Jessica Woodville | Memoir & Musings

Healing isn’t linear. I’ve heard that phrase so many times, but nothing drives it home quite like my own body’s rebellion. I’ve worked hard to heal. I’ve unraveled trauma, faced the ghosts of my past, and even reached a point where my adrenal insufficiency is in remission. On paper, I should be thriving.

And yet, my nervous system still hijacks me at the worst moments.

Stress, I expect. I know how my body reacts to it—how a surge of adrenaline can leave me shaking, nauseous, and lightheaded. I know the exhaustion that follows, the crash that feels like my body shutting down.

But joy? Anticipation? Excitement?

I never expected my body to turn on me for those.

When Adrenaline Is a False Alarm

The problem is, my body doesn’t know the difference between fear and excitement. To my nervous system, they are the same. The rush of adrenaline, the heightened senses, the racing heart—it all feels identical, whether I’m running for my life or simply looking forward to something amazing.

An upcoming trip? A book launch? A long-awaited dream starting to unfold? My body reacts as if I’m in danger.

I get dizzy. My heart pounds. My hands tremble. I feel like I’m about to pass out. And then, when the surge fades, I crash—sometimes for hours, sometimes for days. It’s a betrayal of the worst kind because I want to feel joy. I want to embrace the things I’ve fought so hard for. But my body, conditioned by years of trauma and misfiring cortisol responses, doesn’t trust the feeling of being alive.

The Aftermath of Overdrive

For years, my body lived in survival mode, stuck in a cycle of fight-or-flight. My adrenal glands worked overtime trying to keep up, and when they couldn’t anymore, I developed adrenal insufficiency. For three years, I fought to get diagnosed, to be believed, to have an explanation for why I was always exhausted, always weak, always unable to recover from stress like everyone else.

Now that my adrenal function is stable, you’d think I’d be free from the worst of it. But the nervous system holds onto what it knows. Even in remission, my body is primed for overreaction. If my heart rate spikes, my brain sounds the alarm. If I feel a rush of emotion, my body braces for a crash. I can’t just snap out of it—this response is wired into my physiology.

Reclaiming Joy from a Nervous System That Doesn’t Trust It

So how do I move forward? How do I experience life’s best moments without the fear of my own body sabotaging them?

I’m still figuring that out. But here’s what I do know:

• I have to pace myself. If I push through an adrenaline high, I will pay for it later. If something exciting is happening, I plan for rest before, during, and after.
• I practice grounding techniques. When my body starts to spiral, I remind myself: This is joy, not danger. You are safe. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t. But I keep trying.
• I reframe my body’s response. Instead of fearing the rush, I try to recognize it for what it is: a sign that I am alive. That I care deeply. That I am feeling something powerful.
• I let myself grieve the unfairness. Because it is unfair. No one should have to fear excitement. No one should have to plan for the possibility of crashing after a happy moment. But instead of staying stuck in resentment, I channel that grief into action—into learning, adapting, and moving forward.

Healing, Even When It Doesn’t Feel Like It

The truth is, healing isn’t a straight path. It’s a loop, a spiral, a tangled mess of progress and setbacks. Some days, I feel like I’ve moved past survival mode. Other days, it feels like my nervous system still belongs to the person I used to be—the one who lived in fear, who braced for disaster, who didn’t believe a happy life was possible.

But I am not that person anymore.

Even when my body betrays me, I remind myself: Healing is happening. It may be slow. It may not look the way I imagined. But it is happening.

And one day, my body will believe it too.