I’ve always been terrified of snakes. But the other day, while at a work house with my boss, we heard a strange hissing noise coming from beneath the porch. She immediately packed up her things and prepared to leave, startled and visibly uncomfortable.
She asked me to walk her out.
And I did.
What’s strange is, I was just as scared as she was. But the moment I saw her distress, something inside me shifted. I stood up. I moved. I showed up for her.
Later, I couldn’t stop thinking about that moment. Why do I always do that? Why do I override my own fear the second someone else is in need?
Because it’s not just snakes, it’s life. It’s work. It’s people I love. Every time fear rises, if someone else feels it too, I override mine and step in for them.
And that’s when it hit me: this is more than personality. This is more than compassion. This is a trauma response that started long ago.
Trauma Responses Aren’t Always Obvious
What I’ve come to understand is that this instinct, this immediate override of fear when someone else is in distress, is what’s known as a fawn response, or sometimes a functional freeze. It’s a trauma adaptation where your nervous system silences your own needs in order to care for someone else. It’s not conscious. It’s automatic. And it feels like strength, but it often grows from survival.
Growing up, I was heavily parentified. I felt responsible for my younger brother’s well-being and for the emotional states of my parents, especially when they were hungover, checked out, or angry. If they seemed upset, I assumed it was my fault. I worked hard to keep the peace, to soften their moods, to carry what shouldn’t have been mine.
My nervous system didn’t learn safety through being cared for. It learned survival through caring for others.
So now, in adulthood, I still override my emotions when someone else is struggling, not because I’m fearless, but because I was wired to be the one who shows up when no one else will.
Strength That Got Praised (But At a Cost)
When I finally started opening up about my story, especially in college, the reactions I received were often filled with awe.
“Wow, you’ve been through so much.”
“I can’t imagine how strong you must be.”
The praise always centered on what I’d survived. On the strength I’d developed. But almost no one ever acknowledged the vulnerability, the cost, the quiet ache behind it all.
People saw the strength but missed the pain.
They admired the resilience but never sat with the rupture.
And for a long time, I didn’t know how to either.
Because strength got applause. Vulnerability got silence. So I stayed in the role I knew best, the strong one.
Still Me, But Freer Now
But here’s the truth: while that trauma response once protected me, it doesn’t fully define me.
Yes, I learned to override fear.
Yes, I was trained to hold it together.
But there’s also something innately good and God-given in me that rises when others are in need. A natural compassion. A calm in the chaos. A steady hand, not just shaped by trauma, but part of my design.
Now, I fall apart when I need to, but I usually do it alone. It’s often the only space I’ve ever truly known how to release. When no one’s watching, I reconnect with what I’m actually feeling. And these days, I don’t need to be needed to feel okay. I can sit in stillness and know I matter, even when I’m not fixing anything.
The override still happens sometimes, but now I can see it, name it, and choose whether I want to follow it.
Why It Matters
Understanding where our instincts come from helps us reclaim power over them.
It helps us choose presence over performance.
Compassion over compulsion.
Freedom over fear.
When we start recognizing how childhood shaped our automatic responses, we gain the authority to heal, not erase, but transform. We can be the protectors, yes. But we can also be the protected. The held. The seen.
And when that happens? We don’t just survive, we begin to truly live.
Faith Reflection
I think God sees the strength that no one else noticed.
Not the loud, celebrated kind, but the kind that held it together when everything was falling apart.
And I think He’s calling us not to hold everything, but to be held.
He’s not impressed by how well we override our pain.
He’s moved by how we finally surrender it.
And when we do, He meets us there, gently, fully, lovingly.
Final Thoughts
I still don’t like snakes. I’m still afraid sometimes, more than I let on.
But I no longer believe I have to override everything I feel to be strong.
I can hold both:
The fear and the faith.
The protector and the protected.
The past and the healing.
And maybe that’s the strength I get to choose now.