At Some Point, My Nervous System Fired HR

At Some Point, My Nervous System Fired HR.

I don’t remember the exact day it happened, but I know the moment.

The moment my nervous system looked at my life, sighed deeply, closed its laptop, and said,
“Yeah… we’re not doing this shit anymore.”

No meeting.
No warning.
No performance improvement plan.

Just immediate termination.

Because at some point — and nobody tells you when — your nervous system stops asking for permission.

It stops checking in with your optimism.
It stops consulting your potential.
It stops caring what you used to be able to tolerate.

And it just starts vetoing shit.



I used to be able to do everything.

Be everywhere.
Handle everybody.
Push through exhaustion, chaos, noise, nonsense, and disrespect like it was part of the job description.

Crowded places? Fine.
Last-minute plans? Cool.
Loud environments? Whatever.
People talking too much? I’ll deal with it.

I wore stress like a badge of honor.

I thought resilience meant endurance.
I thought strength meant swallowing discomfort.
I thought being “easygoing” was a personality trait instead of a trauma response.

Then one day, my body said,
“Girl, absolutely not.”


The first thing my nervous system fired was tolerance.

I no longer tolerate:

unnecessary noise

chaotic energy

confusing people

environments that feel off

conversations that go nowhere


If it don’t make sense, my chest tightens.

If it feels forced, my stomach flips.

If I walk into a room and the vibe is wrong, my spirit immediately starts packing its bags.

And the crazy part?

I don’t argue with it anymore.


I used to be the type to “push through.”

Push through the headache.
Push through the anxiety.
Push through the irritation.
Push through the feeling that something wasn’t right.

Now?

If my nervous system says no, the answer is no.

No explanation.
No follow-up email.
No rescheduling.



My nervous system also fired customer service.

Because I no longer explain myself to people committed to misunderstanding me.

If I say I’m tired, I’m tired.
If I don’t want to go, I don’t want to go.
If I cancel plans, that’s it. That’s the sentence.

I am not taking questions at this time.



Let me tell you how bad it is now.

I will be sitting in my house, minding my business, comfortable, unbothered, phone on silent, snacks nearby.

And then someone will text me:

“Hey, what you doing?”

And my nervous system will immediately go,
“Too much.”

Why are you asking me that?
What do you want?
Where is this going?

I don’t even open the message.

Because my nervous system already knows this is about to turn into an obligation.



I used to love spontaneous plans.

Now spontaneity feels like a threat.

You can’t just show up in my day anymore.

You need:

a time

a purpose

an exit plan


Otherwise my body goes into fight-or-flight like we’re being chased.



My nervous system also fired open seating.

I need to know where I’m sitting.

I don’t like my back to the door.
I don’t like being boxed in.
I don’t like loud tables.
I don’t like places where everybody yelling over each other like it’s a competition.

Why is the music this loud?
Why is the lighting aggressive?
Why are the chairs uncomfortable?

Who approved this environment?



Let’s talk about noise.

Because noise used to be background.

Now noise is personal.

If the TV too loud, I’m irritated.
If multiple people talking at once, I’m stressed.
If somebody chewing loud, my soul leaves my body.

I don’t want to hear everything.

I don’t want to process everything.

I want quiet.




And don’t get me started on driving.

I used to drive anywhere.
Highways. Back roads. Long distances. No problem.

Now?

If I can’t take surface streets, I might not come.

Why is everybody driving like they got nothing to live for?

Why is this person on my bumper?

Why is this exit coming up too fast?

My nervous system be like,
“Girl, take the long way. We not in a rush.”




I used to think anxiety was a flaw.

Now I understand it’s my nervous system saying,
“Based on past data, this ain’t a good idea.”

And honestly?

She be right.



Let’s talk about people.

Because my nervous system fired half the population.

I can no longer:

entertain emotionally inconsistent people

tolerate passive aggression

laugh through disrespect

“be the bigger person” repeatedly


If someone drains me, my body notices before my mind does.

I don’t even get mad anymore.

I just… disappear.



Here’s the wild part.

I didn’t become antisocial.

I became anti-unnecessary.

If it doesn’t add peace, clarity, or joy, I’m not interested.

If it requires me to brace myself emotionally, I’m out.

If I have to rehearse conversations in my head beforehand, that’s my cue to exit.



My nervous system also fired hope as a strategy.

I no longer hope people will change.

I observe.

I collect patterns.

And I move accordingly.

Because hope used to keep me stuck.

I used to override my instincts because I didn’t want to seem dramatic.

Now I trust them because they’ve been right too many times.

If something feels off, it probably is.

If I feel tense around someone, that’s information.

If my chest tightens, I listen.

My body does not lie.


And don’t get it twisted — I still love deeply.

I still laugh loud.
I still enjoy people.
I still show up.

But I do it selectively.

My nervous system doesn’t need a packed calendar to feel valuable.

She wants consistency.


I also don’t chase anything anymore.

Not conversations.
Not clarity.
Not validation.

If I have to pursue peace, it’s not peace.


Here’s what nobody tells you:

When your nervous system fires HR, you lose access to chaos that once made you feel alive.

And that feels boring at first.

Quiet feels empty when you’re used to noise.

Peace feels strange when you’ve survived on adrenaline.


But then something wild happens.

Your sleep improves.
Your focus sharpens.
Your creativity deepens.
Your patience returns.

And you realize you were never meant to live in survival mode forever.



I don’t miss the version of me who could “handle anything.”

She was exhausted.

I don’t miss the version of me who was always available.

She was depleted.

I don’t miss the version of me who ignored her body.

She paid for it later.



Now, my nervous system runs the company.

She sets the schedule.
She approves access.
She enforces boundaries.

And if something disrupts her peace?

She terminates it immediately.

No severance.



People sometimes say,
“You changed.”

And I always think,
“No… I stabilized.”


I didn’t become weaker.

I became regulated.

I didn’t lose tolerance.

I gained discernment.

I didn’t lose my edge.

I stopped bleeding on everything.


So if you see me leave early, cancel plans, get quiet, or choose solitude — don’t worry.

My nervous system is just doing her job.

And she’s very good at it.




At some point, my nervous system fired HR.

And honestly?

Best decision she’s ever made.