Bravado and Body Tension can look like composure from the outside. From the inside, it can feel like living in a suit of armor you forgot you were wearing until it rusts into your skin. For years, I thought I was just being “strong.” Then one day, my body hurt everywhere, my brain went fuzzy, and I could not explain why. I just knew I was at my breaking point.
Here is the thing. I did not wake up and choose dissociation or compartmentalization, as if they were cute aesthetics. I learned it the way you learn to hold your breath underwater. You do it because you have to. You do it because something in you understands that staying calm is safer than being honest.
And if you have lived with C-PTSD, you know the mask can feel like a job you cannot clock out of. My nervous system clocked it before my brain did.
Bravado and Body Tension as a Survival Skill
There is a kind of bravery that is real, clean, and rooted. Then there is the version a lot of us get handed, especially if we have been harmed before. Keep smiling. Keep moving. Keep it together. Be “fine.” Be useful. Be pleasant. Be unbothered.
That second version can turn into bravado. Not the fun, sparkly kind. The clenched-jaw kind.
It starts small. You swallow a reaction because it is not safe to have it. You take the joke that lands like a slap because correcting someone feels riskier than absorbing it. You walk into a room, and your body quietly braces, shoulders up, stomach tight, breath shallow. You tell yourself it is normal.
Two things can be true. That bravado got me through. That bravado also cost me.
I stayed composed through things that should have shaken a person. Sometimes I even impressed myself. Then the bill came due.
What Dissociation Looks Like When It Is Wearing a Blazer
Dissociation does not always look dramatic. Sometimes it looks like competence. Sometimes it looks like being the person who never needs anything.
It can feel like:
- Watching yourself answer a question while your mind floats three feet behind your head.
- Smiling at someone while your chest is tight and you cannot quite feel your feet.
- Hearing your own voice sound calm while your insides are sprinting.
- Going through the motions all day, then realizing you do not remember the drive home.
And because it “works,” people reward it. They call you steady. Reliable. Easygoing. Low maintenance. Strong.
I want to be clear about the cruelty in that praise. A lot of us are not strong. We are braced.
One cheeky truth, for emotional balance: if you have ever been complimented for being “so chill” while internally vibrating like a phone on a metal table, welcome. I’m Christy, I’ve lived here for a long time.
The moment words disappear
Eventually, there is this specific kind of stuck. Someone asks, “What’s wrong?” and your throat closes like the words are behind a locked door. You are not trying to be mysterious. You are not being dramatic. You genuinely cannot translate the sensation into sentences.
Because the sensation is not a thought. It is a full-body state.
It is your body saying, I have been holding this for you, and I am done.
When the Body Files a Complaint
This is the part that scared me. Not because pain is new to me, but because it felt so… everywhere. My neck. My jaw. My back. My hips. My stomach. My head. Like my muscles were tired of being on guard, but they did not remember how to stand down.
I could not point to one single cause. That made me feel ridiculous, which is a very efficient way to keep suffering in place. If I cannot explain it neatly, maybe I do not deserve help. (That is trauma math. It is also trash.)
I noticed how long I had been living in tension:
- Clenching my teeth without realizing it.
- Holding my shoulders up like they were trying to touch my ears.
- Forgetting to breathe all the way down.
- Sitting on the edge of a chair, lying on the edge of my bed, even in my own home, like I might need to bolt.
Bravado and Body Tension taught my body that safety meant readiness. Readiness meant pain.
And when I finally could not keep it up, I did not collapse in a clean, movie-scene way. I just got… brittle. Everything felt louder. Lights felt sharper. My patience got thin, not because I stopped caring, but because my system was maxed out.
I was not failing. I was finally getting honest signals from a body that had been muted for years.
The Loneliness of Not Having a Simple Explanation
I kept trying to explain myself in ways that would satisfy other people. I reached for tidy reasons. Overwork. Bad sleep. Stress. Life.
Sometimes those were true. Sometimes they were not enough.
The deeper truth was harder to say out loud: I have been performing safety for so long that I forgot what safety feels like.
That is where my trust breaks, especially with people who insist I should be able to “get over it” quickly, of be grateful for all of the blessings in my life. If my body has been in a chronic brace for years, it is not going to unclench on someone else’s timeline. Also, I do not owe anyone a perfectly packaged story to deserve kindness. Neither do you.
There is a specific grief in realizing you do not have language for your own pain yet. You only have the pain.
Who Gets Punished for “Losing Composure”
This is where I cannot pretend it is only personal. Power decides who gets to have feelings without consequences.
Some people can cry at work and be seen as human. Some people cry at work and get labeled unstable, unprofessional, or threatening. Or get sent to labor-relations counseling, ask me how I know about that one. Some people raise their voice once and get written off forever. Some people can be angry and still be considered brilliant. Others are treated like a problem to be managed.
Immigrants, Black and Brown people, disabled people, members of the LGBTQ+ community, and anyone living close to the edge financially often learn early that composure is not just a preference. It is protection. In the United States, “stay calm” is not a neutral request when the stakes are unequal.
And there is a special kind of exhaustion that comes from having to look okay in order to be treated okay.
So when someone tells me, “Just relax,” I hear, “Please make your suffering quieter so I can stay comfortable.” I am not trying to fight. I am trying to stay human.
Compassion matters here, and so does accountability. If a system demands constant politeness from the people it harms, that is not peace. That is control.
What I Am Not Ready to Claim Yet
This is where I tell the truth that feels less inspiring and more accurate. I am not at the part where everything turns into a clean “I stopped doing X” montage. I know what I need to learn. I am learning it slowly, like a body learning a new language.
Right now, I am mostly noticing.
I notice how quickly I try to translate my pain into something more digestible. I notice how my voice gets careful around people who want a neat story. I notice how often “help” comes with an unspoken requirement that I perform recovery on demand.
I am practicing one small thing, and it is not flashy. It is letting my no be a complete sentence, even when my chest gets tight about it. Ok, maybe I am thinking about practicing it, but I still find myself saying nothing, even if I don’t say yes.
If someone gets mad when you set a boundary, congratulations. You have located the exact place they benefited from your silence.
An Invitation Back Into Your Own Skin
If you are living in Bravado and Body Tension right now, I want to offer this with a steady voice. You are not broken because you cannot articulate it. The inability to explain is part of the experience. Dissociation is a protector that can outstay its welcome.
I am not here to hand you a checklist or turn your pain into a productivity project. I just want to name the pattern so you can stop blaming your character for what is actually a nervous system story.
If you are at your breaking point, you are allowed to tell the truth in plain language. Even if it is messy. Even if it is brief.
Start with one honest sentence. Say it to the page. Say it to yourself in the mirror while you wash your hands and feel the water temperature like a small tether back to the present.
I want to understand, and I also need specifics. The specific truth might be: I have been holding my breath for years.
And if that is you, I hope you hear this part clearly. Needing rest is not a weakness. Needing support is not a moral failure. Letting the bravado drop is not “giving up.” It is coming back.
You do not have to earn tenderness by suffering silently. You can choose compassion with a spine. For others, yes. For yourself, too.
