Why You React the Way You Do (And How to Start Changing It)

Have you ever caught yourself reacting in a way that feels bigger than the moment—and wondered, “Why am I like this?”

In this episode, we’re diving into something that changes everything once you understand it:

Your Nervous System.

Because here’s the truth:
- You’re not overreacting.
- You’re responding exactly the way your body was wired to survive.

We’re talking about how your past experiences—especially from childhood—can shape your present-day reactions, and why patterns that once protected you might still be showing up… even when you don’t need them anymore.

This isn’t about fixing yourself.
It’s about understanding yourself.

And from that place? Everything begins to shift.

In This Episode, We Talk About:

•  What your nervous system actually does (in real-life terms) 
•  Why your reactions aren’t random—they’re patterned 
•  How survival responses get wired into your body 
•  The connection between childhood experiences and adult triggers 
•  Why “just calm down” doesn’t work (and what does) 
•  How awareness is the first step to rewiring your responses 

Key Truth:

Reactions that made sense in one season of your life… can keep showing up long after you’ve outgrown them.

And that doesn’t make you broken.
It makes you human.

A Simple Practice to Try: Next time you feel triggered, pause and ask...

•  What am I feeling in my body right now? 
•  What does this remind me of? 
•  Is this about the present moment… or something older? 

Awareness creates space.
And space creates choice.

Let’s Stay Connected:

If this episode resonated, I’d love to hear from you.

What’s something you’re starting to notice about your own patterns?

And if you haven’t already, follow the show so you don’t miss what’s coming next—we’re continuing this conversation around rewiring old stories and stepping into something new.

Final Reminder:

You’re not too much.
You’re not overreacting.
You’re responding from a system that learned how to survive.

And with awareness… you can learn a new way forward.

Resources:
20 Soul Sparks To Feel Like You Again - a simple list of tiny, doable moments designed to help you reconnect with joy, curiosity, peace, and play
https://rachel-harris-online.kit.com/cd8d06c001

Hidden Stories Inventory- a guide to help you notice the stories that have been shaping you https://rachel-harris-online.kit.com/hiddeninventory 

My Substack Page, The Petal and The Plot: https://restorystudiorachel.substack.com/

