When It Feels Like You’re the Only One Who’s Alarmed

“Love isn’t about matching emotional states—it’s about making space for each other’s truths, even when they differ.” — Mary Coughlin

A Love Letter to the Tender, the Troubled, and the Trying

I’ve been carrying a quiet, unsettled feeling in my chest.
A mix of grief, vigilance, and love.

Grief for what’s breaking.
Vigilance about what might be coming.
Love for the people around me who seem to be navigating it all so differently.

And one of the most tender places this tension shows up?
Right in my own home.

I love my husband.
He is kind, grounded, steady.
He brings me back to earth when I feel like I’m floating in fear.
He is, in so many ways, my safe space.

But sometimes—especially now—it feels like we’re experiencing the same moment through very different nervous systems.

I feel activated.
He feels calm.
I see the erosion of truth and justice.
He sees bumps in the road that we’ve weathered before.

It’s not that he doesn’t care.
He does—deeply.
It’s just that his response looks different than mine.

And that can feel... disorienting.
Even a little lonely.

But here's what I've learned:

When I can pause long enough to tell him—truly tell him—that he is my anchor, that I feel safest when I’m with him, something softens. In both of us.

The conversation shifts.
The tension eases.
We stop trying to convince each other and just start being with each other.

That’s not easy.
It’s vulnerable and messy.
And yes, sometimes it still feels yucky. But that’s love, too.

This is what I know:

We are not broken.
We are not on opposite sides.
We are simply two humans trying to love each other through chaos, through uncertainty, through differing ways of coping.

And if you’ve ever felt this too—felt like the only one who’s alarmed while the person you love seems unshaken—please hear this:

You are not overreacting.
You are not making things up.
You are paying attention.
You are loving fiercely.
You are human.

And so is your partner.

A phrase that’s helped me:

“I’m not asking you to feel what I feel. I’m asking you to believe that what I’m feeling is real.”

Sometimes, that small truth-telling opens the door to deeper connection.

Because when we lead with love—and honor our own tender knowing without erasing theirs—we make space for something holy:

Mutual holding.
Co-regulation.
A kind of love that makes room for complexity.

To every heart navigating this right now—
To the feelers and the fixers, the anchors and the alarm-bells, the ones who steady and the ones who shake:

You are not alone.

You are not crazy.

You are living through a time that asks everything of us—
And still finding a way to hold on to each other.

That is sacred.

With love for the feelers, the truth-tellers,
and everyone trying to stay human in inhuman times,
Mary

P.S.: If this resonates with you, you might love the work we’re doing through the Trauma-Informed Professional (TIP) 2.0 Certificate Program—a space where science, soul, and skill meet to help clinicians, educators, and advocates show up with courage and care in the face of complex realities.
You can learn more here.

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