Why Can’t I Relax? Relearning Peace After Trauma

What do you do if you always feel stressed out? That’s where I have been. I’ve basically been trying to train my nervous system to feel better, and while that sounds clinical, the truth is it’s messy, confusing, and incredibly personal. For me, it means unlearning years of survival instincts.

It’s about teaching myself to stop expecting the worst, to stop flinching emotionally every time life hands me something good.

In my marriage, for so long, my normal was a constant state of fight-or-flight. Every kind gesture felt suspicious, every moment of calm seemed temporary. I learned, painfully, that kindness could come with strings attached, that happiness was something fleeting, easily snatched away.

Which means that, even now, when someone does something genuinely nice, I immediately brace myself—looking for hidden motives, expecting to discover that I’m actually a burden.

In fact, the hardest part has been realizing I’m allowed to be the reward. It’s like holding something precious and fragile, terrified I’ll break it because I still don’t quite believe it’s mine.

Peace is elusive. I catch glimpses of it sometimes—every single day I make it a rule to sit on my porch and just be amazed by my view. I watch how the sun and cloud make little shadows all over the big Mountain, reminding me it’s okay to slow down.

This porch has become my sanctuary, slowly teaching me peace. There are also moments when I’m in a big crowded room, and suddenly realize I’m not anxiously scanning for an exit.

Those moments feel victorious. But even then, my hands still sweat, and my heart still races, showing me how deeply my body expects chaos.

My body still expects chaos.

I tell myself it’s okay, that I deserve this peace. But deep down, there’s always this little voice whispering, “Something’s coming. Don’t get too comfortable.”

When I was with Kevin, every good moment was shadowed by dread, waiting for him to shatter it. I trained myself to expect disappointment, to accept it as inevitable. Now that he’s gone, it’s almost like I can’t convince my body to not be scared when good things happen. 

He taught me that happiness was temporary and dangerous.

I’m still learning how to trust that good things can last.

The only way I’ve found through this is to “fake it till I make it.” It sounds so simplistic, but it’s become a lifeline.

My mantra, repeated like a desperate prayer, is “I got this.” Sometimes it’s strong, confident. Other times, it’s fragile, whispered between shaky breaths. But it anchors me.

And when I can’t say it to myself convincingly, I lean on friends. Friends I’ve had to relearn how to trust. Friends who remind me gently, “Hey, you got this. You’re tougher than you think.”

Rebuilding trust in others has been one of the hardest parts of this journey. Kevin isolated me, carefully and deliberately, convincing me that people were pretending to like me, that my presence was barely tolerated. “They didn’t even want to invite you,” he’d say, when someone would invite me to a party or social gathering.

I believed him for so long that now, trusting genuine kindness feels foreign, almost impossible. Yet, slowly, painfully, I’m learning that the people around me do genuinely care.

If I don’t come to a party, people text me and ask where I am. If I leave early, people notice.

They want me to show up.

They’re disappointed when I don’t.

It’s a revelation every single time.

Every step toward peace, every quiet victory, makes me realize how much strength I have inside. It’s messy and exhausting, but it’s also empowering. And each time I manage to hold onto peace a little longer, I feel myself growing stronger, believing a little more deeply that, yes—I do have this.