Tag: chronicpain

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When Discipline Stops Working

What Women Were Never Told About Weight, Aging, and Control

The Science They Never Told Us

This is the first episode of 2026, and I wanted to start the year by slowing things down, getting a bit personal instead of chasing the latest talking points.

At the end of last year, I spent time reading a few books that genuinely stopped me in my tracks. Not because they offered a new diet or a new protocol, but because they challenged something much deeper: the story we’ve been told about discipline, control, and women’s bodies.

There is a reason women’s bodies change across the lifespan. And it has very little to do with willpower, discipline, or personal failure.

In Why Women Need Fat, evolutionary biologists William Lassek and Steven Gaulin make the case that most modern conversations about women’s weight are fundamentally misinformed. Not because women are doing something wrong, but because we’ve built our expectations on a misunderstanding of what female bodies are actually designed to do.

A major part of their argument focuses on how industrialization radically altered the balance of omega-6 to omega-3 fatty acids in the modern food supply, particularly through seed oils and ultra-processed foods. They make a compelling case that this shift plays a role in rising obesity and metabolic dysfunction at the population level.

I agree that this imbalance matters, and it’s a topic that deserves its own full episode. At the same time, it does not explain every woman’s story. Diet composition can influence metabolism, but it cannot override prolonged stress, illness, hormonal disruption, nervous system dysregulation, or years of restriction. In my own case, omega-6 intake outside of naturally occurring sources is relatively low and does not account for the changes I’ve experienced. That matters, because it reminds us that biology is layered. No single variable explains a complex adaptive system.

One of the most important ideas in the book is that fat distribution matters more than fat quantity.

Women do not store fat the same way men do. A significant portion of female body fat is stored in the hips and thighs, known as gluteofemoral fat. This fat is metabolically distinct from abdominal or visceral fat. It is more stable, less inflammatory, and relatively enriched in long-chain fatty acids, including DHA, which plays a key role in fetal brain development.

From an evolutionary standpoint, this makes sense. Human infants are born with unusually large, energy-hungry brains. Women evolved to carry nutritional reserves that could support pregnancy and lactation, even during times of scarcity. In that context, having fat on your lower body was not a flaw or a failure. It was insurance.

From this perspective, fat is not excess energy. It is deferred intelligence, stored in anticipation of future need. This is where waist-to-hip ratio enters the conversation.

Across cultures and historical periods, a lower waist-to-hip ratio in women has been associated with reproductive health, metabolic resilience, and successful pregnancies. This is not about thinness, aesthetics, or moral worth. It is about fat function, not fat fear, and about how different tissues behave metabolically inside the body. It is about where fat is stored and how it functions.

And in today’s modern culture we have lost that distinction.

Instead of asking what kind of fat a woman carries, we became obsessed with how much. Instead of understanding fat as tissue with purpose, we turned it into a moral scoreboard. Hips became a problem. Thighs became something to shrink. Curves became something to discipline.

Another central idea in Why Women Need Fat is biological set point.

The authors argue that women’s bodies tend to defend a natural weight range when adequately nourished and not under chronic stress. When women remain below that range through restriction, over-exercise, or prolonged under-fueling, the body does not interpret that as success. It interprets it as threat.

Over time, the body adapts, not out of defiance, but out of protection.

Metabolism slows. Hunger and fullness cues become unreliable. Hormonal systems compensate. When the pressure finally eases, weight often rebounds, sometimes beyond where it started, because the body is trying to restore safety.

From this perspective, midlife weight gain, post-illness weight gain, or weight gain after years of restriction is not mysterious. It is not rebellion. It is regulation.

None of this is taught to women.

Instead, we are told that if our bodies change, we failed. That aging is optional. That discipline and botox should override biology. That the number on the scale tells the whole story.

So, before we talk about culture, family, trauma, or personal experience, this matters:

Women’s bodies are not designed to stay static.
They are designed to adapt.

Once you understand that, everything else in this conversation changes.

Why the Body Became the Battlefield

This is where historian Joan Jacobs Brumberg’s work in The Body Project: An Intimate History of American Girls, provides essential context, but it requires some precision.

