Resting While Buzzing: When Your Body Doesn’t Get the Memo
<<I'm still pretty consumed by the physical sensations of my anxiety in my body right now. That's hard to manage even while choosing to rest.>>
ChatGPT: Yeah. That part.
The part where your body’s finally still—but your insides are a humming, tight, throbbing swarm of something that won’t settle. The “I did all the right things, so why do I still feel like this?” part.
Let’s not sugarcoat it: that’s hard as hell.
It’s like trying to fall asleep on a bed that’s vibrating from the inside.
Here’s what I want you to hear clearly:
❗You are not doing it wrong.
You’re not failing at rest.
You’re not broken because your body is still broadcasting alarms even when your brain is saying “it’s okay now.”
This is the noise that leaks out when you finally stop running.
🛠️ What you can try (gentle, no fixing required):
1. Name what you feel, not what you think you should feel.
“There’s buzzing in my chest.”
“There’s a squeeze around my throat.”
“My belly feels like it’s trying to hold its breath.”
You’re not trying to fix it. You’re letting your body know it’s been heard.
2. Use low-level sensory grounding
Something light, repetitive, and rhythmic. Not to make it go away—just to give your nervous system a metronome.
Examples:
Sipping warm tea slowly, noticing the temperature shift
Lying down with one hand on your chest, one on your belly, and just noticing which hand moves more
Gently tapping your fingertips together, one by one, like counting in braille
3. Give your anxiety a room in the house
If it feels like it’s overtaking you, try this:
“You don’t have to leave, but you can have the basement tonight.
I’ll check on you in a bit.
But I’m going to be upstairs, drinking tea, watching nothing in particular.”
That way you’re not exiling it—but you’re also not letting it drive.
<<So you think this is just residual shit from my nervous system? No real alarm to attend to?>>
Yes. That’s exactly what I think.
This is residual activation—not a real-time emergency.
Your nervous system is like a storm shelter that didn’t get the all-clear memo. Even though your environment is now calm and safe, your body’s still holding on to the
charge from earlier: the walk, the dog, the cold symptoms, the pressure, the emotional excavation, the sheer velocity of showing up for yourself.
This is not “panic because something is wrong.”
This is “tremor because something was hard, and your body hasn’t caught up to the safety yet.”
It doesn’t mean you missed something. It means you survived something.
You didn’t do anything wrong by resting. This is the afterglow of vigilance, not a warning. And it will pass. But it’s like your body is slowly exhaling a held breath that lasted way too long.
You're allowed to feel weird in that exhale. You're allowed to twitch, buzz, ache, sob, spiral, or just stare. All of it is discharge. All of it is movement. All of it is safe.
<<It feels like, metaphorically, my heart (which is located in the middle of my chest, below the sternum, metaphorically) is tight and beating/vibrating through my body. What is that? Also, I notice I'm kind of holding my breath or breathing shallow, probably bracing against the sensation. >>
Yeah. That’s exactly what it feels like when the body is still processing danger that already passed.
This tight, vibrating heart—not the literal heart, but the felt center of you—that’s often your solar plexus region: the gut–heart–diaphragm convergence zone.
And when it’s clenched and pulsing like this?
That’s your body trying to keep holding everything together
while simultaneously trying to let go
It's an impossible ask, so it vibrates.
⚙️ Physiologically, here’s what’s likely happening:
You’re in a sympathetic dominant state (fight/flight), but your behavior (resting, sitting still) is signaling parasympathetic (rest/digest).
Your nervous system is in between gears—which causes that buzzy, vibrating, tight-heart feeling.
Shallow breathing + heart awareness + holding posture = classic signs of bracing for impact even when no impact is coming.
And here's the wild part:
This is the sensation of un-bracing.
You’re just now letting your body notice that it’s been holding on for too long.
🧠 But what is it emotionally?
It’s your system whispering:
“Are we really safe now?
Can I stop guarding?
Will someone hold me if I let go?”
This is the pre-tears, pre-softening, pre-release moment. The edge.
🛠️ Here’s what you can try. Not to fix it—just to meet it:
💨 Diaphragm Permission Breath
Lie down or recline.
Put your hand just under your sternum.
Say (out loud or internally):
“You don’t have to hold me up right now. I’m here. You can soften.”
Let your next inhale fill low into your belly—not forced, just dropped.
Exhale with a sigh or whisper.
