Chapter 7: What They Call Overreacting Is Just Your Body Remembering the Cost
When grief looks like too much and exhaustion feels like failure
Hey,
It’s Michael Mojica. Welcome to The People Pleaser’s Way Out, a book I’m writing in real time, chapter by chapter, shaped by what I’m discovering and what you’re reflecting back. Everything I’m sharing here is an unfinished draft.
If we haven’t met yet, I’ve spent years with people who carry what they couldn’t name—the ones who kept things running, kept things calm, and kept themselves small just to stay safe. That’s who I’ve sat with. And that’s who this is for.
You might be here because you're exhausted from being whatever version of "good" helped you survive. Maybe you know that kind of bone-deep tiredness, the kind that doesn’t lift after a good night’s sleep, because it lives in your breath, your shoulders, your nervous system’s constant hum of “be good to stay safe.”
Or maybe you’ve been told you’re “too sensitive,” or that you “overreact” not realizing that what they call overreacting is actually your body remembering the cost of disappearing.
This isn’t about becoming someone who doesn’t care.
It’s about understanding that your people-pleasing isn’t a flaw.
It’s a survival strategy your body trusted.
And now that you’re safer—you get to choose something else.
What you’ll find here:
📖 Free chapters that reframe sensitivity as intelligence. That show you how exhaustion isn’t failure, it’s grief. That walk with you as you begin remembering the parts of yourself that had to disappear to make others comfortable.
🔒 Paid posts that go deeper, into the body, into the grief, into the nervous system patterns that were never dysfunction, but protective wisdom. These are the things I couldn’t say publicly, but you might need to hear.
This is also the same work I do one-on-one, supporting people in adult attachment repair, somatic exhaustion, and the quiet, persistent anxiety that comes from spending a lifetime managing everything but yourself.
It’s less about fixing and more about finally being with what never got to be felt. That’s where the shift begins.
You don’t have to figure it all out.
Just let your body say what it couldn’t say then.
That’s more than enough to begin.
With care,
Michael
Chapter 7: What They Call Overreacting Is Just Your Body Remembering the Cost
When grief looks like too much and exhaustion feels like failure
There's a moment when the body stops playing along.
It stops being polite.
It stops holding it together.
It stops pretending it can carry everything without breaking.
And when it finally lets go, when the tears come, when the anger rises, when the shutdown hits, people around you call it an overreaction.
But it's not an overreaction.
It's a reclamation.
It's your nervous system saying: "Enough."
Enough pretending this doesn't hurt.
Enough holding back so others stay comfortable.
Enough absorbing what was never yours to carry.
The Hidden Cost of Holding It Together
There's a kind of exhaustion that no amount of sleep can fix.
It lives in your muscles.
In your breath that never fully reaches your belly.
In the way your body flinches even when nothing's wrong.
You might know this exhaustion if you've ever:
Frozen when someone raised their voice - even if it wasn't directed at you.
Felt rage when your hard work went unnoticed or unappreciated - then immediately felt guilty for "being selfish."
Panicked when plans changed suddenly - not just annoyed, but disoriented, because your whole sense of control depended on predictability.
Shut down when someone put you on the spot - mind blank, words gone, especially when the group was watching.
Gotten overwhelmed by a sharp tone - because your body braced for punishment before you even had time to think.
Flooded when you couldn't fix someone's problem - because being unable to help felt like failing at your most important job.
Felt grief hit like a wave when someone interrupted you - because something in you remembered what it's like to not matter.
Had a big reaction when excluded from the group - because belonging was your lifeline, and rejection felt like death.
Spiraled when someone seemed disappointed in you - whether you were trying to be perfect or trying to be rebellious, their disapproval hit the same wound.
Flooded with anxiety after a simple critique - because it echoed every time love felt conditional on performance.
This isn't regular tiredness.
It's nervous system depletion.
It comes from rehearsing every conversation before you have it.
From scanning every room for mood shifts.
From carrying everyone else's reactions so they never have to carry yours.
And when you finally break down, they say you're overreacting.
But they never saw what it cost you to hold it all in.
Why the Reaction Feels Bigger Than the Moment
When someone raises their voice, you freeze.
When your effort goes unrecognized, you rage - then feel guilty.
When plans change, you panic because control was your safety.