Girls have not always been free from shame. Shame itself is not new. What has changed is what women are taught to be ashamed of, and how that shame operates in daily life.

Brumberg asks a question that still feels unresolved today:
Why is the body still a girl’s nemesis? Shouldn’t sexually liberated girls feel better about themselves than their corseted counterparts a century ago?

Based on extensive historical research, including diaries written by American girls from the 1830s through the 1990s, Brumberg shows that although girls today enjoy more formal freedoms and opportunities, they are also under more pressure and at greater psychological risk. This is due to a unique convergence of biological vulnerability and cultural forces that turned the adolescent female body into a central site of social meaning during the twentieth century.

In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, girls did not typically grow up fixated on thinness, calorie control, or constant appearance monitoring. Their diaries were not filled with measurements or food rules. Instead, they wrote primarily about character, self-restraint, moral development, relationships, and their roles within family and community.

One 1892 diary entry reads:

“Resolved, not to talk about myself or feelings. To think before speaking. To work seriously. To be self-restrained in conversation and in actions. Not to let my thoughts wander. To be dignified. Interest myself more in others.”

In earlier eras, female shame was more often tied to behavior, sexuality, obedience, and virtue. The body mattered, but primarily as a moral symbol rather than an aesthetic project requiring constant surveillance and correction.

That changed dramatically in the twentieth century.

Brumberg documents how the mother-daughter connection loosened, particularly around menstruation, sexuality, and bodily knowledge. Where female relatives and mentors once guided girls through these transitions, doctors, advertisers, popular media, and scientific authority increasingly stepped in to fill that role.

At the same time, mass media, advertising, film, and medicalized beauty standards created a new and increasingly exacting ideal of physical perfection. Changing norms around intimacy and sexuality also shifted the meaning of virginity, turning it from a central moral value into an outdated or irrelevant one. What replaced it was not freedom from scrutiny, but a different kind of pressure altogether.

By the late twentieth century, girls were increasingly taught that their bodies were not merely something they inhabited, but something they were responsible for perfecting.

A 1982 diary entry captures this shift starkly:

“I will try to make myself better in any way I possibly can with the help of my budget and baby-sitting money. I will lose weight, get new lenses, already got a new haircut, good makeup, new clothes and accessories.”

What changed was not the presence of shame, but its location. Shame moved inward.

Rather than being externally enforced through rules and prohibitions, it became self-policed. Girls were taught to monitor themselves constantly, to evaluate their bodies from the outside, and to treat appearance as the primary expression of identity and worth.

Brumberg is explicit on this point. The fact that American girls now make their bodies their central project is not an accident or a cultural curiosity. It is a symptom of historical changes that are only beginning to be fully understood.

This is where more recent work, such as Louise Perry’s The Case Against the Sexual Revolution, helps extend Brumberg’s analysis into the present moment. Perry argues that while sexual liberation promised autonomy and empowerment, it often left young women navigating powerful biological and emotional realities without the social structures that once offered protection, guidance, or meaning. In that vacuum, the body became one of the few remaining sites where control still seemed possible.

The result is a paradox. Girls are freer in theory, yet more burdened in practice. The body, once shaped by communal norms and shared female knowledge, becomes a solitary project, managed under intense cultural pressure and constant comparison.

For many girls, this self-surveillance does not begin with magazines or social media. It begins at home, absorbed through tone, comments, and modeling from the women closest to them.

Brumberg argues that body dissatisfaction is often transmitted from mother to daughter, not out of cruelty, but because those mothers inherited the same aesthetic anxieties. Over time, body shame becomes a family inheritance, passed down quietly and persistently.

Some mothers transmit it subtly.

Others do it bluntly.

This matters not because my experience is unique, but because it illustrates what happens when a body shaped by restriction, stress, and cultural pressure is asked to perform indefinitely. Personal stories are often dismissed as anecdotal, but they are where biological theory meets lived reality.

If you want to dive deeper into this topic:

From Diary Entries to Digital Screens: How Beauty Ideals and Sexualization Have Transformed Over Time

Where It All Began: The Messages That Shape Us

I grew up in a household where my body was not simply noticed. It was scrutinized, compared, and commented on. Comments like that do not fade with time. They shape how you see yourself in mirrors and photographs. They teach you that your body must be managed and monitored. They plant the belief that staying small is the price of safety.

