can every time.
I can't understand why people act the way they do, but I can choose to believe they're doing the best they can.
I can choose what books to read, what shows to watch, what podcasts to listen to, what music to listen to, what events to attend, what events to plan, what breakfast to cook, what journal to buy, what blogs to post, what trips to take, what foods to eat, what tone to use, what approach to take...
I don't think I'm doing this mental shift justice. It's the paradoxical, oxymoronic realization that there are both so many things I can control and so many things I can't.
When I woke up this morning, I just felt this explosion of contentment regarding the things within my control. I felt happy. I felt like God was showing me how to do what is mine to do, and how to let go of the things that are His to do.
Whether I achieve my New Year's resolutions or not is...
Honestly? It's irrelevant. That's the best word I have right now. I feel like life isn't a list of goals, it's just a bunch of time filled with habits and hobbies and conversations and choices that lead...somewhere. We don't really know where. Some people seem to do everything right and none of their dreams come true. Some people seem to do everything wrong and yet life hands them victories hand over fist.
In a weird way, I feel like God is calling me to be shorter-sighted this year. I am so future oriented that I will start getting sad that something is over before it has even begun. I feel God calling me to put my attention 1) on the things I can control, and 2) on the things now. How can I respond now? How can I pray now? What should I eat now? Who should I text now?
Goals are big and far away. I have the sense that, for me, it would be better this year if I just forget about them and focus instead on being present and doing the work, being happy in the moment.
So, to sum up:
The New Year does not itself have agency.
There's a lot I cannot control.
There's a lot I can control.
I like making goals.
Maybe I should forget about goals.
Goals are achievable.
Goals may or may not be achievable; we'll just have to see.
Social media is the worst.
I hope this helps.
~Stephanie
* I'm sure some would disagree. Maybe we could talk about it in person sometime :)
