Why change feels scary, even when it’s what you want (and how to work with that somatically)
There’s a strange moment that happens right before a big change.
You get the job offer you wanted, the relationship you asked for ends, the move becomes real, the retreat spot opens up—and instead of pure relief, your body tightens. Your chest feels weird, your brain second‑guesses everything, you suddenly want to crawl back into the familiar life you were just complaining about.
You aren’t crazy or ungrateful. You’re having a nervous‑system response.
Your body’s job is safety, not happiness
Your mind might be chasing growth, purpose, alignment, or adventure. Your nervous system has a simpler job: keep you alive, using whatever strategies worked before.
To your body, “familiar” often feels safer than “better.”
Staying in a misaligned job is predictable: same commute, same tasks, same emotional weather.
Leaving that job—no matter how soul‑sucking—means new people, new expectations, new financial patterns.
Your body doesn’t automatically know that the new thing will be more nourishing. It just registers “unknown = possible threat.”
So when change approaches, your system can respond with:
Anxiety or racing thoughts
Tightness in your chest or throat
Urges to over‑plan, overthink, or delay
Feeling weirdly tired, foggy, or shut down
Nothing has gone wrong. Your system is trying to protect you with the only tools it has.
Old survival strategies get loud during new chapters
A lot of our default responses to change were built in earlier seasons of life.
If you learned that mistakes had big consequences, you might freeze or over‑research before making a move.
If you had to keep everyone else comfortable to stay safe, you might feel intense guilt when a choice impacts others.
If chaos was normal, you might unconsciously create drama around change because calm feels suspicious.
Big shifts—new job, breakup, move, coming out, starting a business, recovering from burnout—light up those old pathways. Even if the change is deeply right for you, your system may still be scanning for “what went wrong last time we did something like this?”
This is why pure mindset work (“just be confident!”) often doesn’t stick. It’s trying to talk over a body that is bracing for impact.
Somatic ways to work with your system
The goal isn’t to get rid of fear. It’s to make enough room for fear, desire, and choice to all exist in the same body.
Here are a few concrete somatic practices you can use around change:
Name the “both‑and” out loud
Instead of “I’m freaking out, something’s wrong,” try:
“I notice both fear and desire here.
Say it slowly. Feel for where each one lives in your body. Maybe fear is a tightness in your throat, while desire is a warmth in your chest or a pull forward in your belly. Let them both be true. Your system relaxes when it doesn’t have to choose one “right” feeling.
Give your fear a job, not the steering wheel
Place a hand where you feel the anxiety most strongly (chest, stomach, jaw).
Quietly say something like:
“Thank you for trying to protect me. Your job is to warn me if something is really unsafe. My job is to choose what happens next.”
Then lengthen your exhale a little—inhale naturally, exhale for a count or two longer. This signals that an adult self is present and that your body doesn’t have to slam on all the emergency brakes.
Choose “titrated” change
Big leaps are romantic, but your nervous system often prefers small, repeated signals that the new thing is survivable.
Ask: “What is a 5% version of this change?”
Before quitting, have one honest conversation or send one exploratory email.
Before ending the relationship, practice setting one boundary.
Before moving across the ocean, experiment with a shorter trip or trial run.
Each small action is like telling your body, “See? We tried something different and we’re still here.” Over time, your window of what feels “doable” expands.
Anchor in sensory safety
When you’re on the edge of a big decision or in the first days of change, build in micro‑rituals of safety:
Feel your feet on the ground or your seat in the chair; press gently down.
Look around the room and name five things you see.
Wrap yourself in a blanket, hold a warm mug, or step into sunlight.
These aren’t trivial. They give your body concrete evidence that in this moment, you are safe enough to take the next step.
Let your identity catch up
Change isn’t just external. It asks your identity to shift too.
If you’ve always been “the reliable one,” “the high achiever,” “the caretaker,” or “the easygoing one,” making a choice that disrupts that role can feel like a small death—even if it’s a joyful one.
Somatically, this can show up as:
A sense of emptiness or floating
Grief or random tears
Feeling like you “don’t recognize yourself”
Instead of trying to rush past this, you can:
Put a hand on your heart or sternum and say, “Of course this feels strange. I’m becoming someone I haven’t been before.”
Light a candle, write a letter, or create a small ritual to honor the version of you that got you here.
Your nervous system often resists change less when it feels the old role is being respected rather than discarded.
You’re not weak for feeling scared
Wanting change and feeling terrified of it are not opposites; they’re signs that you’re standing at a real threshold.
If your body is loud right now, it doesn’t mean you should stay stuck forever. It means your system is asking to come with you, not be dragged behind.
Work gently, go in pieces, and let your fear be information—not the author of your life.
If you’re craving company as you move through a transition, this is the heart of what I support people with through somatic coaching, strength‑based work, and ocean‑based sessions: bringing your body and nervous system into the conversation so change becomes something you can inhabit, not just think about.
