Dear John:

I’ve read through your 25 threads from May 2013 to June 2014, and honestly, I feel like I got to know you—and to like you 🙂

Among all your reflections, this line stayed with me the most:

“All of my material possessions could be lost in a fire, my family could be whisked away by a tornado, I could lose my job, my money, and become homeless, I could even contract a terminal disease, and to be honest, all of these things pale in comparison to my fear of not being liked or having someone be upset with me.”-

It says so much. About your deep sensitivity, about how connection—and potential rejection—cuts deeper than anything material.

What struck me even more was that one of your past threads from October 21, 2013 shares the exact same title as your post today—”Walking on eggshells”—now written nearly 11 years and 9 months later. Back then, you said:

“I recognize that the way I behave is largely influenced by experiences from my past – parents, teachers, bosses, lovers, all of whom brought into my life their neurosis, stresses, and anxieties. I can see how their unhealthy minds shaped the way I see the world and respond to it. Namely, walking on eggshells – avoiding their wrath and seeking approval. To this day, I’m still driven by fear of what might happen if they explode in anger…”

And you asked: “Does anyone have any advice on how to be truly free of these fears and be able to speak and act with conviction? How do you become fearless?”-

What you shared today echoes that same vulnerability—only now in the context of your marriage. And that resonance across time tells me that these are not isolated struggles, but patterns rooted in early wounds. Wounds that deserve tending. You’ve been walking carefully for decades. Maybe now, it’s time to walk freely.

Your story parallels mine. I lived with fear, self-doubt, and constant overthinking—walking on eggshells. Growing up, my mother’s volatility meant that if she was calm, I could breathe a bit; if she was angry, I braced myself. I learned early to shrink, to censor my thoughts and even facial expressions. I tried to become invisible so as not to provoke another storm.

Like you, I became hyper-attuned to others’ moods. Safety meant being able to read every tone, gesture, pause. You described it this way: “I’ve always had this acute awareness when others are anxious or stressed out. It’s almost as if when they’re experiencing anxiety or stress, I can either sense it or experience it myself… just an acute sensitivity to body language, tone of voice, expression on someone’s face, or just the silent void that’s created in those situations.”-

If a caregiver was emotionally explosive, dismissive, or withdrawn, the body learns to detect subtle shifts in tone, posture, or silence as warning signs. The nervous system becomes hypervigilant—ready to act, appease, or disappear in response to emotional signals. Over time, the person becomes attuned to others’ feelings more than one’s own, scanning for signs of tension or danger before it escalates. This leads to blurred boundaries with others.. to enmeshment.

This adaptation is not weakness—it’s survival. A child’s nervous system is exquisitely wired for connection and safety. When safety feels conditional, adaptation becomes second nature and it can persist into adulthood: sensitivity to conflict, people-pleasing, difficulty asserting boundaries, or waking with dread like you described.

You asked about that moment between sleep and waking:

“The space between waking up and getting out of bed seems to be the most difficult of the day… I wake up with negative memories and feelings of guilt, shame, inadequacy, trepidation, angst, and almost a child-like regression… what’s happening in that semi-conscious state?”-

This space in-between—called hypnopompia—is when your mental defenses are not yet re-activated, and stored emotional patterns rise to the surface. The feelings you described don’t come from nowhere. They are emotional imprints—felt memories—from times when you were young and scared, when survival depended on staying small, appeasing, anticipating others’ reactions.

There’s a chemistry behind it too. In early morning hours, cortisol (your body’s stress hormone) spikes to help you wake. But for someone with trauma sensitivity, that surge often fuels dread instead of alertness. Your amygdala—the brain’s threat sensor—is still scanning, not for lions, but for the memory of emotional danger. So before reason kicks in, you’re already in the storm.

I used to think my overactive inner critic was my enemy, but now I see it as a part of me that tried to protect me—from emotional harm, from rejection. It stepped in whenever I expressed myself, asking, “Was that dangerous?” Its goal was safety, even if it cost me truth.

My healing journey has been about moving from self-denial to self-acknowledgment—what my therapist called self-actualization. Like gently filling a deflated balloon, I’ve been learning to expand into who I really am, without apology.

And today? I feel more confident in my worth and truth than ever before.

The nervous system adaptation in childhood isn’t destiny. The same nervous system that learned fear can learn regulation, safety, and self-trust through healing relationships, boundaries, self-awareness (neuroplasticity).

I hope this reply offers you something. I’d really love to continue the conversation with you, John.

Warmly, Anita

Dear John:

You’re welcome!

As for “what’s next—more meditation? More yoga?”- What has helped me tremendously is journaling about painful childhood experiences. I do this in my thread, “Life Worth Living—what is it like?” using a method I call SOCJ (Stream of Consciousness Journaling). I simply type whatever comes to mind, freely and without structure.

You can try it here in your own thread, or privately. Maybe you already have…?

Anita

Dear John:

I don’t want to overwhelm you with too much input, so please take your time and read at your own pace. Feel free to respond whenever it suits you, and only to what resonates — no need to address every point.

Of all the responses you received in 2013–2014 (long before I discovered Tiny Buddha and joined the community), one stood out. It was also the shortest: just four words.

“John, who hurt you?” —posted by Brook on September 4, 2013, in your thread, Things Said and Things Left Unsaid.

You responded that same day: “No one has hurt me.”

But your full reply painted a richer picture: “No one has hurt me. If anything, I hurt myself through self-judgment and criticism. Any suffering I experience is from craving — a craving to be, or a craving not to be. I watch the up and down from moment to moment and see myself pulling away or pushing toward, just spinning and spinning unnecessarily in circles.😉”-

That response stayed with me because it touches on something deeply human and often unspoken: the quiet denial of pain that originated not from ourselves, but from those who shaped us.

Many children and adult children deny harm done to them by their parents and blame themselves instead. It’s often a survival mechanism. To acknowledge that someone we depended on for love and safety caused us pain can feel destabilizing, even dangerous. So the mind adapts: it reframes, rationalizes, and redirects blame inward. It’s safer, in a way, to believe “I hurt myself” than to face the grief, anger, or disorientation that can come with saying “they hurt me.”

Self-blame can offer a sense of control. If we’re the problem, maybe we can fix it. Maybe we can become “good enough” to earn the love that was withheld. These patterns become internalized — sometimes for years, even decades — until something, or someone, invites us to question them with compassion.

That’s why Brook’s four words were so striking. They weren’t accusatory — they were a quiet invitation to consider what might have gone unspoken. To look at the shadows without flinching.

If you’re open to it, I’d love to continue reflecting with you on how these dynamics shape our inner worlds — and how clarity, not blame, can be a form of grace.

Warmly, Anita