Internal Family Systems, Inner Children, and Nervous System Drama: A Love Story

Nervous System - Freeze Dominant

Attachment Style - Disorganized

Your Nervous System: a devoted, overcaffeinated bodyguard with a PhD in “Keeping You Alive Since Birth.”

It loves you so much—so much—that it will do literally anything to make sure you never feel the pain you once felt. Even if you don’t remember the pain? Oh, it does. Like a vault with receipts, it’s got every heartbreak, betrayal, awkward silence, and third-grade talent show flop logged and filed under “NEVER AGAIN.”

So when you’re out here trying to, say, fall in love, start a business, or reply to that one emotionally available person’s text message—your nervous system kicks open the door:

“ABSOLUTELY NOT. We’ve been through this. Remember when you cried in 2006? Because I do.”

You might be wondering why you keep repeating patterns:

• Attracting chaos?

• Bolting from stability?

• Accidentally trauma-bonding with a guy just because he listens to The Lumineers?

  
  

That's your nervous system whisper-screaming:

“There is no balance. Only potential disaster. And I’m here to preemptively sabotage joy just in case it hurts.”

It’s not trying to be a jerk—it’s just terrified. It’s like the emotional version of an overprotective grandma who slaps the cookies out of your hand because she thinks they’re poisoned.

So yeah—your nervous system might not ask for permission. It’s already made the executive decision. It’s curled up in the control room, pressing buttons and flipping switches while yelling:

“YOU CAN’T OVERCOME ME. I HOLD ALL THE INVISIBLE TRAUMA. STAY SINGLE. STAY SMALL. STAY SAFE.”

But here’s the secret it doesn’t know yet: You’re allowed to rewire the system. Gently. Kindly. With breath, with presence, and maybe a little coaching, and a lot of water.

Let’s just say... hypothetically... you were raised with a Disorganized Attachment Style. (Cue dramatic music and a slow zoom-in on your childhood.) You grew up watching love come with strings, weird rules, or total emotional chaos—so your brain’s like, “Ah, got it! Love = confusion and panic. I’ll take notes!”

Fast forward to adulthood, and suddenly you’re the walking embodiment of “I love you… ew, no I don’t… actually maybe?”

You meet someone. They’re nice. TOO nice. You think, “Wow, maybe I could really connect with this person.” Then immediately: “Ugh. Why is he breathing like that?”

But then again… “He’s sweet. And kind. Maybe I should open up.” 

Wait. He just texted me twice in one day? Clingy much?? I’m suffocating.” “OKAY I MISS HIM. I’M LONELY.”

Your inner dialogue is like a group chat you can’t mute:

• “This is intimacy! Let it in!”

• “No, RUN. He might like you!”

• “But also, please validate me, constantly, because I don’t know what stable love even looks like.”

• “What if I just ghost him and then cry about it later?”

• “Perfect plan.”

  
  

And you know it’s not logical. But that’s the thing—disorganized attachment isn’t logical. It’s like emotional jazz: unpredictable, chaotic, and a little painful, but somehow you’re still dancing to it.

You want connection. You crave it. But as soon as it gets close, your nervous system sets off a car alarm and throws emotional glitter everywhere.

You’re not pushing people away because you don’t care. You’re doing it because, deep down, connection feels like a trapdoor. And yet… loneliness feels worse.

So you stay. Then leave. Then text, “Hey :)” ...and the banter continues.

So what do we do when our Nervous System is out here running the show like a paranoid stage manager with a megaphone and a clipboard? We go in. Gently. Lovingly. Like emotional spelunkers with flashlights and snacks.

With Internal Family Systems (IFS), we take a breath, get quiet, and start listening for the real voices underneath all the panic and patterning. Not the dramatic, “I hate him but I love him but I hate him again” part—that’s just the surface static. We’re looking for the tender parts. The little ones. The child-versions of you who are still holding onto a story that was never theirs to carry alone.

Your nervous system and subconscious already know who’s in there. They’ve just been waiting for you to be safe enough, still enough, curious enough to go meet them.

And when you do? You find the child—sweet, wide-eyed, and maybe a little frazzled—who made sense of chaos the only way she could.

Who thought love meant unpredictability.

Who believed calm was a trap.

Who thought she had to stay hidden or guarded or perform to survive. You sit beside her, hold her hand, and let your grown-up self finally take the mic.

“Hey sweet girl. I’m here now. You’re safe. You don’t have to figure this out on your own anymore.”

You can help her rewrite those old scripts. Let her cry. Let her laugh. Let her throw imaginary glitter in the air and do cartwheels if she wants. And the most miraculous thing happens: She doesn’t have to stay frozen in protection mode. She can go play. And guess what? So can you.

It’s tender. It’s empowering. It’s magic wrapped in nervous system science and spiritual truth.

And best of all? It reminds you that your past doesn't get to run your future—your presence does.