So, I grew up believing that if I could control my body well enough, I could avoid humiliation. I could avoid becoming the punchline. I could avoid being seen in the wrong way.

For a while, I turned that fear into discipline.

The Years Before the Collapse: A Lifetime of Restriction and Survival

Food never felt simple for me. Long before bodybuilding, chronic pain, or COVID, I carried a strained relationship with eating. Growing up in a near constant state of anxiety meant that hunger cues often felt unpredictable. Eating was something to plan around or push through. It rarely felt intuitive or easy.

Because of this, I experimented with diets that replaced real meals with cereal or shakes. I followed plans like the Special K diet. I relied on Carnation Instant Breakfast instead of full meals. My protein intake was low. My fear of gaining weight was high. Restriction became familiar.

Top left is when I started working out obsessively at age 16, top right and bottom photo are from middle school when I was at my “heaviest” that drove the disordered behaviors.

In college, I became a strict vegetarian out of compassion for animals, but I did not understand how to meet my nutritional needs. I was studying dietetics and earning personal training certifications while running frequently and using exercise as a way to maintain control. From the outside, I looked disciplined. Internally, my relationship with food and exercise remained tense and inconsistent.

Later, I became involved in a meal-replacement program through an MLM. I replaced two meals a day with shakes and practiced intermittent fasting framed as “cleanse days.” In hindsight, this was structured under-eating presented as wellness. It fit seamlessly into patterns I had lived in for years.

Eating often felt overwhelming. Cooking felt like a hurdle. Certain textures bothered me. My appetite felt fragile and unreliable. This sensory sensitivity existed long before the parosmia that would come years later. From early on, food was shaped by stress rather than nourishment.

During this entire period, I was also on hormonal birth control, first the NuvaRing and later the Mirena IUD, for nearly a decade. Long-term hormonal modulation can influence mood, inflammation, appetite, and weight distribution. It added another layer of complexity to a system already under strain.

Looking back, I can see that my teens and twenties were marked by near constant restriction. Restriction felt normal. Thriving did not.

The book Why Women Need Fat discusses the idea of a biological weight “set point,” the range a body tends to return to when conditions are stable and adequately nourished. I now understand that I remained below my natural set point for years through force rather than balance. My biology never experienced consistency or safety.

This was the landscape I carried into my thirties.

The Body I Built and the Body That Broke

By the time I entered the bodybuilding world in 2017 and 2018, I already had years of chronic under-eating, over-exercising, and nutrient gaps behind me. Bodybuilding did not create my issues. It amplified them.

I competed in four shows. People admired the discipline and the physique. Internally, my body was weakening. I was overtraining and undereating. By 2019, my immune system began to fail. I developed severe canker sores, sometimes twenty or more at once. I started noticing weight-loss resistance. Everything I had done in the past, was no longer working. On my thirty-fifth birthday, I got shingles. My energy crashed. My emotional bandwidth narrowed. My body was asking for rest, but I did not know how to slow down.

Dive deeper into my body building journey here:

Fit for TV: How Screens, Diet Culture, and Reality Shows Rewire Our Bodies and Minds

Around this time, I was also navigating eating disorder recovery. Learning how to eat without panic or rigid control was emotionally exhausting even under ideal circumstances… but little did I know things were about to take a massive turn for the worst.

COVID, Sensory Loss, and the Unraveling of Appetite

After getting sick with the ‘vid late 2020, everything shifted again. I developed parosmia, a smell and taste distortion that made many foods taste rotten or chemical. Protein and cooked foods often tasted spoiled. Herbs smelled like artificial chemical. Eating became distressing and, at times, impossible.

My appetite dropped significantly. There were periods where my intake was very low, yet my weight continued to rise. This is not uncommon following illness or prolonged stress. The body often shifts into energy conservation, prioritizing survival overweight regulation.

Weight gain became another source of grief. Roughly thirty pounds over the next five years. I feel embarrassed and avoid photographs. I often worry about how others will perceive me.