Are YOU A Joyful Rebel? https://rachelharrisonline.com/joyful-rebel

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:00

But here's the thing about nervous system protection. Those survival responses, they rewire us. The reactions that made sense then, before we had the words, or the emotional tools to handle playground politics, can keep showing up long after we're grown up. Hey friends, welcome back to the Joyful Revel Podcast. Last week we talked about the joy ride. You know, that season where something in you wakes up, joy returns, curiosity sparks, hope feels possible again. And today, we're talking about what often comes right after that. The moment when old stories hear new freedom and try to pull you back into hiding. I call this the rumble before the roar. In our transformation and self-growth journeys, there's a moment that so many of us don't expect. Picture this. You finally start listening to yourself, you stop numbing with busyness, you feel more alive than you have in years. And then suddenly, old fears start showing up again. Old memories surface. Old instincts whisper, careful now. If you've ever wondered, why does this feel harder now? Or why am I doubting myself after I felt so clear? I thought I was doing so good. Hear me, nothing is wrong with you. You're not regressing. You're just remembering. I want to take you to two moments in my childhood. The first one lives in my preschool classroom. I'm four. The room smells like shaving cream from that morning's art project. Tiny blue chairs, little low tables, and there I am, singing, skipping, smiling, walking up to classmates, literally lifting up their chins, and singing the theme song to my favorite cartoon, Rose Petal, sung originally by Marie Osman. Friend, would you like to be friends? Yeah. I'm joyful, unself-conscious. I take up space without apology. I sing without apology, even though I've never been able to carry a tune, not even in a bucket. I'm definitely not dim in my light. That was me, authentic, unrehearsed, living my best life without fear of how anyone would judge it. Now, fast forward a few years, my family's moved, I've changed schools, and my family's experienced the traumatic loss of my uncle and the shell oil explosion of 1988. An experience that set off a chain of events that taught me very early on that big emotions, at least ones not exciting and happy, were dangerous. So I started living in my imagination, reframing, silver lining, swallowing my voice, excelling at people pleasing. And if sadness or anger came calling, distract, distract, distract. On round eight or nine, and two friends are over at my house and we're playing in my bedroom. I step out to grab a snack, and when I come back, the door is locked. I try the knob, I knock, and then I hear giggles from inside. What do you think I did next? If I'd been the same kid from that preschool memory, boldly singing her heart song, I'd like to think that I would have handled things differently. But I wasn't that same kid. I stood there for a moment, mind spinning, thinking I don't belong. Not even in my own room. So with my mind spinning, I then turn around and walked quietly down the hallway and lay down in my parents' bed, where my mom found me 30 minutes later. And yeah, she did exactly what you would hope a mom would do, and what I did when my own babies had their hearts broken by friends. She reared back with the gumption of an old Hollywood actress and said, Oh no. Then she went on full mama bear, head held high, fire in her gut, and marched down that hallway, demanding that they let me into my own bedroom. What I didn't realize then, but I know now, is this. That moment, it taught me something. It taught me that belonging can be taken away, that speaking up might cost connection, and safety sometimes comes from disappearing. And in the years that followed, I adapted. Not consciously, not dramatically, but quietly, slipping into rolls, sliding on masks almost as natural as breathing, becoming more palatable, letting others shine while managing what made me stand out and what made me struggle, repressing, hiding, dimming for survival, but in the process, cutting off vital parts of myself. But that's not weakness, especially not when you're young. That's intelligence, that's survival, that's a nervous system doing its best to protect you. Most of us have moments just like this. Moments where we learn very early which parts of us are welcome and which parts are better safe, kept small. But here's the thing about nervous system protection. Those survival responses, they rewire us. The reactions that made sense then, before we had the words, or the emotional tools to handle playground politics, can keep showing up long after we're grown up. So years later, when you start to live differently and unplug from busyness, when you start listening inward and you start trying to feel, to deal, to heal, when joy starts to return, of course, something stirs because your body remembers what your mind is just beginning to reclaim. The rumble isn't danger, it's memory. Old stories don't resurface to stop you, they resurface to be seen. This is something I'm still learning in real time, but our bodies remember what once kept us safe, and our beliefs can change faster than our nervous system. Even when we mentally know something new, even when we're a full-fledged adult with different priorities and perspectives and children of our own, our body may still respond according to those old patterns, to childhood experiences and learned conditioning. Tight shoulders, heavy chest, the urge to go quiet, the instinct to disappear. Those childhood lessons didn't just live in our thoughts and in our diaries, they got stored in our body and in our nervous system. Lately I've been learning how to reconnect with my body and how to listen to these signals differently through walking, restorative yoga, breath work, stillness and silence, not to force courage, but to ask, what are you trying to protect me from? And what do you need right now in order to feel safe enough to stay present? Sometimes the answer is an action. Sometimes the answer is compassion. Here's what I want you to hear. The rumble that shows up in the middle of your joy doesn't mean you chose wrong. It means you touched something real. It means you brushed up against an old story, one that once kept you safe, but no longer gets to run your life. This is where courage actually begins. Not in bold declarations, but in staying with yourself when disappearing would be so much easier. One of my favorite tools that I use personally all the time, and the number one tool that I share is called the Sacred Shift Sentence. It's a tool that you can use in the middle of real life because we all have an inner storyteller, not an all-knowing sage, a survival narrator. And that narrator speaks all day long. It scripts motivations, it scripts expectations that have no basis in reality, yet we react to them as if they are gospel truth. One way to reclaim your life story is to become aware of the stories that you're telling yourself at any given moment, and then change the game. So here's the practice. First, pause and take a breath, and then notice your surroundings, any tension in your body, your thoughts and feelings, and then complete this sentence. The story I'm telling myself right now is that everyone's looking at my outfit. Oh my god, why did I think this looked good? Or the story I'm telling myself right now is I better jump in and fix this. Everything's gonna fall apart if I don't. Or my personal chart topper. The story I'm telling myself right now is they're being quiet because they're mad at me. Or replace mad at with judging. But just noticing and naming the story puts you way ahead of the game, my friend. Pausing throughout the day and checking in to see what story you're telling yourself or believing in that moment, I'm telling you, it's a game changer. And if you want to take it even further, you can put the pen right back in your hand and practice shifting the sentence by responding with, okay, well, what's also true is blank. Or even I hear yourself, but what I choose to believe or do instead is blank. This tool isn't a quick fix. There's no rushing healing or transformation. You're trying to overcome years of unconscious narrating, but it's a start. It's practice. And the most important part really is and that pausing and noticing, and then getting real with some gentle rewiring. And that is how old stories loosen their grip. So, as our time together ends today, here's what I want you to sit with until next week. Where did you first learn to disappear? What would it look like to meet that memory not with judgment, but with presence, to maybe sit in that moment again with adult eyes and heaps of self-compassion. And y'all know that I love my permission slips, and I've got some rock star ones for you today. Number one, story isn't a prophecy. It's okay to wobble, false starts, missteps, and flat out trips are normal and expected and part of real growth. Be kind to yourself when those old reactions appear. They're echoes, not evidence. Struggle doesn't mean failure. You're just in the messy middle. Transformation takes time. You're standing on the edge of deeper courage, and that rumble that you hear, it's just the sound of an old story realizing it no longer gets the final word. Next week, we're talking about what happens when you stop negotiating with those old stories and choose yourself anyway. What it looks like to say, This ends with me. Until then, stay rebelliously authentic. Stay present and don't disappear. I'll meet you back here next time.