Growing up, we always thought I was just clumsy.
And honestly, I probably was a little clumsy. I have never exactly been the most graceful person in the room. I bump into things, trip over my own feet, and have had more than my fair share of random bruises with absolutely no idea where they came from.
But looking back now, there are memories that do not really fit into the “I’m just clumsy” explanation.
I have memories of being completely fine one moment and then suddenly being on the floor the next. I would not remember tripping. I would not remember losing my balance. There was not always an obvious reason for why I ended up on the ground. I just did. But when you grow up being labeled as the clumsy kid, you learn to laugh it off. I did not really have a reason to question it. I certainly did not know that one day I would look back at those memories and realize that my body had probably been trying to tell me something for a very long time.
It seemed that the more stressful my life became, the more often I started passing out.
Eventually, it got to the point where I was fainting eight or more times a day.
And somehow, even then, I struggled to get people to take me seriously.
Doctors told me it was my weight or that it was “in my head.”
For a long time, I did not know what to believe.
When enough medical professionals tell you that something is because of your weight or because it is all in your head, eventually you start wondering if maybe you are the problem. Maybe I was being dramatic. Maybe I was overreacting.
So for the longest time, we blamed it on my C-PTSD. And honestly, that was not completely wrong.
My nervous system has been through a lot. Trauma absolutely affects the body. Stress absolutely affects the body. My mental health and my physical health are not two completely separate things living inside me.
I moved back home in 2021. And this time, I found a doctor who genuinely seemed concerned about what was happening to me. She did not just look at me and decide that I was clumsy. She did not tell me it was my weight. She did not tell me it was all in my head. She started looking for answers.
She sent me to several different specialists. I was tested for POTS. I was tested for seizures. I was tested for narcolepsy. My brain was scanned repeatedly. My heart was evaluated. I was put on an extended heart monitor that tracked my heart rhythm while I went about my life and, more importantly, while these episodes were happening. We looked and looked and everything kept coming back fine.
The tests were not showing us some dangerous thing hiding inside my body. That was both comforting and incredibly frustrating.
So, that was when my doctor started asking me questions about my trauma. I go to therapy weekly. I had spent a lot of time talking about my mental health with my therapist. But I had never really sat down with a physical health doctor and talked about the extent of what I had experienced.
She knew I had C-PTSD. She did not know everything that came with it. That conversation changed the way we looked at what was happening to me.
One of the things I learned is that trauma does not just live in your memories or in your thoughts. Trauma can affect the body, too.
The nervous system is responsible for constantly taking in information from the world around us and deciding whether we are safe or whether we need to respond to a threat. The autonomic nervous system helps regulate things we do not consciously have to think about, like our heart rate, breathing, digestion, blood pressure, and our body's response to stress.
The vagus nerve is an important part of that system. It is heavily involved in the parasympathetic nervous system, which helps the body slow down, regulate, rest, and return to a calmer state.
Trauma can disrupt that regulation.
For some people, the nervous system can become more sensitive to perceived threats. Instead of easily returning to a calm baseline after something stressful happens, the body can remain stuck in a heightened state of alert.
Sometimes even when there is no immediate danger.
That can look like hypervigilance. It can look like an exaggerated startle response. It can look like anxiety, racing heartbeats, palpitations, nausea, digestive problems, muscle tension, pain, shallow breathing, exhaustion, and a whole collection of physical symptoms that can be very real even when nothing is technically wrong with your heart or brain.
And for me, one of those physical responses is fainting.
There is no single, definitive test that directly measures or diagnoses overall vagus nerve damage, but this was the one thing that made sense.
My doctors believe that repeated traumatic experiences have affected the way my nervous system regulates itself. I was told that my “sympathetic nervous system was shot,” and that there was an imbalance involving my vagus nerve.
That explanation did not suddenly make everything disappear. But it did give me a way to understand what was happening.
If you’re new to this blog or don’t know me, here’s a little snapshot of who I am.
I am a domestic violence survivor. I share my story because I believe that sometimes hearing someone else say, “I’ve been there too,” can make you feel a little less alone.
My experiences have shaped me, but they do not define all of me. I write about the messy, complicated parts of healing, mental health, self worth, vulnerability, and learning to find yourself again.
I think one of the hardest things to explain about my anxiety is that I actually really love people. I love my friends. I love my job. I love going places and being around people. I can genuinely have a great time and still be completely overwhelmed by it.
I'm also someone who genuinely loves being home alone with my pets, on my couch, watching the same shows I've watched a million times. Home is comfortable because I know what to expect. I control the environment around me. There aren't unexpected noises, smells, people talking, movement, or a million different things for my brain and body to process at once.
Leaving my house takes a lot more energy and courage than it probably looks like from the outside. By the time I actually get somewhere, I've already used a lot of that energy just getting myself there and mentally preparing for everything I'm about to experience. Then there are all the things I can't necessarily control. Certain sounds bother me. Smells can bother me. Certain textures or physical sensations can bother me. Crowds, conversations, people's moods, the general feeling of a room, and having to constantly interact can all add up. Sometimes none of those things individually seem like a big deal, but my body is processing all of them at the same time.