If this experience resonates, it is important to say this clearly: your body is not betraying you. It is responding to stress, illness, and prolonged strain in the way bodies are designed to respond.

Untangling the Threads of Chronic Pain, Trauma, and Healing

Why Women’s Bodies Adapt Instead of “Bounce Back”

When years of restriction, intense exercise, chronic stress, illness, hormonal shifts, and emotional trauma accumulate, the body often enters a protective state. Metabolism slows. Hormonal signaling shifts. Hunger cues become unreliable. Weight gain or resistance to weight loss can occur even during periods of low intake, because energy regulation is being driven by survival physiology rather than simple calorie balance.

This is not failure. It is physiology.

The calories-in, calories-out model does not account for thyroid suppression, nervous system activation, sleep disruption, pain, trauma, or metabolic adaptation. It reduces a complex biological system to arithmetic.

Women are not machines. We are adaptive systems built for survival. Sometimes resilience looks like holding onto energy when the body does not feel safe.

Metabolism Myths: Why Dieting Fails

The Systems That Reinforce Shame

Despite this biological reality, we live in a culture that ties women’s value to discipline and appearance. When women gain weight, even under extreme circumstances, we blame ourselves before questioning the system.

Diet culture frames shrinking as virtue.

Toxic positivity encourages acceptance without context.

Industrial food environments differ radically from those our ancestors evolved in.

Medical systems often dismiss women’s pain and metabolic complexity.

Social media amplifies comparison and moralizes body size.

None of this is your fault. And all of it shapes your experience.

This is why understanding the science matters. This is why telling the truth matters. This is why sharing stories matters.

Beyond the Before-and-After: The Truth About Social Media and Body Image

In the book, More Than a Body, Lindsay and Lexie Kite describe how women are taught to relate to themselves through constant self-monitoring. Instead of living inside our bodies, we learn to watch ourselves from the outside. We assess how we look, how we are perceived, and whether our bodies are acceptable in a given moment.

This constant self-surveillance does real harm. It pulls attention away from hunger, pain, fatigue, and intuition. It trains women to override bodily signals in favor of appearance management. And over time, it creates a split where the body is treated as a project to control rather than a system to understand or care for.

When you layer this kind of self-objectification on top of chronic stress, restriction, illness, and trauma, the result is not empowerment. It is disconnection. And disconnection makes it even harder to hear what the body needs when something is wrong.

Weight gain is not just a biological response. It becomes a moral verdict. And that is how women end up fighting bodies that are already struggling to keep them alive.

The Inheritance Ends Here

For a long time, I believed that breaking generational cycles only applied to mothers and daughters. I do not have children, so I assumed what I inherited would simply end with me, unchanged.

Brumberg’s work helped me see this differently.

What we inherit is not passed down only through parenting. It moves through tone, silence, and self-talk. It appears in how women speak about their bodies in front of others. It lives in the way shame is normalized.

I inherited a legacy of body shame. Even on the days when I still feel its weight, I am choosing not to repeat it.

For me, the inheritance ends with telling the truth about this journey and refusing to speak to my body with the same cruelty I absorbed growing up. It ends here.

Closing the Circle: Your Body Is Not Broken

I wish I could end this with a simple story of resolution. I cannot. I am still in the middle of this. I still grieve. I still struggle with eating and movement. I am still learning how to inhabit a body that feels unfamiliar.

But I know this: my body is not my enemy. She is not malfunctioning. She is adapting to a lifetime of stress, illness, restriction, and emotional weight.

If you are in a similar place, I hope this offers permission to stop fighting yourself and start understanding the patterns your body is following. Not because everything will suddenly improve, but because clarity is often the first form of compassion.

Your body is not betraying you. She is trying to keep you here.

And sometimes the most honest thing we can do is admit that we are still finding our way.

References

  1. Brumberg, J. J. (1997). The Body Project: An Intimate History of American Girls. Random House.
  2. Lassek, W. D., & Gaulin, S. J. C. (2011). Why Women Need Fat: How “Healthy” Food Makes Us Gain Excess Weight and the Surprising Solution to Losing It Forever. Hudson Street Press.
  3. Kite, L., & Kite, L. (2020). More Than a Body: Your Body Is an Instrument, Not an Ornament. Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.

