Recognize It for What It Is

One of the hardest lessons I’ve learned over the years is that not everything happening inside of me is telling me the truth.

That sentence would’ve frustrated me ten years ago because what I was feeling was true. My heart really was racing. My stomach really was in knots. The lump in my throat wasn’t imaginary. The fear felt as real as anything I’d ever experienced. If someone had suggested I shouldn’t trust what I was feeling in those moments, I probably would’ve thought they simply didn’t understand.

Now I think they understood something I didn’t.

There are moments when the human heart gets hijacked.

I don’t know a better word for it because “triggered” almost feels too clinical. It doesn’t capture what it actually feels like when it happens. It’s more like an eruption. One moment you’re standing in your kitchen having what should’ve been an ordinary conversation, and the next you’re somewhere else entirely. Your body is tense. Your breathing has changed. Your thoughts are moving so fast that you’re already preparing your defense before the other person has even finished speaking.

For a long time, I assumed those moments were about whatever was happening right in front of me.

Sometimes they were.

Often they weren’t.

I’ve seen this pattern in couples I’ve worked with over the years, and if I’m being honest, I’ve seen it play out in my own life often enough that I finally had to stop asking, Why does this keep happening? and start asking a different question.

What is actually happening here?

That question changed everything.

For most of my life, I thought conflict began the moment two people disagreed. Today, I don’t think that’s where it begins at all. I think conflict often starts much earlier, in places neither person can see. It begins in disappointments that were never grieved, childhood experiences that quietly taught us what love was supposed to feel like, betrayals that convinced us we weren’t safe, and nervous systems that learned long ago to prepare for danger even when danger wasn’t standing in the room.

By the time two people begin arguing, there is often much more present than the disagreement itself.

There are old stories.

Old fears.

Old losses.

Old conclusions.

The conversation happening in front of us has become tangled together with conversations we had years ago, sometimes decades ago. It happens so quickly we don’t even realize it. We think we’re responding to the person we love, when in reality our body is responding to every other moment that ever made us feel rejected, criticized, abandoned, unseen, or unsafe.

That’s one reason relationships can feel so confusing.

Two people can experience the exact same conversation and walk away believing completely different things happened. Neither one is intentionally lying. They’re interpreting the moment through different histories.

As my faith has matured, I’ve also become less convinced that every battle we experience is purely psychological. Trauma is real. The nervous system is real. Childhood wounds are real. At the same time, my Catholic faith has taught me not to ignore the spiritual dimension of our lives either.

Father Chad Ripperger often reminds people that one of the ordinary works of the enemy is division. Not always through dramatic events, but through accusation, confusion, discouragement, and anything that quietly separates us from God and from one another.

I’ve thought about that teaching many times after difficult conversations.

Not because I want to blame every disagreement on spiritual forces, but because I’ve noticed how quickly fear can distort reality. A simple misunderstanding suddenly feels like betrayal. Silence feels like abandonment. A question sounds like criticism. Before long, two people who genuinely love one another are standing on opposite sides of a battle neither one of them fully understands.

I’ve learned to pause in those moments and ask myself one simple question before I say another word.

Am I responding to what’s happening right now…or am I responding to something much older?

That question has probably saved more of my relationships than any communication technique I’ve ever learned.

One of the most humbling realizations for me has been discovering that I can know all of this and still get caught in it.

Awareness doesn’t make us immune. It simply gives us the opportunity to recognize what’s happening before fear finishes writing the story.

My nervous system still gets hijacked.

There are still moments when my heart begins pounding so hard it feels as though something terrible is about to happen. My thoughts become louder than reality. If I’m not careful, I can build an entire case against someone I love before they’ve even finished their sentence.

Years ago, I thought those moments meant something outside of me had suddenly become dangerous.

Today I’m much more likely to ask whether something inside of me has become frightened.

That’s a very different question.

Fear doesn’t knock on the door and announce that it’s about to distort your perspective. It quietly slips into the conversation and begins interpreting everything through the lens of self-protection. Before long, motives are assigned, intentions are assumed, and the story unfolding in our minds bears very little resemblance to what may actually be taking place.

I’ve watched this happen in marriages more times than I could ever count.

One spouse withdraws because they’re overwhelmed. The other experiences that withdrawal as rejection. One raises a concern hoping to feel understood. The other hears criticism and immediately becomes defensive. Neither person wakes up intending to hurt the other, yet both leave the conversation carrying fresh wounds that reinforce the old ones they were already carrying.

That’s what makes these moments so heartbreaking.

The battle usually isn’t between two people who no longer love one another. More often, it’s between two people whose deepest fears have been awakened at the same time.

I’ve also learned that fear has patterns.

It rarely invents entirely new stories. It repeats the old ones.

If you’ve spent your life feeling abandoned, fear will convince you abandonment is happening again. If criticism shaped your childhood, you’ll begin hearing criticism even in gentle conversations. If shame has always been close by, almost every disagreement becomes evidence that you’re not enough.

The circumstances change.

The story often doesn’t.

Recognizing that pattern has become one of the greatest gifts God has given me. Not because it suddenly makes relationships easy, but because it creates a small space between what I’m experiencing and how I choose to respond. Sometimes that space only lasts a few seconds, but a few seconds can keep us from saying something we’ll spend months trying to repair.

I don’t always get it right.

