“We Borrow Calm from One Another”

"I’m sitting at my desk, scrolling through headlines that sound like sirens. Grocery prices jump again, another record heat wave scorches the coast, a new law eliminates reproductive rights, a trans friend wonders whether it’s safe to see the doctor, and my colleague with long COVID texts that she can’t pay rent this month. Before my tea brews, my shoulders creep up toward my ears and my brain won’t fit inside my head. I close down into a small box of isolated quiet and comfort. Part of me whispers, “You promised you’d write that essay today, you have to record the video for your marketing team, what’s wrong with you?” Another part of me knows exactly what’s happening: my body is on constant red alert, and the flood of cortisol is shutting down the parts of me that dream, plan, and create.

Original photo 1987

Gabor Maté puts it plainly: when we stifle our emotions, or when the world keeps pelting us with reasons to brace, our immune, endocrine, and nervous systems start talking to each other in the language of crisis. Stress hormones surge, and the very chemistry we need for imagination and problem‑solving moves into another room, and waits for safety. Joe Dispenza echoes him, warning that the hormones of stress “deplete the brain’s chemicals that support higher mental functions.” No wonder I stare at the blinking cursor, half convinced I’m lazy, I’m no longer creative, I’m done, when really my body is spending everything it has on survival.

I grew up thinking ambition was a straight line: set the goal, lace up your shoes, and run. These days that line is littered with tripwires. One news alert about a state banning gender‑affirming care can make my stomach flip; a wildfire smoke advisory keeps me indoors, breathing shallow; inflation turns a routine grocery run into a strategic mission. For friends who are queer, trans, non‑white, or living with chronic illness, those tripwires aren’t random. They’re baked into daily life. A Black colleague tells me she clenches her jaw every time she hears about another voter‑suppression bill. A Latina single mom describes how a rent hike feels like a tidal wave before she has even opened her laptop for work. Our bodies translate each of these structural hits into the same ancient command: brace. The collective consciousness is real, and affects individual nervous systems vicariously. Think in terms of cell towers transmitting EMF’s across air waves: we emit and receive streams of energy constantly.

I used to scold myself for scrolling instead of writing, for napping instead of hustling, for postponing dream projects. Then I learned about the freeze response that Dr. Arielle Schwartz describes, the dorsal branch of the vagus nerve that immobilizes us when fighting or fleeing feels impossible. It’s the oldest survival trick in the book, and it’s sneaky. It doesn’t look dramatic. It looks like brain fog, chronic fatigue, endless “procrastination.” It feels like wanting to move and not being able to find the ignition key.

Scarcity pours gasoline on that stuck feeling. Lynne Twist calls scarcity a cultural lie that whispers, “There’s never enough money, time, safety, love, and by extension, you are never enough.” When grocery bills spike or a contract falls through, that lie clings to every cell in my body. Suddenly I’m calculating worst‑case budgets before I’ve even finished breakfast, cortisol dripping into my veins like an IV.

And climate grief adds its own weight. My goddaughter, who hasn’t yet turned twelve, asked me last summer if rivers will still flow when she’s thirty. I wanted to give her certainty, but my throat closed up. Researchers say that simply thinking about climate change can raise stress hormones. I believe it. I’ve felt my pulse spike just glancing at photos of bleached coral reefs.

Here’s the trickiest part: our culture praises grit, so when the nervous system hits freeze, we insult it. We say we’re undisciplined, unmotivated, or flaky. But polyvagal theory shows that our bodies are brilliant at rationing energy. If the threat feels endless, it’s smarter to shut down than to waste precious fuel on creativity. That shift happens beneath awareness, and it isn’t a personal failure. It’s biology doing exactly what biology evolved to do.

So how do we meet this moment without collapsing under it?

I start by naming the most immediate alarm out loud. This morning I muttered, “I’m afraid of layoffs.” If a client no longer has income, I won't have a client. I've already lost six clients due to fires and dips in portfolios. Speaking the fear disentangles it from my identity. Then I ask where the fear sits in my body. Today it’s a fist in my stomach. That gives me a place to focus a slow breath: four counts in, six out, again and again until the fist loosens. Sometimes I stand and shake my hands like I’m flinging water. Movement helps metabolize adrenaline.

Next, I look around for proof that this precise moment is safe. I count three colors in the room and let my eyes settle on their edges. That tiny act reorients my brainstem to the present instead of the doomsday reel in my mind.

Then I reach for connection. I text a friend who gets it: “The news cycle has me spinning: please remind me I’m not alone?” Their answer, even if it’s just a heart emoji, can drop my heart rate by a few beats. Humans are social mammals; we borrow calm from one another.

Finally, and this part feels almost rebellious, I schedule five minutes of play. Carl Jung insisted that creativity springs from the play instinct. Five minutes is all it takes to doodle a silly cartoon, hum the chorus of a favorite song, or build a tiny Lego tower on my desk. It sounds frivolous, but play flips the nervous‑system switch from defense to curiosity, and curiosity is the doorway to every good idea I’ve ever had.

When I run through these steps, something shifts. The cortisol fog thins, and I can usually jot a paragraph or two. Maybe not a masterpiece, but momentum. And that momentum reminds me who I am beneath the headlines: a person capable of vision, connection, and hope.

Here’s what I’ve learned: blaming myself for fatigue in times like these is like yelling at a smoke alarm when the house is on fire. The alarm isn’t the problem; it’s the signal. My job is to see the flames: unstable policies, climate disasters, economic tremors, and then grab a hose, gather my people, and douse what I can, starting with my own overheated nervous system. This is my internal system of pause, breathe, accept, allow, grace: repeat as needed.

My external system is simple. I grew up with boats, I lived on sail boats, I know the sea. Sometimes a sailboat drifts into a spot sailors call “being in irons.” The bow points straight into the lost wind, the sails flutter without filling, and the boat sits still—no forward motion, no easy way to turn back. Out on the water it can feel frustrating, like you should be doing something, anything, to make progress. Yet the seasoned sailor knows that forcing the rudder or yanking the sheets only tightens the stalemate. The wiser move is to pause, breathe, and wait for a new breeze or gently let the current swing the boat to one side so the sails can catch wind again.

I think about how often our lives bring us to similar standstills: those days when the usual drive just isn’t there, plans stall, and every effort feels like spinning the wheel in place. Being “in irons” reminds us that stillness is not failure. It is an invitation to soften our grip, acknowledge the lull, and trust that momentum will return. In the quiet, we can tend to ourselves, and check the lines, notice the sky, maybe even enjoy the hush of the waves. Then, when the wind shifts, we are ready to trim the sails and move on with steadier hearts.

So if you feel your ambition flicker, please don’t rush to the conclusion that you’ve lost your edge. Pause. Notice which headline or lived reality is tugging at your sense of safety. Offer your body a cue of peace, maybe a long exhale, a stretch, or a laugh with a friend. Then play for five minutes. Ideas will find their way back in. They always do once the body knows it can breathe, and once again fill your individual sails, and ply these rough waters that surround and demand so much from us at this time.

essay written by Brenda Littleton

Tin Flea Press 2025

Original photo 1987