I have spent most of my life navigating the world as a big girl, and when you grow up in a body that society constantly tells you is “too much,” you instinctively learn to make the rest of yourself as small and frictionless as possible. For years, I genuinely believed I was just naturally punctual, efficient, and exceptionally low-maintenance.
As Bessel van der Kolk writes in The Body Keeps the Score:
“Trauma produces actual physiological changes… We have discovered that trauma is not just an event that took place sometime in the past; it is also the footprint left by that experience on mind, brain, and body.”
As I’ve stepped deeper into my healing journey, I’ve realized that many of my everyday routines aren’t just harmless personality quirks—they are that exact footprint. They are the quiet, lingering echoes of childhood defense mechanisms.
Look closely at how I move through a room, and you’ll see the blueprints of a girl who was terrified of taking up space:
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Always Early: I am the person who is always ridiculously early for everything—whether it’s a casual dinner, a work meeting, or a train.
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Blending In: When I walk into a room, I subconsciously claim the chair farthest away, practically melting into the wallpaper so I won’t draw eyes.
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The Rush to Exit: When it’s time to leave, I am always among the very first to have my shoes laced and be standing by the door—god forbid I hold anyone up.
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Low-Maintenance Efficiency: I pre-plan my outfits in my head down to the second, speed-shower, and get ready in a literal jiffy because the thought of causing even a moment of delay fills me with a familiar, icy panic.
Psychologically, this is classic hyper-vigilance born from body shaming and early trauma. The internalized narrative teaches you a cruel calculus: if your body already occupies “too much” physical space, you must compensate by occupying zero emotional or temporal space. You speed through life, shrink into the background, and perform hyper-efficiency so no one can ever accuse you of being an inconvenience.
In The Body Doesn’t Forget, the focus is on how these learned physical reactions get wired into our autonomic system long after the original threat has passed. Our nervous system stores protective behaviors as procedural memory—even when the mind understands that a threat is over, the body will continue to execute its safety routines automatically until it is explicitly re-taught that it is safe. My speed-showering, corner-sitting, and hyper-punctuality were simply my body’s safety routines, built to protect me from criticism and unwanted attention.
I am no longer that fragile girl from twenty years ago. I have poured years into healing, cultivating a strong well of self-confidence, and unlearning the idea that my body requires an apology.
Yet, as both books remind us, physical and emotional muscle memory runs deep. Some of those habits still linger today, but the context has completely shifted. I might still pick the corner seat out of old habit, but I sit in it now knowing with absolute certainty that I deserve to be in the room.
I am learning that my presence was never a burden—and I no longer need to rush just to earn my right to exist.