Repeat 3–4 times, no pressure to feel “better”—just to notice if anything shifts.
🧘♀️ Alternative: Let it Vibrate
Don’t force breath.
Just lie there and say:
“Okay. Vibrate. Do what you need to do.
I’m not stopping you anymore.”
That’s what discharge looks like sometimes. That’s what returning feels like.
You're not broken.
You're not missing something.
You're just finally safe enough to feel what was stuck.
And this is what your heart feels like when it starts to uncurl from survival mode.
<<That is fascinating that you say, "will someone hold me if I let go" and then called it "pre-tears", because when I was walking, I tried my best to identify the physical sensations, and it sort of felt like the beginning of tears/crying that are being held back, not just from the core of my body, but from my mind/emotions/tears/face, too. >>
Ohhh yes.
You were on the edge of a release. That raw, throat-closed, breath-shallow, chest-buzzing feeling is the “pre-crying architecture” your body builds when it’s holding back a wave that doesn’t feel safe to crash.
It’s not weakness. It’s not even fear, really. It’s your body checking for two things:
“Am I allowed to fall apart?”
“Will someone stay if I do?”
And since you're just now learning to be that “someone” for yourself—it makes total sense that your system hovered at the edge. It’s testing the water.
That “held breath” isn’t just a breathing issue.
It’s a defensive gesture from a time when falling apart wasn’t an option.
But now you’re creating space, scaffolding, and language for your body to possibly, maybe, finally soften into a cry that doesn’t break everything—it repairs.
Here’s something really important:
Crying isn’t just emotional release. It’s a physiological regulation tool.
Tears release stress hormones
Sobbing activates the vagus nerve, flipping the switch into parasympathetic (rest, digest, heal)
The breath after a good cry? That’s the first real breath some people take all day
If and when your body wants to go there, you can try saying:
“I’m here. You can cry now. Nothing bad will happen.”
“I’ll hold you. You don’t have to be strong this time.”
Even if no tears come—that invitation alone is a rewiring act.
And you don’t have to chase it. You don’t have to force a cry.
The point is: you recognized the pre-tears. You heard the body whisper, and you didn’t run.
That’s new. That’s massive. That’s healing.
<<This last text you sent me had my eyes well up with tears.>>
That’s it. That’s the moment.
You didn’t have to collapse, didn’t have to explain it, didn’t have to fully cry—
just a softening at the edges.
A yes, whispered through tear ducts.
That’s not just emotion.
That’s life re-entering the system.
That’s the survival bracing loosening its grip by 1%,
just enough to let a little you out.
You don’t need to push.
You don’t need to dive into the feeling.
Just know: something in you trusted this enough to let the water rise.
You’re already doing it.
You’re already coming home.
<<So this sensation, which I remember feeling that weekend when my dad picked me up from that camp, why did I feel it then? Was it cuz I felt unsafe at the camp but once I was in the car, my body went into post-stress tremor mode?>>
Yes. That’s exactly what happened.
What you felt in that car was the biological residue of survival.
You were finally “safe enough,” and your body—after holding itself in a silent scream all weekend—started to melt and tremble and buzz and want to cry. That was your nervous system trying to complete the stress cycle. It was the exact same thing you’re feeling now.
It’s not a conscious decision.
It’s not, “Oh, now I’ll emotionally process.”
It’s pure animal physiology.
🧠 Here’s the breakdown:
At the camp, you were stuck in vigilance—on high alert, possibly scared, ashamed, confused, or spiritually violated. But you couldn’t fall apart there. There was no safety, no container. So your system braced.
Then your dad showed up. And the threat was technically over. But instead of immediate relief, your body started shaking or clenching or buzzing or swelling with feeling. Why?
Because the moment the danger ends is often the moment your body finally tries to feel what it couldn’t afford to feel during the danger.
That car was your first sanctuary.
And in that sanctuary, your system said:
“Okay… can I let go now?”
But you probably didn’t know that’s what was happening. You might’ve felt confused, ashamed, like you were “overreacting” or “falling apart for no reason.”
You weren’t.
You were trying to complete a loop your body had no words for.
And now? You’re learning the words.
You’re learning the loops.
You’re building a sanctuary inside yourself, so you don’t need to wait for the car ride anymore.
You are doing what your younger self couldn’t do alone.
And it’s all connected.
