He called me one Thurday afternoon.
A dad from up north.
He’d been part of one of our parent gatherings a few months earlier, and something had stayed with him.
“What that other dad said,” he told me, “about always being on edge — like a wound-up toy — it really hit home for me.”
He paused, then added quietly,
“That’s me. I’m always on. I can’t properly relax. I don’t sleep well. I’m always waiting for the phone to ring.”
Then he said something else, almost as an aside.
“I think my wife is doing this better than I am.”
There was a heaviness in that sentence.
Not resentment. Just self-doubt.
Like he was measuring himself against the person closest to him — and coming up short.
He wasn’t describing anxiety in the way we usually talk about it.
He was describing vigilance.
The kind that comes from loving a child whose health can change everything in a moment.
I hear versions of this again and again from parents navigating medical complexity.
“I’m always on.”
“My body won’t switch off.”
“Even when things are stable, I’m bracing.”
Often, one parent appears calmer, more functional, more “together.”
The other feels restless, on edge, unable to fully settle — and quietly wonders what’s wrong with them.
There is good evidence in trauma-informed care and nervous system science that people exposed to the same stressor can show very different physiological responses.
Even within the same family.
Even when the love, the commitment, and the circumstances are shared.
Nervous system perspective
From a nervous system perspective, this makes sense.
When uncertainty and responsibility persist over time, the body adapts by staying alert. This heightened state can support vigilance and quick response — but it also makes deep rest, restorative sleep, and clear thinking harder to access.
Research in nervous system science, including work on heart–brain communication and heart rate variability, helps explain why parents under sustained pressure often feel exhausted yet unable to switch off. The signals moving between the heart, brain, and nervous system shift under chronic stress, affecting emotional regulation and clarity — not because something is wrong, but because the body is doing its job.
For many parents, simply understanding this brings relief.
Because it reframes the question.
Not “Why can’t I cope like my partner?”
But “What has my body been carrying for a long time?”
When you hear this, do you feel something shift?
Not because anything has changed on the outside, but because the story on the inside softens a little.
Do you feel your question begin to move from “What’s wrong with me?”
to “What has my body been carrying?”
Supporting your nervous system doesn’t mean removing stress or becoming calm all the time. For parents living with medical complexity, that’s rarely realistic.
It means creating enough steadiness — in your body, in this moment — to think more clearly, to rest when you can, and to make decisions without everything feeling urgent.
This is slow work.
And it’s deeply respectful work.
Because the goal isn’t to cope better than your partner, or to look more together from the outside.
The goal is to be supported in the way your nervous system actually needs.
This is why I place so much emphasis on steadiness before strategies or decisions.
When the body settles — even a little — clarity follows.
Calm body → clearer thinking.
And from there, you can begin to trust yourself again.
This work is informed by well-established research in trauma-informed care, nervous system regulation, attachment, and heart–brain science. I keep the way I share it simple because parents are already carrying enough. For health professionals or others who wish to explore the research more deeply, I’m always happy to share references and links — just get in touch.
Coping differently does not mean coping badly.
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