The light in my room changes gently with the morning sun. Outside, I can hear the steady rhythm of the ocean. It’s the kind of calm I once dreamed about — a life surrounded by beauty and safety, where everything finally feels stable.

My home in Manhattan Beach is a little sanctuary. My bedroom is filled with soft colors and the scent of sandalwood. My children are happy. My work feels meaningful. My friends are kind and supportive. By all accounts, I should feel at peace.

And yet, there are mornings when my body tells a different story. I wake with a tight chest or a quiet sense of worry that I can’t explain. Nothing is wrong, but I feel as if something is. It’s like my body doesn’t trust the calm, as though peace itself is a trick that might disappear if I let my guard down.

For years, I brushed it off. Maybe it was stress, hormones, or the habit of overthinking. But the truth runs deeper. My body was holding on to lessons from the past, lessons learned in a home where peace was never safe for long.

When Calm Feels Unsafe

People who grew up in unstable or emotionally unpredictable families often know this feeling without needing it explained. When you’ve spent your childhood walking on eggshells, peace can feel suspicious.

In those homes, love can be warm one moment and cold the next. Affection can turn to anger without warning. Children learn quickly to read faces, voices, and silences, always alert to what might happen next. It’s a form of emotional survival, but it leaves a lasting mark.

Even when life becomes calm, that old vigilance doesn’t simply vanish. Your body, trained to expect conflict, stays on guard. Stillness feels like waiting for something to go wrong. Happiness feels fragile.

It’s not a matter of being ungrateful or dramatic — it’s biology.

“The body remembers what the mind forgets,” says trauma expert Dr. Bessel van der Kolk, author of The Body Keeps the Score. “Even when we tell ourselves we’re safe, our bodies may still be reacting to past danger.”

For survivors of childhood chaos, the alarm system never really switches off. It just hums quietly beneath the surface, waiting for a signal that may never come.

The Science Behind the Feeling

This uneasy relationship with calm has been studied by psychologists and neuroscientists worldwide. In one study from King’s College London, adults who grew up in homes with emotional tension or constant criticism showed higher resting heart rates and higher levels of stress hormones than those from stable homes, even when relaxed.

Another review in the Journal of Traumatic Stress found that people who experienced emotional neglect as children had more activity in the amygdala, the brain’s fear center, even when looking at neutral images. In other words, their brains were scanning for danger in situations where none existed.

These findings explain why success, safety, or love don’t always translate into ease. The nervous system doesn’t understand “good life.” It only understands “safe” or “unsafe.” And when safety feels unfamiliar, even joy can make the body anxious.

I’ve met countless people who live this way. A woman who finally escaped a toxic marriage yet feels restless every time the house is quiet. A man who left a high-pressure job but wakes up each morning as if he’s late for something. Their stories differ, but the theme is the same: peace feels unnatural because their bodies still remember chaos.

Even public figures have spoken about this. British actress Keeley Hawes once shared that quiet moments make her uneasy: “I keep expecting something to go wrong.” It’s a quiet confession that speaks to many who live in a state of low-level alertness, the constant sense that calm won’t last.

What Healing Really Looks Like

Healing from this kind of trauma isn’t about forgetting the past or pretending it never happened. It’s about helping the body learn that peace can now be trusted.

For me, that learning began in the smallest ways. I started by noticing my reactions instead of fighting them. When anxiety appeared in the middle of an ordinary day, folding laundry, sipping tea, or watching the sunset — I would pause. I’d place a hand over my heart and say quietly, You’re safe now. There’s no danger here.

At first, it felt strange. But slowly, my body began to listen.

This practice is rooted in a scientific idea called neuroplasticity, the brain’s ability to change its wiring through new experiences. When you teach yourself to associate calm with safety instead of fear, your nervous system starts to adapt.

Research from Harvard’s Benson-Henry Institute found that simple techniques like slow breathing, self-compassion, and mindfulness can lower stress hormones by up to 25 percent over time. Each time you choose calm, you’re sending a new signal to your body, a quiet reminder that the war is over.

The Long Work of Making Peace with Peace

Healing isn’t a straight line. There are still days when I feel uneasy for no reason, when silence feels heavy, or when good news makes me nervous. But I no longer see these moments as failure. They’re just echoes, reminders of how long I lived in survival mode.

Sometimes, when that old restlessness returns, I thank it. It’s a sign of how hard my younger self worked to stay safe. Then, I gently remind myself that it’s okay to stand down, that I don’t need to prepare for danger that isn’t coming.

Over time, peace has stopped feeling like a space and started feeling like a home I can live in. It’s not always easy, but it’s real.

So if you’ve ever wondered why you feel anxious even when life is good, know that you’re not broken – you’re simply re-learning safety. Your body isn’t betraying you. It’s just waiting to be shown, again and again, that calm is safe now.

Peace, like healing, takes practice.

About the Author

Birgit Hartmann is a trauma-informed transformation coach who helps adults recover from narcissistic family systems through nervous system regulation, Internal Family Systems (IFS), and self-compassion practices.