29. I Went Home And I Was Me

There’s a subtle kind of healing that doesn’t always look dramatic from the outside.

Sometimes it looks like going home… and realizing you no longer disappear into the version of yourself that was created there.

In this episode, I share reflections from a recent trip to my hometown after my dad was hospitalized — and the unexpected realization that emerged while being with my family: for the first time in a long time, I felt fully myself there.

I explore:

• the hidden exhaustion of control
• how over-preparing and emotional vigilance can masquerade as intelligence
• the nervous system patterns many of us develop to stay safe
• the difference between presence and hyper-awareness
• softness without collapse
• what it means to stay open inside difficult realities
• how real transformation is often quieter and more embodied than we expect

This conversation is not about bypassing pain or pretending life is easy. It’s about the subtle shift that happens when we stop internally arguing with reality — and the surprising amount of love, intimacy, and aliveness that can emerge in its place.

If you’ve ever felt yourself revert in old environments, if you’ve ever mistaken control for safety, or if you’ve been sensing a quieter kind of transformation unfolding within you lately, I think this episode will resonate deeply.

With love,
Julie

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Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:04

Welcome to Designed for More, a podcast about what it means to live in alignment with who you really are. I'm Julie, former CEO Turned Human Design Guide and Soul-led Enpreneur. Here we explore the journey of remembering your true nature and creating a life that feels deeply good from the inside out. Because you were never meant to settle. You were designed for more I've been sitting with something over the past few days that I haven't fully known how to articulate yet, but it feels important. So instead of exercising control by waiting until it's fully fleshed out, till I sketch out a script, I'm gonna go for it. A few days ago, I traveled back to my hometown because my dad was in the hospital. And even saying that out loud still feels tender. He has a lot going on medically right now: clots in his heart, pneumonia, cirrhosis, issues with his heart valves. And when I got the call, of course there were emotions like fear and sadness, uncertainty, tenderness, and a lot more. But what surprised me most wasn't actually the circumstance, it was who I was, how I was feeling inside of them. Because something felt very different to me. And I don't mean different as in I'm more healed or that I bypassed my feelings, and I don't mean that I transcended the complexity of my family or my past or my nervous system. It actually felt almost like the opposite. I felt and still feel more here, more human, more open, more like myself. And I think that's why this experience has impacted me so deeply. Because every other time I've gone home in my life or when my family comes to me, I think in some way, whether it's subtly or sometimes not so subtly, I become the version of me that grew up there. I don't know if you've ever experienced this, but I think a lot of us do. We go back into an old environment like a family, a home, your hometown, an old relationship, maybe an old workplace, and suddenly it's like your nervous system remembers who it had to be there. So you become that version of you. You become quieter or smaller or more reactive, maybe in my case, more defensive or more closed, maybe for you more accommodating, more hyper-aware, or bracing, like you're being emotionally prepared at all times. And sometimes it's so subtle that you barely notice it happening. But this time I went home and I was me. That's the simplest way I know how to say it. Yeah, I was still emotional. That is me. Still tender, I was still impacted, and I was feeling everything. But I didn't disappear into the old version of myself. And I think that that may be one of the clearest signs of real embodied change that I've ever experienced. It wasn't because I had like perfect boundaries or some enlightened perspective or that my family suddenly became different. They didn't. The history is still the history. There are still parts of me that experienced my father as kind of scary and unstable growing up. There are still parts of me that wish that certain things had been different. And there are still places where pain and grief both exist, but there was also something that was less active. It was like the stories weren't running the moment anymore. It was like the parts of me that protected me, that braced me, that closed me, that were reactive, that felt safer to simply be and so that underneath what was typically a kind of a distortion was clear. So that all was left was love. And that's the thing that honestly still kind of moves me to tears when I think about it. It wasn't like some dramatic spiritual awakening, some big champagne moment. It was just love. Simple, pure, truthful love. Sitting beside my dad in the hospital cutting up his supper, watching my mom hold herself together, watching my sister and her full, beautiful devotion, seeing my aunts and uncles show up for my father, going for walks around my hometown, and realizing that my body was not contracting the way it normally would. Normally, when I go home, there's this subtle armoring that happens, a kind of vigilance, like my nervous system is bracing for something. But this time there was so much softness. And what's interesting is that I don't think that that softness used to feel safe for me. I think for a long time softness unconsciously felt associated with losing myself, with being overwhelmed or being too vulnerable, being unsafe, not being protected, or maybe even fear of collapsing. So that even though consciously I desired softness, there was still this deeper layer of my nervous system organizing around control. And when I say control, I don't necessarily mean obvious controlling behavior. I mean the much subtler forms of control, like over-preparing, overthinking, emotionally tracking everyone, trying to stay ahead of what might happen, trying to manage the emotional field, trying to anticipate pain before it arrives, trying to get certainty before allowing myself to relax, trying to rehearse reality before