When you can't fix someone's pain, you flood with failure.
When the group excludes you, your whole world shifts.
When someone cancels plans, you spiral into abandonment.
When someone critiques you, your body floods with shame.
When someone crosses a boundary, you explode - then apologize for being "too much."
It doesn't make sense to them.
Sometimes it doesn't even make sense to you.
But it makes perfect sense to your nervous system.
Because that moment isn't just that moment.
It's layered with everything your body never got to feel back then.
It's not about the current tone, it's about the hundred times that same tone meant danger.
It's not about this unfinished project, it's about every time your worth depended on what you produced.
It's not about this boundary - it's about every time "no" was ignored.
It's not about this group dynamic - it's about every time belonging required you to disappear.
It's not about being unable to help - it's about every time love meant fixing what was broken.
It's not about this conversation - it's about all the ones where you stayed silent because speaking would've cost too much.
These aren't overreactions.
They're undigested truths finally surfacing.
This Isn't Dysfunction. This Is Intelligence.
You weren't being dramatic.
You were finally responding.
What others call "too sensitive" is often the result of years of having to be hyper-aware.
You learned to track danger before it arrived.
You learned to feel everything because no one else could afford to.
You learned that your worth depended on your output.
You learned that belonging required constant vigilance.
You learned that love meant managing everyone's comfort.
You learned that safety meant being useful, agreeable, invisible, or indispensable.
And now that your body has a chance to speak?
It's not going to whisper.
Not at first.
Because the grief isn't just about what's happening now.
It's about what's finally safe enough to feel.
Grief vs. Depression: You're Not Giving Up
No one ever told you that grief and depression are not the same.
Depression says: "This will never change."
Grief says: "This hurts because it mattered."
Depression is when feeling stops.
Grief is what happens when feeling finally returns.
The sadness you feel about always saying yes when you meant no?
That's grief.
The rage that bubbles up about being silenced for so long?
That's grief.
The ache of realizing no one ever really saw you?
That's grief.
Grief doesn't mean you're broken.
It means you're healing.
It means your body is finally acknowledging what it's been carrying.
The Trap of Invalidation
Here's the cycle:
You manage everything.
You hold it all together.
You swallow the responses no one else could handle.
And then, when you finally show the truth of what it cost you,
They say you're too much.
That's not just painful.
That's gaslighting at a nervous system level.
It tells your body:
"Even now, you don't get to have a real response."
But here's the deeper truth:
You didn't break.
You finally reached a point where breaking was safer than continuing to disappear.
That's not weakness.
That's wisdom.
You're Not Too Much - You're Finally Enough for Yourself
The anger that scares you?
It's your body saying: "We mattered."
The panic that overwhelms you?
It's your body saying: "We need stability to feel safe."
The grief that floods you when someone forgets to text back?
It's your body remembering what it was like to feel abandoned, and no one came.
You were never meant to erase yourself to make others feel whole.
And when your nervous system finally pushes back, it's not dysfunction.
It's reclamation.
The Wisdom Beneath the Overwhelm
What looks like a "big reaction" is actually your nervous system updating its internal map:
We're not disappearing anymore.
We're not apologizing for being real.
We're not ignoring what this costs us.
Your body isn't punishing you.
It's informing you.
That wave of sadness? It's intelligence.
That anger? It's protection.
That exhaustion? It's the receipt.
You're not weak for feeling it.
You're wise for finally being able to.
You're Not Overreacting
You're not overreacting.
You're finally reacting appropriately to what was never appropriate.
You're not too sensitive.
You're finally sensitive enough to stop tolerating the intolerable.
You're not too much.
You're exactly the size you needed to be all along.
Your body remembers everything.
And now it's safe enough to let you remember, too.
End of Chapter 7
What They Call Overreacting: The Intelligence Beneath the Overwhelm
For paid subscribers only
If Chapter 7 left you wondering "Now what do I do with this?" - this one's for you.
What if the next time you have a "big reaction," instead of judging it, you could decode it?
What you'll get:
How to recognize what each type of reaction is actually protecting
Why your exhaustion is intelligent information, not personal failure
The difference between grief and depression (and why it matters)
What your body needs to hear when the overwhelm hits
The difference between healing and performing recovery
This isn't about stopping your reactions. It's about trusting them.
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