Emotional Takeover

I’ve had this conversation dozens of times with clients. 

So many clients come into therapy looking for support with emotional regulation. They may come in directly asking for coping skills, wanting help problem-solving stress, or simply wanting someone to talk to — but underneath it all is the same question:

How do I deal with my emotions? What am I supposed to do with these deeply-feeling monsters that wreak havoc in my life? Something in them seems to say - My emotions keep taking me over and I’m tired of being run by them. 

I’ve seen countless clients describe their pain with tears in their eyes. They hold their breath. Their body tenses—often starting in the shoulders, moving to their arms, and spreading through the rest of them. Sometimes they apologize for crying, or say, ‘Ugh, I knew I was going to do this.’ This way of managing emotion is incredibly common. I see it in probably 90% of my initial client sessions. I’ve felt it too—and I imagine you have as well. 

An emotion arises in a part of us as we touch on something tender. Another part responds by holding on as tightly as it can. One part feels, and another braces. It ties us in confusing knots that interrupt the body’s natural movement back toward rest. It keeps us from a balanced emotional and logical state - it circles back, again and again.

When we reach for logic too quickly, it often becomes a way to bypass the emotional process rather than integrate it. We analyze, explain, or problem-solve while the nervous system is still activated. The result isn’t clarity—it’s repetition. Integration happens when emotion is allowed to complete its cycle. Only then can logic join the process—not as a way out, but as a way forward.

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Let me start by saying - you’re not alone. There may be parts of you who even feel afraid of emotions when they arise or it may seem like your whole life is taken over when emotion arises. The truth is, many of us were never taught what it actually means to move through our emotions—what they can do for us, what they’re telling us, or what it feels like to be regulated. So we’ve adapted to find alternative ways to get through. Over time, though, the nervous system learns a narrow lesson: stay braced, stay alert, don’t soften unless it’s guaranteed safe.

The term regulation has become increasingly popular in modern mental health spaces. In much of what we read, emotional regulation is framed as control. The message is subtle but powerful: if you can control your emotions, then you are regulated.

In this framework, intensity becomes the problem—rather than a signal asking for support. It starts to feel like a simple equation:

Regulation = good.

Dysregulation - bad.

But regulation is not so simple - and I KNOW your emotions are not the problem. Every human nervous system naturally moves through different states. At times, we feel relatively settled, open, and connected. At other times, we feel activated, overwhelmed, shut down, or on edge. These shifts are not signs of failure. They are signs of being human. A healthy nervous system is designed to activate in response to threat—real or perceived—and to seek safety again afterward.

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This is where language matters.

Rather than thinking about regulation as something we either have or don’t have, it can be more helpful to think in terms of activation and rest.

Activation is a state of the nervous system. It’s what happens when something feels threatening, overwhelming, or emotionally charged. Our body mobilizes. Our breath shifts. Our muscles tighten. Our attention narrows. This is not a malfunction—it’s a protective response. I

Rest is also a state. It’s what we experience when the nervous system has enough safety to soften. Breathing deepens. Muscles release. We feel more open to connection, reflection, and repair. This state allows for integration.

Neither activation nor rest is “good” or “bad.” A healthy nervous system moves between them. We activate in response to the world—and we return to rest when safety is restored. Suffering often arises not because we activate, but because we get stuck there. Or because we never learned how to find our way back to rest.

This is where the idea of regulation as a process becomes essential. Regulation is not the absence of activation. It’s the movement through it. It’s the gradual settling of the nervous system after something intense has been stirred. And for most of us, this process was never meant to happen alone.

Early in life, our nervous systems are still under construction. We don’t yet have the capacity to move ourselves from activation into rest on our own. Instead, we rely on the presence of another—someone whose steady voice, attuned gaze, and calm body can help guide our system back toward safety.

This relational pathway is how regulation is learned.

When that support is inconsistent, absent, or overwhelming, we adapt. We find ways to survive activation without relief. We brace. We hold our breath. We tighten around emotion. We take on messages of “I’m not safe in relationship” or “I’m not safe in myself.” These strategies make sense—but over time, they can leave us feeling stuck in cycles of overwhelm , disconnection, shame, or shutdown.

These messages implanted early in life can leave use in perpetual states of activation - our bodies believing we are truly unsafe when in relationship and/or within ourselves. In my work and in my own life - I’ve seen how this leaves us running between two survival strategies. At times, we run to our partner to resolve feelings of distrust in ourselves—seeking reassurance, closeness, certainty. Other times, we turn inward to resolve feelings of distrust in others, pulling away to regain a sense of control or safety. Both attempts to find safety, neither fully resolving the underlying wound.

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As adults, we’re often expected to know how to regulate ourselves, to manage stress gracefully, and even to help others—our partners, our children—find rest. But many of us are trying to do this without ever having experienced what it feels like to be gently guided through activation in relationship.

Balanced regulation isn’t found by choosing between self or other. It emerges when we can experience safety within ourselves and in relationship—when connection no longer feels like a threat, and autonomy no longer feels like abandonment.

It often starts small—a moment of connection in a friendship, a sense of steadiness after meeting a challenge on your own, or a new experience of closeness with a partner. These moments don’t erase pain, and they aren’t always available when we want them most. But they matter. They offer the nervous system something some of us didn’t receive consistently: a sense that safety is accessible.

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For many people, therapy becomes one of the first places where this kind of regulation is practiced with reliability. A space where activation doesn’t have to be rushed, fixed, or explained away—where emotion is allowed to move at its own pace, in the presence of someone who stays. Over time, this steady, attuned presence can help the nervous system relearn how to move through activation and return to rest, rather than bracing against it alone.

This isn’t because therapy offers special tools or perfect answers. It’s because it offers relationship—one that is predictable, responsive, and grounded enough to hold what feels overwhelming. Through repeated experiences of being met rather than managed, safety begins to shift from something we chase outside of ourselves to something we can slowly carry within.

And this capacity doesn’t remain confined to the therapy room. As safety grows internally, it becomes more accessible in friendships, partnerships, families, and communities. Connection feels less threatening. Autonomy feels less lonely. Emotion becomes something we can be with, rather than something that takes us over.

Whether this process unfolds in therapy, in relationship, or in moments we least expect, it reflects something deeply human: our nervous systems are shaped in connection, and they heal there too. Each experience of being met—within ourselves and with others—is a step toward greater balance, deeper trust, and a world with more room for feeling, connection, and humanity.

If this resonates, or sparks questions or reflections of your own, I’d love to hear them. You’re always welcome to reach out on Instagram or over email — I genuinely enjoy hearing different takes and perspectives.

Until next time,

~ Raelynn