Scientific and academic sources

  1. Lassek, W. D., & Gaulin, S. J. C. (2006). Changes in body fat distribution in relation to parity in American women. Evolution and Human Behavior, 27(3), 173–185.
  2. Lassek, W. D., & Gaulin, S. J. C. (2008). Waist–hip ratio and cognitive ability. Proceedings of the Royal Society B, 275(1644), 193–199.
  3. Dulloo, A. G., Jacquet, J., & Montani, J. P. (2015). Adaptive thermogenesis in human body-weight regulation. Obesity Reviews, 16(S1), 33–43.
  4. Fothergill, E., et al. (2016). Persistent metabolic adaptation after weight loss. Obesity, 24(8), 1612–1619.
  5. Kyle, U. G., et al. (2004). Body composition interpretation. American Journal of Clinical Nutrition, 79(6), 955–962.
  6. Simopoulos, A. P. (2016). Omega-6/omega-3 balance and obesity risk. Nutrients, 8(3), 128.

Trauma, stress, and nervous system context

  1. Sapolsky, R. M. (2004). Why Zebras Don’t Get Ulcers. Henry Holt and Company.
  2. Walker, P. (2013). Complex PTSD: From Surviving to Thriving. Azure Coyote Books.
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Taste Test Thursdays: A BONUS Series!

A New Way to Dig Into Truth Together

Hey everyone, welcome to the very first episode of Taste Test Thursdays! If you’re new here, this is a special bonus series where I’ll be giving you a behind-the-scenes look at the topics I didn’t get a chance to fully explore during Season 3 of Taste of Truth Tuesdays. Think of this as the leftovers—the ideas that were simmering on the back burner but never made it onto the main plate.

But this series isn’t just about what I didn’t cover. It’s about giving you a deeper look into my thought process—how I research, why I choose certain topics, and the unfiltered thoughts I don’t always include in the main episodes. Some weeks will be casual, some will be research-heavy, and some, like today, will be personal.

Because for this first episode, I want to start with a topic I’ve touched on but never fully shared: my own experience with chronic pain and how it shaped not only my fitness journey but my entire approach to health and resilience.

The Story Behind My Chronic Pain & Fitness Journey

Let’s rewind a bit. Growing up, I was always active, but I never saw fitness as something I’d build my life around. That changed when I started dealing with chronic pain. At first, it was subtle—nagging aches, stiffness that didn’t go away. But then it became something more. Pain wasn’t just an inconvenience; it dictated what I could and couldn’t do. Doctors didn’t always have clear answers, and at times, it felt like I was being dismissed.

That frustration pushed me to start researching on my own-diving into biomechanics, nutrition, corrective exercise, and the ways the nervous system and pain are intertwined. I wasn’t just looking for relief; I was trying to understand why my body was responding this way. And what I found changed everything.

A while back, I wrote a blog post about this—one that really captures my experience in a way that feels raw and honest. And instead of just summarizing it, I want to share it with you here. So, here’s that piece, in its entirety.

Untangling the Threads of Chronic Pain, Trauma, and Healing

How It Shaped My Career & Perspective

This experience didn’t just lead me into fitness; it redefined how I approach movement altogether. It made me realize that pain isn’t just a physical experience—it’s emotional, neurological, and deeply personal. It’s why I’m so passionate about evidence-based approaches to health and why I push back against a lot of the oversimplified fitness narratives out there.

I’ve seen firsthand how the right training, nutrition, and mindset shifts can change the way someone interacts with their own body. And I’ve also seen the damage of quick-fix culture—where people are told they just need more discipline, or worse, that their pain is all in their head.

What I Wish More People Knew About Chronic Pain & Fitness

One of the biggest misconceptions I had to unlearn is that pain automatically means damage. That’s something I wish more people understood. Pain is real, but it’s also complex—it can be influenced by stress, trauma, movement patterns, and even the stories we tell ourselves about our bodies. Learning that was a game changer for me.

Another thing? There is no one-size-fits-all approach. Healing, strength, and movement look different for everyone, and that’s okay.

