Nervous System Regulation at the Edge of Fear

Practice and wisdom for supporting the body around being visible

This is the third piece in my series on visibility. In Part 1, I wrote about the myth of visibility and why “being seen” doesn’t always mean what we think. In Part 2, I explored the difference between fear and wisdom, and how the body can guide us in discerning between the two. This essay turns toward the nervous system itself: what happens when fear arises, how to tell when it’s time to dive in or pause, and some simple practices that help build capacity over time.

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There’s a cultural message that runs deep in our collective consciousness: feel the fear and do it anyway. The idea is that fear is simply resistance, and that the way to grow is to push through discomfort, stretch ourselves, or step into visibility even when we want to hide.

That message has helped many people break through old barriers. After generations of silencing, particularly the voices of women, people of color, and others who have been disempowered or did not fit dominant cultural norms of performance and production, it makes sense that we’ve needed encouragement to take up space.

But here’s the problem: when “push through” becomes the only answer, it leaves something out. Fear isn’t always what it seems. A contraction doesn’t always mean we’re playing small. Fear can be a signal that we’re out of alignment, or it’s simply not the right timing. And sometimes pushing through only creates more overwhelm in the body, which can lead to more disconnection, and even burnout.

I remember a moment from teaching a Craniosacral therapy class. A student came up to me after class and asked, “As a sensitive person, how are you able to stay so open and grounded while leading a large group?” His question reinforced for me that being visible is also about the ability to stay present in your body—to remain open without becoming overwhelmed or shutting down. What he was noticing in me was not a natural talent but the result of years of nervous system and boundary work. That grounded capacity was what allowed me to stay connected to myself without collapsing.

When we step toward visibility, whether that means speaking in a meeting, sharing our writing, or showing more of who we are, fear often arises. But fear can carry many different messages.

Sometimes fear is the threshold of growth. It feels alive, like standing at the edge of a river you’re meant to cross. Your body might shake, or your breath might become shallow, but underneath there’s an inner yes.

Other times fear is wisdom. It’s your nervous system telling you not this way, not right now. It’s the signal that your body isn’t resourced to hold the experience you’re about to step into.

Distinguishing between the two is everything. And the nervous system is the compass that helps us tell the difference.

When the nervous system is dysregulated, everything feels like too much. Every step feels like pressure. In that state, it can be difficult to discern whether fear is an invitation or a boundary.

So how do we actually discern the difference? The answer lies not in thinking our way through fear, but in learning to read our bodies. When we tend to the nervous system first, we create the conditions for clearer listening. Being regulated doesn’t mean you never feel fear. It means being resourced enough to feel fear without being overwhelmed by it.

This discernment can take different forms:

A friend recently told me about preparing to show her artwork at a gallery for the first time. As the date got closer, her hands shook every time she looked at the artwork she’d chosen to display. But when she paused and checked in with her body, she noticed something underneath the fear: excitement, a sense of rightness, almost like her work was ready to be seen even if she wasn’t ready to feel comfortable about it. For her, it was terrifying and true at the same time.

Another friend was invited to speak at a large conference just weeks after a family crisis. The opportunity seemed perfect on paper. But every time she sat down to prepare, she lost focus and felt her energy draining. Her body was telling her: not now. There was no aliveness underneath the fear, only depletion. She declined, and six months later when a similar opportunity arose, it felt completely different. Her body’s wisdom was saying: I don’t have the resources for this right now.

Here are some practices I return to when I find myself at the edge of fear:

• Orienting: Focus your eyes on something in your environment that feels steady. Notice the colors, shapes, and textures. This signals to the body that you are safe here and now.

• Grounding: Bring awareness to your feet on the ground or the weight of your body supported by a chair or the floor. Sometimes even pressing your hands into a solid surface can help the body settle.

• Breath: Take a few slow, gentle breaths, letting your exhales be longer than your inhales. This gently cues the parasympathetic nervous system (the body’s rest-and-digest mode).

• Touch: Place a hand on your chest and/or belly. The warmth of your own touch can bring reassurance. Sometimes a light squeeze of your arms or legs (like giving yourself a hug) helps bring you back into your body.

• Movement: Gentle movement like shaking out your hands, rolling your shoulders, or circling your hips can help energy move through instead of getting stuck.

• Slow down: give yourself permission to wait. A decision made from a regulated state will always be clearer than one made from urgency.

None of these practices make fear disappear, but they can create enough stability and space to help you listen more deeply: is this fear asking me to take the next step, or asking me to pause?

Growth doesn’t always mean pushing harder. It can mean pausing, or holding your ground until the timing is right. Daoist philosophy reminds us that expansion is emergent, not forced.

This doesn’t mean we never step through fear. It means we have the choice to do so in alignment with our capacity. The nervous system helps us recognize when it’s time to stretch ourselves and when it’s time to rest. Expansion that honors the body is more sustainable than expansion that comes from overriding it.

That being said, our capacity can grow. Through practice, self-development work, or more intentional challenges, we can cultivate our ability to hold greater experiences of visibility without becoming overwhelmed. Expansion then comes not from overriding the body, but from partnering with it as it grows stronger and more resilient.

And visibility doesn’t always mean scale. Some of my most powerful experiences of being seen haven’t been in front of a crowd or in a published essay. They’ve been one-to-one moments: sitting with a client, mentoring a student, or writing to a single reader. Those moments remind me that visibility is not just about exposure: it’s about presence, intimacy, and being real with another human being.

Fear will always be part of being seen. The question is not whether we feel it, but how we meet it. Do we push through on autopilot, following a cultural script? Or do we pause, tend to our nervous systems, and listen for whether the fear is pointing toward growth or away from alignment?

Truly being visible, I believe, is not about overriding ourselves. It’s about expanding in ways that honor our bodies, our timing, and our truth.

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In the next part of this series, I’ll be exploring where many of our inherited ideas about visibility come from. Messages like ‘be bigger, push through, take up more space’ were not created in isolation. They grew out of a culture that has long devalued femininity, subtlety, and quieter forms of power. What happens when we question how those cultural scripts shape our nervous systems, and begin to imagine visibility on our own terms? That’s where I’m headed next.

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