living it, trying to be low maintenance and likable. And honestly, I don't think I fully realized how much energy that was taking until recently. Because when those patterns soften even a little bit, then you suddenly feel how much life force was trapped inside of managing life. And I think that's part of why this trip home felt so profound to me. Because for maybe one of the first times in my life, I wasn't trying to internally manage my experience. I was just there, not passive and not numb and not disconnected, actually more connected, more capable of staying open inside of reality instead of trying to control reality. And I think that that's a really important distinction because often I see that surrender is misunderstood. People, and I include myself here, think that surrender means giving up, checking out, maybe spiritually bypassing or pretending that pain doesn't exist. But what I experienced felt nothing like that. It felt more like the end of arguing with reality. Not because I liked what was happening or that it wasn't painful or that I wouldn't choose differently if I could, but because in that moment, this is what was true. My dad was in the hospital, my family was scared, life was uncertain, and somehow still my body stayed open. And I don't know that I can fully explain how significant that feels to me. Because I think for so much of my life, my intelligence has expressed itself through anticipation, through being perceptive and emotionally aware and prepared and attuned and capable. And those gifts are real. I actually think they're beautiful, and I'm really grateful for them. But at the same time, I'm beginning to see how much my nervous system learned that staying emotionally ahead of reality was what kept me safe. And maybe that's why I've been thinking so much lately about control. And again, not the obvious kind, at least not where my mind goes when I think about control, but more the sneaky hidden kind, the kind that masquerades itself, like responsibility and thoughtfulness and preparedness and competence and emotional maturity, is like the kind that says, if I can just stay ahead of life, then maybe I can soften afterward. But what if life never becomes controllable because you know what? It never is. What if the invitation is not to master uncertainty, but to remain open inside of it? That feels like the deeper thing that I'm learning and really beginning to experience and embody right now. And something else that I've been reflecting on since coming home is how subtle real transformation can be. I think that sometimes we imagine healing or growth or embodiment as these massive, almost cinematic moments, or what I call champagne moments, like you quit the job, you leave the relationship, you move across the world, you have the breakthrough, you completely reinvent yourself, or you suddenly become fearless. And sometimes, yeah, life does move like that. I've done a few of those myself, but uh what I'm experiencing now, which honestly feels even more profound, is that some of the deepest shifts I've experienced have been almost invisible externally. Like this week, for example, folding the laundry without resentment was huge. Walking through my hometown without bracing, hearing hard news and not immediately spiraling into control, noticing that my body stayed soft in places where it normally would have armored, sitting in a hospital room without mentally trying to escape the discomfort, in fact, opening my body within it and intentionally sending as much love as I could throughout the space. These are the kinds of shifts that don't necessarily look dramatic from the outside, or honestly, that anyone even might see from the outside, but internally they're changing everything. And I really think that matters because so many people I see are waiting for proof that they've changed. Proof that they're healing or evolving or that their work is working. And meanwhile, life is quietly rearranging itself underneath them. I see it. Their relationships change and the reactions change and their nervous system is changing, what they're tolerating is changing, what they're available for is changing, the way they move through ordinary moments is changing. But because the outer structure of their life may still look familiar and similar, then it's easy to miss how profound the internal shift actually is. And I was laughing about this recently in context of my own life because I'm in a one year in numerology right now. And we're in a one year as a collective, so it's a strong energy for me. And this is, you know, very described as a big year of new beginnings and identity shifts and what feels like or what I interpreted as these big dramatic changes. And I remember thinking recently, what if at the end of the year nothing really changes? Like I feel like I'm I'm maybe not aligned to the energy, I don't really feel like anything's shifting, maybe I'm doing something wrong, you know, and starting to worry. But now I'm realizing like, what if everything changes internally first? What if the center of gravity changes before the external reality catches up? Because I don't feel like I came home from this trip as a different person. I actually feel more like myself, like like a version of myself I didn't even like know before, but it feels more like me. And I think there's something really important in that distinction because I don't think healing is about becoming someone else. I don't think that embodiment is about transcending your humanity. I don't think that spiritual growth is about becoming endlessly positive or detached or unaffected. If anything, I think it's about becoming less defended against reality, less distorted by survival strategies, less organized around protection, less contracted around life. And maybe that's why this experience with my family felt so emotional to me. Because for so much of my life, going home activated old identities, old roles, and stories and nervous system responses. And again, not because those responses came from nowhere, they came from real experiences. They were extremely intelligent. And I think that sometimes in healing spaces, there can be a kind of pressure to bypass the reality that parts of us adapted intelligently. Of course, a child adapts to emotional unpredictability. Of course, a nervous system learns vigilance. Of course, hyperawareness develops