When Feedback Activates Your Nervous System

Recently, I received critical feedback about something I shared. 

What surprised me wasn’t the feedback—it was how quickly my nervous system freaked out.

I expected to navigate it more smoothly. Especially after all my mindfulness and coaching.

Instead, my nervous system lit up.

Before my mind had a chance to reason, my body was already doing what it had been trained to do for decades.

Tight chest. Racing thoughts. The familiar urge to reread every word, scan for mistakes, and figure out what I should have said differently.

I moved straight into self-doubt.
I wanted to smooth it over, explain, and make it okay. Fast

My reaction caught me off guard— I teach this work after all.

It was a reminder that being visible is hard.

And risky.

I choose to take this on every day in this work. And it’s reasonable that I would take harsh feedback personally.

Visibility requires allowing yourself to be seen without knowing how you’ll be received.

It means offering your voice, your values, and your care into the public space where interpretation—and misinterpretation—are inevitable.

Even when your intentions are thoughtful. Even when your care is real. Especially then.

We are trained early in medicine to prevent complaints, anticipate dissatisfaction, and take responsibility for how things land.

Over time, the nervous system learns that disapproval equals danger, and that safety comes from fixing, softening, or disappearing a little.

This is not a personal failing. It’s conditioned nervous system physiology.

Thankfully, I was able to pause.

In the pause, I reminded myself of something else: the feedback I received was shaped by another nervous system.

Strong reactions often are.

When something we care about feels threatened—or even just misunderstood—our bodies move to protect. That protection can come out as certainty, sharpness, or urgency.

Remembering this helped me step out of personalization and shame without needing to excuse the tone or agree with the framing.

My pause was not graceful, but it was intentional.

I gave myself time to settle my nervous system before taking action or not taking action, as turned out to be most authentic.

I reminded myself that nervous system activation—mine or someone else’s—doesn’t automatically mean harm has occurred. It means something familiar was touched.

I spent a long time crafting a response once I was regulated. I

I clarified my intention calmly. I didn’t debate. I didn’t over-explain. And honestly, it took more effort than I would have liked to get there.

This experience reminded me that leadership isn’t about getting it right in real time.

Leadership is about how we respond once we notice we’ve been activated.

You can be thoughtful.
You can be respectful.
You can speak from a place of care.
And still, another nervous system may react strongly.

That doesn’t mean you failed.

It means you’re human—and visible.

One of the most important skills we can develop—especially in medicine—is learning to distinguish between nervous system activation and actual harm. Not every surge of discomfort requires self-correction. Not every critical response requires self-erasure.

Sometimes the work is simply noticing the activation, slowing the impulse to react, and choosing a response that aligns with who you want to be once your body feels safe again.

This was absolutely not a perfectly executed moment for me.

And it reinforced why this work matters so much—because so many high-functioning, deeply caring people are walking around with nervous systems trained to interpret feedback as threat, and self-abandonment as professionalism.

Learning to pause, settle, and respond from intention rather than reflex is a skill.

One I’m still practicing.

And maybe that’s the point.