A Story About Recalibration
People often assume that when emotions become big, we need better solutions. Turns out that sometimes the most effective thing we can do is stop trying to solve the problem long enough to notice that what we need: nervous system regulation. We need to feel safe.
This morning my daughter reminded me of that in the most unexpected way. Here’s what happened. We were at D’s (my daughter’s) amoxicillin challenge which we’ve already had to reschedule three times — meaning we are already heading into this with a certain amount of frustration. We are finally having the appointment and this whole time D. has been reassured by me and doctors that she gets to take the medicine she actually likes the taste of, so she is literally looking forward to this. She calls it, “the white medicine” because when we take it at home, it’s always white. Well… the medicine this morning was pink, a tiny amount of bubblegum pink medicine.
Meltdown ensued. In an instant, all of her fears about the taste collided with the disappointment of losing something she thought she knew. I began to feel my own panic rising and my own inner voice saying, “what is the nurse thinking about us right now? What do I do to make D comply? We have to do this so we don’t waste the doctor’s time.” My first instinct was to start a count down, talk about doing it with her nose pinched. Things that 1.) Don’t work with someone whose thinking brain has gone offline, and 2.) Escalate the situation because they sound like threats. Then, from somewhere beneath my own panic, a quieter voice spoke up. I put the syringe down, I took a deep breath, I walked over close to D. and I said “Look, it’s ok, I don’t have the medicine in my hand, I just want to hold you in a big bear hug.” So we did that for maybe a minute or so, breathing together. When her tears subsided we talked about why it was so important to take the medication.
This is when everything changed. D. asked if she could just take a tiny sip first. I said, “of course,” and even though she initially reacted to the taste, she was ok with me giving her the medicine in small squirts, letting her lead by telling me when she was ready for more. From the time the bear hug began to being done with the medicine maybe ten minutes had passed. No more tears, no more panic, and we walked away knowing we had worked together, no threats, no loss of autonomy. When the doctor needed to give D. a second, much higher dose thirty minutes later, she didn’t complain, hesitate, cry, she did it all in one squeeze. This took about one minute.
The moment I stopped trying to make D. take the medicine and started helping her feel safe, everything shifted. She became a participant in solving the problem. Nothing about the medicine had changed, but everything had changed about how safe she felt.
This isn’t really a story about medicine, or parenting, or autism, or how to make your kid behave; this is a story about what happens when the nervous system becomes overwhelmed. When this happens, the initial instinct is often to increase pressure whether we are applying it to others or to ourselves. We feel like we need to explain more, reason more, convince more, control more; but pressure rarely creates flexibility.
Think about things that are literally under pressure—a pressure cooker, compressed gas, even a tightly capped carbonated beverage. Pressure contains. It compresses. It restricts expansion. It reduces movement. How does our body feel when we put pressure on it? More or less rigid, more or less adaptive? Think about what happens to your body under pressure…shallow breathing, tension, locked jaw, clenched fist.
This is what our bodies do when we are preparing to fight or flee, not what our bodies do when we are preparing to cooperate.
One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned—both as a therapist and as a parent—is that connection often comes before cooperation. Once my daughter no longer had to fight for her autonomy, she no longer needed to fight me. That principle doesn’t just apply to children. It shows up in marriages, friendships, workplaces, classrooms, therapy offices, and even in the conversations we have with ourselves. Sometimes the fastest way through a meltdown is to stop trying to end the meltdown. Sometimes the first step isn’t solving the problem, it’s helping one another feel safe enough to solve it together. When D. and I stopped engaging in a power struggle, she was able to trust me and could borrow my calm until she could find her own again.
Will we get it right every time? No. Will we have days when we aren’t able to access our calm well enough to be able to share it with someone? Yes. Will choosing safety over control begin to become the pattern if we're able to do it at least some of the time? Yes. We're not striving for perfection. We're building a new pattern. Every time we choose curiosity over control, connection over pressure, and safety over urgency, we're teaching our nervous systems—and the people we love—that there is another way.