There are still days when my body reacts faster than my wisdom. There are still moments when fear speaks before love has a chance. Healing isn’t measured by never getting triggered again. It’s measured by how quickly we recognize what’s happening and how willing we are to return to truth instead of continuing to feed the fear.

That realization changed almost everything about how I move through conflict.

When I feel my body beginning to react, I don’t rush to fix the relationship. I don’t immediately defend myself. I don’t chase reassurance, and I try very hard not to make permanent decisions while my body is convinced it’s under attack.

Instead, I become curious.

The first place I go isn’t into the conversation.

It’s inward.

I’ve learned to pay attention to my body because it often speaks before my mind catches up. My breathing becomes shallow. My shoulders tighten. My stomach knots. Sometimes my heart pounds so hard it feels almost like panic. Other times I notice tears welling up before I even understand why they’re there.

Years ago, I fought those sensations.

I wanted them to stop.

Now I let them speak without allowing them to become my authority.

There’s a difference.

I’ve discovered that feelings are faithful messengers, but they aren’t always faithful interpreters. They tell me something important is happening. They don’t necessarily tell me what that something is.

That small distinction has saved me more than once.

Once I’ve acknowledged what’s happening in my body, I pray.

Not because prayer instantly removes fear, but because it reorders my attention. It reminds me that I’m not carrying this moment alone and that I don’t have to solve it in my own strength.

I usually begin with the Our Father because those familiar words have a way of slowing my heart. Then I pray the Prayer to St. Michael, asking God to guard my mind, my home, my relationships, and even my perception. Whether the battle is rooted in old wounds, temptation, exhaustion, or some combination of all three, I want my first response to be surrender rather than control.

Only then do I begin caring for my nervous system.

Sometimes that means taking a cool shower and letting my body settle before asking my mind to make sense of anything. Other days it looks like walking outside without my phone, stretching in the quiet of my living room, or simply sitting in silence until I can hear my own thoughts again.

One practice has become almost sacred to me.

I stop talking.

Not because silence fixes relationships, but because I’ve learned that very little good comes from trying to resolve conflict while my body is still convinced it’s fighting for its life. The words that feel most urgent in those moments usually come from fear, not wisdom.

I’ve also stopped expecting another person to regulate my nervous system for me.

That may be one of the hardest lessons I’ve ever had to learn.

For years, I wanted the conversation to calm me. I wanted reassurance to make the fear disappear. I wanted someone else’s response to restore my peace.

Sometimes they could.

Often they couldn’t.

Real peace began arriving when I stopped placing that responsibility on another human being and started allowing God to meet me there first.

Ironically, that’s also when I became far more capable of returning to the conversation with love instead of self-protection.

I’m still learning.

There are days when I recognize the pattern almost immediately, and there are days when I don’t see it until hours later. Healing has made me quicker to return, not perfect.

I’ve made peace with the fact that healing isn’t about never getting triggered.

It’s about returning sooner.

Maybe that’s what repentance has always looked like.

Not shame.

Not self-condemnation.

Simply turning back toward what is true.

The longer I live, the more convinced I become that emotional maturity has very little to do with always being right.

It has everything to do with becoming humble enough to question our own perception.

I’ve noticed that emotionally healthy people become less interested in winning the argument and more interested in protecting the relationship. They become curious instead of defensive. They ask better questions. They apologize more quickly because they understand how easily fear can distort what feels absolutely certain in the moment.

That has become one of my daily prayers.

“Lord, help me see what is actually here, not just what my fear is trying to convince me is here.”

It’s a simple prayer, but it has changed the way I move through difficult moments.

When I pray it sincerely, I become slower to accuse and quicker to listen. I remember that the person standing in front of me is carrying a story I may never fully understand, just as I’m carrying one they cannot completely see.

That doesn’t excuse harmful behavior. It doesn’t mean we ignore boundaries or tolerate abuse. Love still requires truth. Wisdom still requires accountability. Sometimes the healthiest thing we can do is step away from a relationship that has become unsafe.

Even then, I want my decisions to come from peace rather than panic.

The longer I live, the more convinced I become that many of our greatest battles aren’t fought in dramatic moments. They’re fought in ordinary conversations where fear quietly asks us to believe the worst about ourselves, about someone we love, or about God.

Perhaps that’s why Jesus spoke so often about watching over the heart.

Everything grows from there.

So the next time you feel your chest tighten, your thoughts begin racing, or your body prepares for a battle that seems to appear out of nowhere, pause before you assume you know what’s happening.

Breathe.

Pray.

Pay attention to your body.

Give your nervous system a chance to settle before asking your heart to make sense of the moment.

Then ask yourself one simple question.

What if this isn’t the whole story?

Sometimes that single question is enough to interrupt fear before it becomes destruction.

Sometimes it’s enough to remember that the person in front of you isn’t your enemy.

And sometimes, simply recognizing it for what it is becomes the very thing that keeps love from becoming another casualty of a battle that was never really about the two of you in the first place.

This is one of the most important things I’ve learned, and I’m still learning it.

I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Have you ever looked back at a conflict and realized it wasn’t really about what happened in that moment? What helped you recognize it?

Let’s have an honest conversation in the comments. Your story may help someone else recognize what they’re walking through today.

As always loving and praying for you and our world,

Rene Schooler

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This post was previously published on medium.com.