When You Feel Everything and Nothing at the Same Time
A neurobiological glitch in the system—and what might help when it happens. Or, "The Week That Felt Like You Were in a Maelstrom with No Way Out..."
Have you ever felt so inside your body that you could sense the oxygen bubbles of your own blood—and yet, at the exact same time, felt completely disconnected, like you just could not reach yourself, no matter how desperately you were trying?
It’s one of the most surreal human states:
The senses are flooded. The body is screaming with sensation.
And still—you feel absent, unreachable, not really there.
This isn’t “just in your head.” It’s not drama, weakness, or overreaction.
It’s a known neurobiological state. A conflict in the nervous system’s wiring, where systems meant to protect us start firing in opposite directions at once.
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This week has been a week. I feel like I have been in an emotional maelstrom the whole time. It was like being pounded by wave after wave after wave, over and over again. Every time I got any semblance of where the ground was, another wave would come and knock me off my feet.
It felt dangerous.
It felt overwhelming.
It felt relentless.
I could not find the centre.
I could not stop it.
I could not seem to remember that surrendering to it was an option.
And so I did the only sensible thing and decided I had gone insane.
It felt pretty logical at the time.
I had clearly absolutely fucking lost it and all the work I’ve done over the years was meaningless cuz I was certifiably crazy.
And I had hints that maybe this was not just me this week but it didn’t seem to make it through the noise. Or at least it wasn’t loud enough to stop the noise.
My mind was a dark place to be.
I don’t usually mind the dark, in fact I quite like it, but this… This was different.
It felt like I was feeling everything AND nothing all at once.
Everything
and
Nothing.
I am familiar with one or the other but both, at the same time.. It reminded me why I used to do a lot of self destructive things.
It reminded me with such intensity that I don’t know how I didn’t do those self destructive things.
It gave me newfound respect for the me that lived at that level of intensity.
It gave me gratitude for the things that dulled it down, even if they were not the healthiest.
And because those things are no longer options for me, it left me raw and exposed.
The weirdest part: I still did all the stuff I was meant to do. I still worked. I still socialised. I still took the necessary actions. I did the self care things.
With an active maelstrom.
Like what the hell?
I don’t even know how.
I felt so present that I could feel the weight of the air and my blood spiralling through my veins, and so absent like I was watching it all happen to someone else.
Being aware of both at once is…
A lot.
Too much.
There’s people who used to call me limitless.
All I wanted this week was limits.
I wanted the edges and the safe confines and I’d have taken it in any way it came.
I tried every trick that came to mind, right back to deafeningly loud music and driving wind and rain.
And it worked for a minute, and then the maelstrom would return.
And eventually, I was sat some place that felt a little safer. And my body felt like it was on fire with energy; brimming over the edges and making my heart beat weird and my skin feel transparent.
And I tried to talk. And I tried to rationalise it. And all the stories failed. None of it made it stop.
Eventually I did the only thing left:
I ceased fighting.
I took a deep breath.
I trusted the invitation to safety that was being provided. (Though if you’d asked me in that moment, it felt like the riskiest action in the world. It felt like I was beyond the point of being able to care about that. It just had to be done.)
I closed my eyes.
And I felt it.
And it made me body jerk, and it felt terrifying and then:
Absolute peace.
The most exquisite quiet.
I can barely even describe it.
No more noise.
No more chaos.
Nothing - but in a totally different way.
Everything - space.
And I wanted to just stay there and feel it and let it be quiet, and I did for a time.
And then that was it.
The maelstrom was gone.
Just like that.
All I did was stay still and trust.
And I was reminded that this too, is God.
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And then, as is usual with me, in the silence after the storm, my mind wants to know what the hell was actually happening—and what might help when in the middle of it. So off to the analysis lab we go to work it out:
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The Body’s Stress Systems in Conflict
Our nervous systems have built-in settings for survival:
Fight or flight: activated, alert, full of energy
Freeze or shut down: disconnected, numb, immobile
Normally, we are in one of those modes at a time.
But in this mixed state, they both activate simultaneously.
It’s like slamming the gas and brakes at once:
The body revs up—heart pounds, senses sharpen, everything feels “too much”
At the same time, the mind pulls away—the sense of self goes quiet, it feels like you start watching your own life like it’s not yours
This split creates the bizarre, painful experience of feeling everything and nothing at the same time.
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🧠 The Brain’s Networks Are Misfiring
Three major brain systems are involved here:
1. Interoception: the body’s internal radar
This is the part of the brain (especially the insula) that tracks internal sensations: heartbeat, breath, muscle tension, blood flow.
In this state, it goes into overdrive—leading to feeling too much from the inside.
But while the brain is receiving intense body signals, it can’t organize or interpret them. It’s like getting a flood of data with no translation.
We feel every internal twitch and surge, but have no idea what it means or what to do.
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2. The Default Mode Network (DMN): the inner storyteller
This network helps create our sense of identity—the feeling of being a continuous “you.”
But under overload, it goes offline.
That’s why it might feel:
Like we are outside our bodies
Like we are not really a person
Like nothing is real
This is dissociation, and it’s a common brain response when intensity goes beyond what we can metabolize in the moment.
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3. The Salience Network: the brain’s alert system
This network decides what deserves our attention. It usually helps us toggle between external focus and internal reflection.
