30 Days of Radical Honesty Journalling Challenge – Day 18: What Has My Body Remembered That My Mind Tried To Forget?

My body has an uncanny memory.

It remembers things I’ve worked hard to file away under “long gone” or “not worth revisiting.” But no matter how deep I bury it in my mind, my nervous system does not forget.

A cupboard slams—and something in me flinches. A voice rises—and I shrink, just slightly, just enough that only I notice.

If there’s stomping, if someone walks too heavily through a room, if a scowl crosses someone’s face too quickly—my shoulders tighten, my stomach clenches, my jaw locks. My breath shortens as though anticipating something I cannot name.

The room goes quiet and my body shouts: Fix it.

My muscles know what to do. Tension is their default setting. My spine straightens not with pride, but with the bracing posture of someone trying to withstand a storm. My body becomes a barometer, scanning the air for shifts in tone, scanning people for early signs of irritation, scanning myself for ways to soothe, to soften, to disappear.

My body remembers what it felt like to be responsible for other people’s rage. To tiptoe through afternoons like they were minefields. To sense the backdraft of fury long before it blew the doors off their hinges. To know that no one would step in. No one would shield me. That if someone was angry, it was on me to fix it, to absorb it, to prevent it from getting worse.

Even now, in safe places, my body prepares. It braces. It readies itself to pacify.

And I hate that. I hate that I still curl inward when someone frowns, that I still try to make myself smaller when a room darkens with frustration, that I still instinctively apologize when I haven’t done anything wrong. That even after all this time, all this healing, my body still believes that I am responsible for keeping the peace.

My mind says, you’re safe now.
But my body says, don’t you dare trust that.

Because back then, safety was an illusion. Back then, there were no shields—only shadows. No explanations—only impact. And I learned early that the best way to survive was to anticipate, to soothe, to blend into the wallpaper and pray that the storm passed quickly.

Now, when I sense the temperature rising in someone else, I instinctively hand over my comfort, my voice, my ease, as an offering. As a sacrifice. My body still believes it’s the only way.

But I’m learning.

I’m learning to slow the reaction. To loosen my jaw. To exhale. To remind myself that I am no longer that child. That fear is not fact. That this body belongs to me now.

And one day—maybe not today, but soon—my body will believe it, too.

Peace, Love, and Inspiration,
~Britt Wolfe💚