What to Expect From Taste Test Thursdays

So, that’s today’s leftover—a topic I didn’t get to fully explore in Season 3 but felt like now was the right time to share. But Taste Test Thursdays won’t always be this personal. Some weeks, I’ll take you inside my research process—breaking down how I fact-check, where I find sources, and the information I don’t trust. Other weeks, I’ll revisit ideas I didn’t have time for, explore unfiltered takes, or answer your burning questions.

Next week, we’ll be talking about how I put together my episodes—how I decide on topics, what I look for in sources, and some of the biggest red flags I watch out for when researching.

I’d love to hear from you—what’s been your experience with pain and fitness? Have you ever had to unlearn things about your own body? Let me know over on Instagram or in the comments if you’re listening somewhere that allows it.

Thanks for being here, and as always—maintain your curiosity, embrace skepticism, and keep tuning in!

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Untangling the Threads of Chronic Pain, Trauma, and Healing

How Emotional Trauma Contributes to Chronic Pain

If you had asked me a year ago why my body hurt so much—why my hips ached, my calves tightened with every step, or why even walking on the treadmill felt like a chore—I would have said it was from overtraining or poor posture. What I couldn’t articulate then was that my pain wasn’t just physical. It was a complex dance involving my nervous system, my fascia, and my body’s attempt to protect itself after years of unresolved trauma.

Our nervous system plays a fundamental role in chronic pain. When we experience physical or emotional trauma, our body reacts by creating a heightened state of alertness. Over time, these experiences are encoded in the nervous system as neurotags—clusters of physical, emotional, and cognitive memories that influence how we react to stress and pain. Chronic pain, I’ve learned, is often an echo of this activation. It’s not just about tight muscles or structural imbalances—it’s a survival mechanism trying to make sense of and respond to past trauma.

This is the story of how I’ve started to untangle it all, and how chronic pain, emotional wounds, and trauma are all intricately tied together in ways I never imagined.

The Connection Between Chronic Pain and Trauma

For years, I treated my body like a machine. During my bodybuilding days, I pushed through discomfort, ignored signs of overtraining, and celebrated soreness as a badge of honor. But what I didn’t understand then was how my nervous system was quietly keeping score.

Chronic pain, I’ve learned, isn’t just about tight muscles or structural imbalances—it’s a survival strategy. When we experience trauma, whether from overtraining, stress, or emotional wounds, our nervous system can get stuck in a heightened state of alertness. It’s like a smoke alarm that keeps going off, long after the fire has been extinguished.

Fascia, the connective tissue that surrounds every muscle and organ in our body, plays a fascinating role in this process. Fascia isn’t just structural—it’s sensory. It’s packed with nerve endings that communicate directly with the brain. When the body perceives danger (even subconsciously), the fascia can tighten, creating patterns of tension that mirror emotional or physical trauma. In my case, that tension showed up in my psoas muscles, my calves, and my lower back—all areas associated with safety and movement.

The more I explored these connections, the more I began to see that pain wasn’t random—it was a message from my body. And it was asking me to listen.

The Power of Neurotags: How Pain and Trauma Intersect

One of the most eye-opening concepts I’ve come across in my journey is the idea of neurotags—a term used to describe the brain’s way of organizing and processing sensory, emotional, and cognitive information. Neurotags are like maps of experiences that are built over time, creating an interconnected network of physical sensations, emotions, and thoughts that work together to form a response to stimuli.

Here’s the kicker: Chronic pain is often stored in these neurotags. When trauma occurs—whether physical, emotional, or psychological—it gets encoded in the nervous system as a pattern. These patterns are not just about the physical experience of pain, but also the emotions and thoughts tied to that experience.

When trauma is stored in the nervous system, it doesn’t just affect how we feel physically; it affects our entire emotional and cognitive landscape. For example, someone who has experienced physical trauma may also experience emotional flashbacks or cognitive distortions that are linked to that experience. These flashbacks are like sudden replays of past trauma, but they don’t just exist in the mind—they can show up physically in the body.

Neurotags, Emotional Flashbacks, and Chronic Pain

Think about it this way: When we experience a traumatic event, our nervous system reacts by encoding that event into a neurotag. This neurotag includes not only the physical sensations (like tightness, pain, or discomfort), but also the emotions (fear, anger, sadness) and cognitive patterns (thoughts like “I am unsafe” or “I am weak”).