But when overwhelmed, it gets stuck on high alert. Everything feels urgent. Every sensation is marked as “danger.”
There’s no off switch.
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Hyperaware but Disconnected
This is what it adds up to:
Being flooded with internal data, but can’t ground in it
Being present in the body, but not as yourself
Being hyper-aware, but can’t find the narrative thread
Being both overstimulated and mentally frozen
And none of this means we are broken.
It means our system is doing its best to survive a state it wasn’t designed to hold all at once.
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What Might Help When in the Middle of It
This state doesn’t respond well to force, logic, or pressure. And believe me, I tried all of them repeatedly.
Instead, what it needs is compassionate structure—small, patterned ways to remind the nervous system that it’s safe to come back.
Here are some options to try.
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🔹 1. Micro-movements
When the system is overloaded, intense grounding might just pile more input onto the overwhelm. Try subtle, rhythmic actions instead:
Press your fingertips together, one by one
Roll your ankles slowly in circles
Sway gently side to side
Tap your collarbone in a slow, alternating rhythm
These actions can bring predictable, patterned feedback to the body—without asking it to “come back” all at once.
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🔹 2. Speak Out Loud
Language can help your brain re-enter the present moment. Try:
Naming objects: “This is a wall. This is my hand.”
Talking to yourself gently: “Something in me is overwhelmed. I’m nearby.”
Using safe scripts: “I am still here. I don’t have to be all the way back yet.”
Even one word or phrase—spoken softly—can start to bring your brain’s self-awareness network back online.
I also have a habit of writing reminders on my wrists. It’s an old thing from when I learned water responds to frequency/input. I figured perhaps if the words were on my skin, it would percolate through into the water of my body somehow and reach me when spoken word was failing. This week it was “I Am Safe.”
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🔹 3. Rebuild Time
Dissociation often warps our sense of time. To anchor gently:
Read the date and time out loud
Say what you were doing just before this state started
List five things you did earlier today
Recite song lyrics or count backwards
This doesn’t fix everything, but it gives your brain a temporal map to re-enter orientation. Any moments of space amongst the waves helps.
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🔹 4. Repeat Something (Even if it’s Nonsense)
When thoughts feel chaotic, try repetition. It doesn’t need to make sense.
A simple phrase: “Still here. Still here.”
A made-up word or soothing sound you create
A prayer, mantra, or lyric you know by heart
Repetition gives the brain a safe loop to rest inside, especially when it can’t hold onto linear thoughts.
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🔹 5. Call in Connection (Even Imagined)
The nervous system is wired to regulate best with others. Even when you’re alone, you can activate this system.
Try:
Remembering someone who has seen or soothed you before
Speaking to an imagined companion, ancestor, or animal
Saying: “You don’t need to fix this. Just sit with me.”
Co-regulation can begin inside our own imagination—and from there, help bring us home.
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🔹 6. Sync With Natural Rhythms
When our internal systems feel chaotic, external rhythms—especially natural ones—can act as anchors.
The human nervous system evolved alongside the patterns of the natural world, and it still responds to them with deep, often unconscious regulation. When we can’t find rhythm inside ourselves, it helps to borrow it from something older and more stable.
Here are a few ways to do that:
Watch a candle flame flicker or listen to the sound of rain—both have irregular, organic rhythms that help quiet a hyper-alert brain.
Breathe with the wind or the waves—even imagining this can help shift our nervous system toward regulation.
Lie on the ground or lean against a tree and feel the weight of gravity. Nature holds a frequency our bodies remember, even if we can’t fully feel it yet.
Step outside and look at the sky—clouds moving, light shifting, birds flying in arcs. These rhythms gently remind the brain that time is still moving, and we’re still part of it.
These rhythms don’t ask us to do anything. They just invite us to come into resonance.
And sometimes, syncing to something older and quieter than our panic is what helps us begin to return.
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🌱 You Don’t Have to Earn Reentry
You don’t have to force your way back. You don’t have to understand everything that’s happening before you start to feel okay again.
This was so important for me this week, and was the thing I was fighting so hard against. I was desperate to get back in; staying out or not fighting it didn’t really even occur to me. I guess likely driven by the over arching drive of my fight/flight system. I wanted to DO something with it, whilst clamouring desperately to understand it.
It didn’t work. With the neuroscience framing, of course it wouldn’t. I had systems firing against systems.
The body wants to return to itself. It knows the path.
Sometimes all it needs is a small, kind signal that it’s allowed to come back.
So when caught in the storm of everything-and-nothing, maybe start here:
“I don’t have to be all the way in.
I just have to stay nearby.
I’m here when I’m ready.”
That’s where reconnection begins. Not with force—but with permission.
Through a more spiritual lens, this week I felt like a lightning rod for the divine. Like the energies were enjoying a mosh pit and I was somehow caught up in it trying to bring it down, rather than letting myself be taken by it and trusting it would pass. Crowdsurfing the Gods is not an easy thing. It involves innate trust and what feels like a willingness to quite literally be trampled to death. But ultimately, truth remains truth: ALL is God. Including the fear, and the trampling, and the chaos. I will always be willing to be a dance floor for the divine; after all, isn’t that what this is all about…
I can’t say I want to go through that particular storm again any time soon, but at least if I leave this here, I have the reminders I might need. And perhaps they’ll be here for someone else that needs them too.
See you in the field beneath the flux.
Claire