I can want to be there and still be overwhelmed.
I can be having an amazing time and still be overwhelmed.
I can love my friends and still have a hard time being around a lot of people.
It's not me being antisocial, ungrateful, dramatic, or choosing to focus on the negative. My brain and body just process stimulation differently. What might feel like a normal amount of noise, people, interaction, and sensory input to someone else can feel like a lot to me. I don't expect people to understand exactly what it feels like because they may never experience it the way I do.
The hardest part to explain is that sometimes leaving my house doesn't feel like simply deciding to go somewhere. It can feel like I have to convince my entire body to leave somewhere it feels safe. Getting dressed, getting my things together, getting in the car, driving somewhere, parking, walking inside, and figuring out who is there already feels like a series of little hurdles. None of them are necessarily scary on their own. It's the accumulation of everything. I don't even have a specific thought like, "Something bad is going to happen." It's more physical than that. I can feel tense, restless, overwhelmed, exhausted, hyperaware, or like I need to turn around and go home before I've even arrived.
This kind of constant stress alone can effect anyones nervous system, but adding the extra life events and experiences to the mix is what I mean by “my trauma”.
My entire body can become incredibly overstimulated. My heart starts fluttering. I feel nauseous. My eyes become extremely heavy. I start yawning repeatedly because it feels like my body is desperately trying to get enough oxygen. My throat can feel like there is a frog stuck in it.
But here is the thing.
I do not always notice these things happening.
I have experienced them so many times that my brain has learned to treat them as normal. They are familiar sensations to me. Because of that, I may not recognize that my body is starting to reach its limit until I am already very close to passing out.
Sometimes someone else will point something out before I even realize it myself.
“You keep yawning.”
“You look really pale.”
“Are you okay?”
It is not because I am ignoring my body. It is because I have spent so much time living in a body that responds this way that some of these warning signs have become background noise to me.
My normal is not necessarily normal. I am not ignoring my body. I just cannot always rely on myself to recognize when an episode is coming because some of the things that should be warning signs have become things I have learned to live with.
Sometimes I will actually say, “I feel like I’m going to pass out,” without consciously realizing that I am about to pass out.
That is usually the first sign. It is almost like my body knows what is happening before my brain catches up.
Another sign that i am aware of is that one of my hands will start continuously trembling.
Please have me sit down. Preferably, have me lie down somewhere safe.
Do not encourage me to walk around. Do not tell me to push through it. Do not assume that I just need to get some fresh air or shake it off.
Stay with me. Talk to me calmly. Reassure me that you are there. But please do not bombard me with questions.
I understand why people ask questions when they are scared. I really do. If someone is unconscious on the floor, your brain is probably going to start screaming, “WHAT IS HAPPENING?”
But when my nervous system is already completely overwhelmed, a bunch of questions can make things worse.
And when I actually do lose consciousness, please do not immediately try to make me stand up once I wake up.
One thing that can help me regulate when this starts happening is a cold drink like Pepsi, Dr. Pepper, or Coke and a cool, wet cloth (Cold water/Ice can also help if no soda is immediately available).
These things are not a magical cure. They are simply things that can help me regulate and feel more grounded while my nervous system is trying to settle back down.
Please Don't Panic
Nobody needs to be called.
I know, I know how terrifying it probably looks. Someone telling you they are about to pass out and then actually passing out is not exactly a casual experience for the person watching it happen.
This is a regular occurrence for me. I have been evaluated. I have seen the specialists. I have had the scans. I have had my heart monitored. I have had the tests.
Lastly, please understand that I am not choosing to faint. I am not doing it for attention. I am not being dramatic.
I am not asking you to fix me. I am not asking you to be my doctor. I am not asking you to understand every part of my nervous system.
I want to be really clear about something before I end this.
This is my experience.
This is my journey of trying to understand my own body after years of not knowing why this was happening to me. It is what I have experienced, what I have been told by my doctors, and what I have learned about the connection between my trauma, my nervous system, and my physical symptoms.
This is not medical advice.
I am not a doctor, and I am not trying to diagnose anyone else. Fainting can have many different causes, and if you are experiencing unexplained fainting or losing consciousness, please talk to a medical professional and get evaluated.
I am sharing this because for a long time, I did not have the words to explain what was happening to me.
I thought I was clumsy.
I was told it was my weight.
I was told it was “all in my head.”
I am still learning about my body. I am still learning what my nervous system is trying to tell me. I am still learning how to recognize the signs before I end up on the floor.
But I know now that what happens to me is real.
My body is not making it up.
My experiences are not imaginary just because they are connected to my mental health.
And I hope that sharing my story helps someone else feel a little less alone, or maybe helps someone understand a person in their life who experiences something similar.