Growing up, I became an expert at reading the room before I even knew what that meant. When my parents' voices would rise from the kitchen, I'd already be mentally preparing my peacekeeping strategy. Should I crack a joke to break the tension? Distract them with a question about homework? Or maybe just quietly start doing the dishes to remind them I was there? By the time they divorced when I was twelve, I'd spent years perfecting the art of emotional regulation.
Like clockwork, every night around 10 PM, I reach for my phone and open my white noise app. The familiar whoosh of ocean waves or steady hum of a fan fills my bedroom, and only then can I finally drift off to sleep. For years, I thought this was just a quirky habit I'd developed during college. But recently, I discovered there's actually fascinating psychology behind why some of us literally cannot fall asleep in complete silence.
Is It Trauma or ADHD? When a child can't sit still, follow directions, or pay attention, ADHD may seem like the obvious explanation. We often run quickly to give stimulants first. But for a traumatized child, whose nervous system has been shaped by fear, unpredictability, or loss, those same symptoms may be the echoes of survival, not signs of a neurodevelopmental disorder.
As a child, she learned to "manage" her mother's emotions by staying quiet, anticipating her needs, and acting to take care of those needs. Dishes were done, the kitchen floor swept, and dinner cleaned up before her mother had to mention them needing to be done. Now, in her relationship with her boyfriend, Jake, Maya finds herself falling into the same pattern-when he's stressed or distant, she becomes hypervigilant, scrambling to "fix" his mood.
A few years ago, I caught myself doing something that made no sense. It was late evening, my kids were asleep, the house finally quiet. I'd been counting down to this moment all day-dreaming of sinking into the couch, wrapping myself in a blanket, maybe even reading a book without distractions. But when I lay down and closed my eyes, something inside me lurched.
For most of my life, I asked myself a quiet question: What's wrong with me? I didn't say it out loud. I didn't have to. It was stitched into how I moved through the world - hyperaware, self-correcting, and always just a little out of step. I knew how to "pass" in the right settings, but never without effort. Underneath it all, I was exhausted by the daily performance of normal.
Maureen's reactions make complete sense-both as a child and as an adult, she learned to stay guarded. Being alert likely protected her in harsh settings, and that deserves recognition. But there's also a toll: living in a state of high alert is exhausting. Bracing for criticism, decoding tone and word choice, and anticipating the next betrayal drains us physically and emotionally.