when safety feels inconsistent. Those adaptations are not failures, they are intelligence. And there comes a point where the nervous system begins asking, is this still necessary? And I think that that's where I am right now. Not in a perfectly healed state or beyond fear or grief or contraction, but more like in a place where some of the old guarding just no longer feels as needed. And that feels incredibly beautiful and incredibly vulnerable. Because I think there's a part of me that believed that the vigilance is what kept me safe, that the emotional tracking, the over-preparing, the anticipating, staying ahead, being super capable was what allowed me to survive. So loosening those patterns can feel very disorienting. Like, who am I without all of that? Who am I if not constantly managing the emotional field? Who am I if I stop rehearsing reality before living it? Who am I if I stop trying to control outcomes before they happen? And what's interesting is I don't actually feel less capable now, though. I actually feel more available. And I guess that's the best word I can find for it. It's like more available to love, to be present, to connect, to be creative, to be inside of reality, to be inside of life. And ever since coming home, I've been noticing this in like small mundane moments. I talked about folding laundry a while ago. And uh, if you fold as much laundry as much laundry as I do, maybe you're gonna relate to this. Um because I had been gone for a couple days, you know, my husband is absolutely amazing. And with managing a business and three kids and the dog, etc., all on your own, some laundry had piled up. And so I was doing them uh amongst with a lot of other ordinary things, preparing for company that I was arriving from Toronto the next day. And usually there's a subtle resentment. Actually, that's being kind. It's most times not so subtle uh of a resentment that creeps in when I'm doing um house chores like that. And it's kind of this feeling of there's too much, I'm carrying too much, I need more support, I don't want to be stuck in domestic labor all day. When, you know, are circumstances gonna change that I can delegate this, I don't want to be doing this anymore. And those feelings are valid, but something felt different. Not because, again, the circumstances changed, there was still a lot of laundry to do, but because my relationship to the moment changed. There was less internal resistance, and I know that may sound small, but in my life it's huge. Because suffering is not only created by circumstance, so much suffering is created by the internal argument with what is happening, with the resistance, with the tightening, with the this shouldn't be happening story, with the need for the moment to be different before we can soften into it. And I'm beginning to wonder if peace is not necessarily the absence of difficulty, but the absence of war with reality. And that feels very alive for me right now. Not like passive acceptance, not resignation, not suppressing desire or grief or truth, not bypassing the fact that my kids are old enough to start contributing more to the laundry, just less arguing with life. And interestingly, the less I argue with reality, then the more love I seem to feel. That's actually the most beautiful part because I think I unconsciously believed for a long time that openness required safety guarantees, that I would soften once certain things were resolved, like once the relationship improved, once the money came in, once the uncertainty disappeared, once I knew what was going to happen, but life doesn't really work that way. There's always uncertainty, there's always impermanence, there's always vulnerability, and yet somehow during this trip my heart stayed open anyway. Not perfectly for sure, but enough for me to feel the difference. Enough for me to realize this is what it feels like when my nervous system is not entirely organizing around protection. Because once you feel that, you can't unfeel it. And at the same time, now I can't unsee how much energy control actually takes. And again, I don't mean obvious control, I mean trying to emotionally stabilize everyone in the family, trying to prevent pain for my children, trying to ensure outcomes for my business, trying to prepare things perfectly, trying to avoid certain discomfort, trying to stay emotionally ahead of life. And that, my friends, is exhausting. And I think or I know that many women, especially, have become so identified with capability that they don't even realize how much tension they're carrying. Because our culture rewards it. We praise women for holding everything together, for anticipating everyone's needs, for being emotionally intelligent, endlessly responsible, ultra-prepared, superproductive, selfless, and low maintenance. But underneath that is sometimes, or maybe all of the time, a nervous system that is never fully at rest. A body that never fully softens, a heart that remains subtly guarded. And I think that's part of why this experience with my family felt so meaningful. Because love felt more accessible than the guarding. And I honestly don't even know that I know what this means like totally yet, or that I have some perfectly wrapped conclusion about that, but I do know that something in me is becoming less interested in controlling life and more interested in being available for it. For all of it, for the grief and the beauty and the uncertainty and the intimacy and the love and the tenderness and the reality of being human. And it's teaching me that maybe that's what embodiment actually is not learning new strategies and frameworks for becoming invulnerable, but becoming less defended against actually. Being alive. And as I've been sitting with all of this over the past week, I keep coming back to this question. What if so much of what we call control is actually an attempt to feel safe enough to soften? That feels really true to me. Because I don't think most people wake up in the morning consciously trying to control life. I think most of us are trying to avoid pain and overwhelm and disappointment and abandonment and uncertainty and collapse. And over time we develop intelligent strategies to help us navigate that. We overthink or overfunction or over-prepare. We emotionally monitor everyone around us. We rehearse conversations before they happen or grip tightly to plans. We