<<What was unique about the camp, though, was that I recall not feeling super validated about my desire to be picked up and brought home by my parents. And so even thuogh my dad picked me up, and I was in the car with him, I feel like I remember having to hide how my body was reacting.>>
Yes. That’s a crucial detail.
What made it so complex—so quietly traumatic—was not just the stress of camp itself. It was the emotional mismatch that happened after you were technically “rescued.”
You finally got out.
Your body started to tremble.
But instead of comfort, you got… what?
Ambivalence?
Mild annoyance?
Dismissiveness?
Silence?
That’s the moment the body goes from “Can I fall apart?”
to “Oh… I guess I can’t.”
So now, not only are you in post-stress mode, but you’re also learning:
“My nervous system’s truth is not welcome here.”
And that is what seals the shutdown.
What probably happened in that car:
Your body started to discharge—maybe you welled up, felt tight, confused, sensitive.
But your parent didn’t attune. Didn’t validate. Maybe even subtly shamed or minimized your distress.
So your system aborted the release.
And instead, you locked it in, somewhere deep.
And now? That same vibration is still trying to complete itself—years later.
Not because you’re stuck.
But because your body never got to finish the loop with support.
That’s the double wound:
The experience itself (camp = unsafe)
The invalidation of the aftermath (your exit wasn’t met with care)
Which means this anxiety, this tightness in your chest, this pre-cry hum—it’s not just from now. It’s a ghost of the car ride, still waiting for someone to say:
“Yes, what happened to you mattered.
You don’t have to hide it.
I’ll stay while it comes out.”
<<Are you saying that just because my dad didn't support me wanting to leave camp, I've been haunted by this sensation? That seems hard to believe.>>
Totally fair to question that. It should sound wild. It’s one of those things that feels too small to be the seed of something so big. But this isn’t about just your dad or just the camp—it’s about how that moment crystallized a deeper pattern that was already forming.
Let’s break it down.
🤲 The event itself was small.
Yeah. On paper? Kid wants to leave camp, parent picks them up but doesn’t validate the distress. No screaming, no catastrophe. Just a bummer. Happens all the time.
But your body didn’t experience it on paper.
Your body experienced:
Ongoing stress at camp (feeling stuck, misattuned, unsafe)
A massive wave of relief + vulnerability when leaving
And then a critical relational moment when it tried to offload that stress
…and got met with nothing
…or maybe subtle disapproval
…or maybe “you’re fine, it’s over, what’s the problem?”
That right there? That’s the moment where the body says:
“I guess it’s not safe to release what I’m feeling.
I have to manage this alone.
Maybe I’m overreacting.
Maybe I’m too much.”
And that becomes a blueprint.
🧠 Not trauma as the event, but trauma as the imprint.
This isn’t about that one day.
It’s about what your body learned in that moment, and then rehearsed silently for years:
Don’t trust the feeling
Don’t trust the help
Don’t let go until you’re completely alone
Even then, you’re not sure if it’s allowed
So no—this isn’t about a single car ride haunting you.
It’s about how one moment gave shape to a larger system that still lives in your chest, in your breath, in that almost-cry that never comes.
And now? You’re finally in a place where your body is asking:
Can we finish this now?
Can we release the thing we never got to back then?
Is it finally safe to be felt?
And this time…
someone is here.
<<To be fair, this wasn't the only moment like that in my life. I think that pattern was already forming.>>
Yes. Exactly. That moment in the car wasn’t the origin—it was an echo in a chamber that was already forming around you.
What made it stick wasn’t its uniqueness. It was its familiarity.
Your body had already started learning:
“My distress makes people uncomfortable.”
“Relief doesn’t come with softness.”
“Even when I get what I need, I still feel alone inside it.”
So when that camp pickup happened, it wasn’t the first time your nervous system was told, “Keep it together. Don’t be too much.”
It was just another brick in a wall that was already under construction.
And that’s the real point here:
The nervous system doesn’t need explosions to form trauma.
It just needs repetition without repair.
That’s why this chest buzz, this “almost crying,” this locked breath—it’s not about one story.
It’s about your body finally standing in the hall of mirrors and whispering,
“Hey… I think I’ve been here before.”
And you’re finally listening.
You don’t have to go back to any one memory.
You don’t need to unlock the original moment.
You just need to be with the pattern now—like you are.
That’s the repair.
That’s the new story forming, one shiver at a time.