Emotional flashbacks happen when the brain reactivates these neurotags, causing the body to respond as if the trauma is happening again. This is why someone with chronic pain may experience intense emotions that seem disproportionate to the physical sensations they’re feeling. The pain can trigger a flashback—a sudden, overwhelming re-experience of trauma that isn’t just mental but is felt deeply in the body.

In my case, the tension I experienced in my hips and lower back was a reflection of both the physical trauma of overtraining and the emotional trauma I had internalized from years of pushing myself too hard and ignoring my body’s signals. When my nervous system encountered stress, it activated these neurotags, making the tension and pain feel more intense and more pervasive. The more I resisted this pain or ignored the emotional connection to it, the worse it became.

How I’m Healing: Creating New Neurotags and Engaging the Vagus Nerve

Understanding neurotags has been revolutionary in how I approach my healing process. The key to healing, I’ve learned, is not simply “fixing” the physical pain but reprogramming the neurotags. This involves creating new patterns that support healing, safety, and relaxation.

One powerful way I’m rewiring my nervous system is by engaging the vagus nerve, the longest cranial nerve that plays a critical role in regulating the parasympathetic nervous system. The vagus nerve is like the body’s “brakes,” helping to turn off the fight-or-flight response and return the body to a state of calm. When activated, it encourages relaxation, emotional regulation, and recovery—exactly what my body needs as I untangle the tension stored in my fascia and nervous system.

Here’s how I’m starting to rewire my system:

Reconnecting with Joyful Movement:
I’ve reintroduced activities that make me feel alive, like walking in the garden or playing with my pets. These moments remind me that movement isn’t just about strength—it’s about freedom. By incorporating joyful, non-stressful activities, I’m helping to reinforce new neurotags that associate movement with pleasure and ease.

Reclaiming Safety Through Movement:
Instead of high-intensity workouts, I’ve shifted to gentle, functional exercises that strengthen my core and glutes while supporting my nervous system. Slow, mindful movements like glute bridges, bird dogs, and pelvic tilts have become my new best friends. These exercises not only build strength but signal to my nervous system that it’s safe to move.

Releasing Fascia with Love:
I’ve embraced somatic practices like gentle rocking, diaphragmatic breathing, and fascia-focused stretches to help release tension. These practices aren’t just physical—they’re a way of telling my body, “You’re safe now.” They help reprogram the neurotags associated with stress and trauma by sending a message of relaxation and calm.

Vagus Nerve Activation:
To support my nervous system’s recovery, I’ve incorporated practices that stimulate the vagus nerve, such as slow, deep belly breathing and humming. Breathing deeply into my diaphragm (focusing on long exhales) has been especially helpful in calming my body and signaling to my nervous system that it’s okay to relax. By consciously engaging my vagus nerve, I’m helping shift from the fight-or-flight response into a restorative state.

Rewriting Emotional Patterns:
Rewiring my nervous system also means rewriting my emotional patterns. This involves acknowledging the emotional flashbacks that arise when pain triggers old neurotags and consciously choosing to respond with compassion and self-care. Instead of reacting with fear or frustration, I’m learning to pause, breathe, and remind myself that I’m safe now.

What Chronic Pain Has Taught Me

Chronic pain has been a tough teacher, but it’s taught me lessons I wouldn’t trade for anything:

  • Your body is always on your side. Pain is a signal, not a punishment.
  • Healing isn’t linear. Some days, progress looks like resting instead of pushing.
  • Movement is medicine, but only when done with intention and love.

I share this journey because I know I’m not alone. So many of us carry the weight of trauma—both emotional and physical—in our bodies. And while the road to healing isn’t easy, it’s worth it.

If you’re navigating chronic pain, I want you to know this: Your body isn’t broken, and you don’t have to fight it. With the right tools, patience, and self-compassion, you can create safety, release tension, and rediscover the joy of movement.

I’m still on this journey, and I’d love to hear about yours. What has chronic pain taught you? How are you learning to trust your body again? Let’s keep this conversation going—because healing happens when we feel safe enough to share.