try to get certainty before we move and we stay hyper-capable because capability feels safer than vulnerability. And again, none of this makes us bad. It makes us adaptive. But I'm starting to wonder what happens when those strategies become so normal that we mistake them for who we are. For a long time, I think I unconsciously equated my vigilance with my intelligence. I thought, like, this is just who I am. I'm perceptive, I'm emotionally aware, I'm deeply thoughtful, I'm highly attuned, and yeah, those things are true, but underneath those gifts, there was also a nervous system that learned to stay ahead, to prepare, to anticipate, to manage the emotional field, to not get caught off guard. And I think that's part of why this recent experience impacted me so much, because for maybe one of the first times in my life, I could feel the difference between being deeply present and being deeply vigilant, and those are not the same thing. And I think many sensitive people confuse them. We think that hyper-awareness is presence. We think emotional monitoring is intimacy. We think anticipation is safety. We think preparedness is peace. But none of those are the same thing. You can be incredibly prepared and still internally at war with reality. You can also be inside uncertainty while feeling deeply grounded. And that's what surprised me the most during my trip. Not that everything was okay, but that I was okay enough to stay inside something that wasn't. And it's not that I've never been through hard things before, I have, but there's a difference between surviving difficult moments and remaining open inside of them. And so that's the part that's new for me. For so much of my life, openness felt very conditional. Like I could soften once things were resolved, once the future was clear, once the emotional field was stable, once everyone was okay, once I knew what was happening, once I had a plan. But life doesn't actually offer those guarantees very often. And maybe part of becoming more fully ourselves is learning that openness can't depend on certainty, that love cannot depend on control, and that presence cannot depend on perfection, that softness isn't something we earn after finally managing reality correctly. Maybe softness is what becomes available when we stop trying to stay emotionally ahead of life. And I think this is why the phrase that keeps echoing in me lately is aliveness versus control, not chaos versus structure. That distinction feels really important because structure can be very beautiful and supportive and sacred even. If we think about a river bank that gives shape to water or a home that gives shape to love, or a body, our bodies that literally give shape to spirit. So the issue isn't structure. It's when structure becomes fear-based, when it becomes management, when life becomes so overmanaged that there's no room left for surprise or intimacy or spontaneity or for reality to move us. And I think that's been showing up for me in so many places lately. It shows up in motherhood and business and creativity and relationships and even in the way I think about my work. I've realized that there's a difference between creating from aliveness and creating from control. Aliveness feels open and responsive and connected and, well, alive. Whereas control feels more contracted and managed and like overthought and heavy. And I'm beginning to trust the discernment between them more and more, like not as a rigid rule, but more like a compass, more like just simply checking in, feeling within me, does this feel alive? Am I doing this because it's alive and the energy is there? It's reality. Or am I doing it because it feels controlled? Even this podcast episode emerged that way. I didn't sit down with a perfectly polished teaching. I sat down with a lived experience that changed something in me. And maybe that's why I wanted to share it before fully understanding it, because I think there's value in speaking from the middle of a transformation sometimes, not only from the finished conclusion, which is where I have spent most of my life, is more like informing after something is fully experienced and understood in my mind and can be recited in a way that feels rational and clear to me, which I'm not sure is actually vulnerable. Vulnerability to me is now feeling like sharing raw inside of the moment before you can even fully understand it yourself, let alone explain it to someone else. And I think that sometimes we need permission to hear someone else say, I don't have this figured out. I know that something real is softening, that something is changing, and maybe that's enough. Maybe becoming more ourselves is not actually about adding more layers. Maybe it's about loosening the ones that were built around survival, the guarding, the hypervigilance, the emotional armoring, the need to stay ahead, the belief that we must control life in order to feel safe enough to love it. And maybe healing is becoming less afraid. To me, it feels like maybe part of healing is becoming less afraid to touch life fully. And maybe that's even what I mean when I say designed for more. Certainly not more productivity or perfection or control, but more life, more truth, more intimacy, more softness, more openness, more capacity to remain present inside reality exactly as it is. Even here, even now. And if you've been feeling some version of this too, if you're noticing where your own nervous system grips or manages or prepares or contracts or tries to stay emotionally ahead of life, then I just want to say you are not broken for that. Your nervous system learned what it learned for a reason. But maybe you don't have to carry all of it forever. Maybe there's another way to be here now. A way where you don't disappear inside old identities, a way where softness doesn't mean collapse, where love becomes more accessible than guarding, where your life outwardly may look similar, but internally everything is changing. I think that's the season I'm walking through right now. If you've made it this far, then I deeply thank you for walking alongside me. Thanks for listening to Designed for More. If you felt sparked or seen in today's episode, I'd love for you to leave a review, share it with a friend, or come find me on Instagram at JulieByDesign. And remember, your clarity is sacred and your joy is a signal. You are designed for more.