My Ex Was Right

My Nervous System Isn't Wired for Peace

I’ve been writing and reflecting a lot on my last relationship, which ended in June. I know, months ago. But we can’t entirely control how long processing takes, and I’m learning to be ok with unpeeling the layers of relationships at the speed they require.

When we broke up, he wrote me a letter and an email that I couldn’t receive. They didn’t land well. I didn’t read them carefully because, when I scanned them, both made me feel like the ending was entirely my fault. I was still angry at all the things I’d left unspoken.

But, yesterday, I re-read the email. This time, I could actually receive it. And receive it graciously. While I didn’t agree with most of it (he’s entitled to his perspective!), I agree with one of his points completely:

My nervous system isn’t wired for peace.

Oddly enough, just before reading that email, I came across something online that said people with dysregulated nervous systems often find calm times boring.

And I thought to myself: that’s me. I get so tired of staying still, which I’ve grown more comfortable with as I’ve gotten older, but even when I am in one place, there’s still a lot of movement in my life.

I thrive in the first six months of a new environment, a new job, a new relationship. I thrive in the newness of exploration and the unknown. But when routines stabilize, I hit a lull.

One friend always tells me, “If you’re bored, you’re boring.” But I don’t think this is about finding more activities and hobbies or filling time with tasks, so that I’m busier. It’s not about filling space to be so busy that I can’t think about being bored. It’s about being comfortable with a regulated nervous system. There’s a difference.

Even when life looks stable from the outside, I create movement. In Santa Fe, where I lived for nearly five years, I moved three times: three beautiful homes, each one I loved decorating, each move with a different purpose. Life looked stable, but beneath the surface, there was constant motion. Decorating and settling into a new place takes months, so with every move, there was a distraction.

Photo by HyggeLab Concept on Unsplash

Last week, amid Lunar New Year celebrations, I felt that familiar pull. That familiar nervous system jolt was matched in the environment. I was in Orange County, which was buzzing: festive and crowded. It was the celebratory environment I absolutely loved, the jolt of excitement I needed mid-February. But it was also quite different from my normal days in Santa Barbara, which are structured and quiet

The day I drove home, I attended an event, then left afterwards, not realizing it would be pouring rain for much of the drive. There’s part of the highway that’s steep and scary, even when it’s not raining. I was so frazzled I stopped twice. At one point, I thought my emergency lights were broken. It was raining so hard that I even considered getting a hotel, even though I was only 50 miles from home.

Ultimately, I pulled into a gas station, and a kind man working there helped me figure out what was wrong with my lights. His gentleness and support also helped me find my way back. He said, “I want to help you so you can go home tonight.” I thought that was a little gift from the universe, showing me how others can help soothe us during a mini-crisis.

For most of my life, my body had mistaken stimulation for aliveness.

I’m learning to work with this pattern. For example, I’ve been working on a book since June: drafting, revising, and it’s still very much a work in progress. A book that keeps revealing what it’s actually about. But, recently, I got distracted by another shiny book idea, one that felt more relevant to my life now. It was momentarily more exciting.

But instead of jumping again, instead of chasing the next spark, I’m trying something different. I’m learning to find excitement through staying. Through finishing what I start. Through resisting the urge to manufacture motion when nothing is actually wrong.

I did end up writing to my ex. I told him he was right about that point. But I also told him there’s something beautiful about not being wired for peace. I’m able to continue creating a life I love, start over in a new city, build new communities, and grow wherever I land. I told him I was wilting in Santa Fe, and I needed a new environment where I could grow.

Maybe that’s not a flaw. Maybe it’s just how I’m built.

The work isn’t to become someone who settles easily. It’s to learn when movement is growth and when it’s just escape. To recognize the difference between a nervous system seeking chaos and a life that genuinely needs to expand.

I’m learning. Slowly. Through staying with this book. Through building community in Santa Barbara. Through sitting with stillness long enough to see what it actually offers.

So, my ex was right. My nervous system isn’t wired for peace. But maybe I’m learning to wire it differently.