The Wolf in the Margins

What the vagus nerve and trauma-informed creativity reveal about the art of receiving feedback

A beloved client came to me clutching a stack of marked-up pages—her freshly finished memoir, still warm with vulnerability. She placed them on the table like an offering, though her body told another story: her shoulders were tight, her breath shallow, her hands trembling slightly.

“She said she liked it,” he muttered, “but look at this.”

Her voice was calm, but the calm was performative—protective. Her body was bracing for impact. The pages quivered in her hands, as if they, too, were absorbing the blow.

She pointed to two sharp, cutting lines—buried inside pages of praise, but surgical in their effect. The kind of remarks that bypass logic and go straight to the limbic system—not just critiquing the work, but the self. It touched how the writer sees herself. Her voice. Her story. Her right to tell it.

The reader she’d chosen wasn’t one of the “safe readers” we’d discussed—someone who could receive the story with tenderness and presence. Instead, in a moment of vulnerability disguised as ambition, she gave the manuscript to someone impressive. Someone with impeccable taste. Known for her brilliance, her discernment, her sharp eye.

But admiration is not the same as attunement. And when our work is still new—unbaked, still asking us if it deserves to exist—it matters who we hand it to. Our nervous systems know the difference. They’re wired to scan for threat, not praise. And so even surrounded by pages of affirmation, her system locked onto the danger.

There’s a term in trauma theory called “rupture without repair.” It happens when we expose something vulnerable and it isn’t met with resonance. No soft landing. No holding. Just impact.

This wasn’t just feedback. It was a rupture. And in that moment, her creative self—the part that dared to write—was retreating.

In our coaching sessions, we talked about what it means to choose early readers who can regulate with us. Who can mirror without distorting. Not just readers who are smart, but readers who are safe. Because in the early stages of telling the truth, the body is the first to know what’s too much. Her heart clenched, pages trembling, unsure if the work she loved still had life in it. Her nervous system in full flight.

You’ve likely felt this too. Maybe you’ve given a talk, shared something raw, or published a piece you poured your heart into—and all you can remember is that one raised eyebrow or careless remark. It lingers, doesn’t it?

Why is it that we cling to criticism like Velcro while praise slides off like Teflon?

There’s a biological reason: our nervous systems are wired for survival, not self-esteem.

Imagine walking through the woods. The sun filters through the trees, a breeze rustles, butterflies drift past, and a cherry tree bursts into bloom. All is calm and beautiful. Then—out of the corner of your eye—you see a wolf. Your body floods with adrenaline. Everything else disappears. You stop noticing the beauty. The wolf is all that matters.

The nervous system doesn’t care how lovely the day is.
It cares about the wolf in the margins.

The nervous system can’t always distinguish between a real predator and a perceived threat. A wolf in the woods, a sharp remark in the margins—both can send the body into high alert.

This is where the vagus nerve comes in. Acting like a tuning fork for safety, it constantly scans for cues of danger or connection. When feedback feels jarring—because of tone, timing, or the person offering it—our body may respond with a spike of defensiveness, collapse, or anxiety. That’s our autonomic nervous system doing its job.

Even the most thoughtful critique can feel like an attack if we don’t feel emotionally safe.

This is why I hold my coaching spaces and listening circles through a trauma-informed lens—one rooted in the principles of safety, trust, choice, and empowerment. These values aren’t just therapeutic ideals—they’re creative ones. When we create from a regulated nervous system, we open the door to curiosity and growth. But when we’re met with the wrong voice at the wrong time, our work can contract. We can shut down before the work has even had a chance to become what it’s meant to be. This doesn’t mean the work is weak—it means you’re protecting something sacred.

This is also why how we share our work—and with whom—matters so deeply. Sharing early drafts with carefully chosen, supportive readers is more than just a smart strategy—it’s a way of tending to the vagus nerve, which Dr. Stephen Porges describes as helping us detect cues of safety or danger through what he calls the neuroception of safety. When we choose safe, attuned witnesses, we aren’t just protecting our feelings—we’re literally regulating our nervous system. This is protection. This is becoming. And in a world that often romanticizes the suffering artist, choosing care over chaos is a radical creative act.

And I’ve been there, too.

I remember the first time I received editorial notes from my (very kind, very well-meaning) editor. I had been waiting, hoping, refreshing my inbox. And when the notes arrived, I felt… humiliated. Not because they were harsh—they were gentle, thoughtful, intelligent. But my body heard them as scorn. My nervous system, unpracticed in holding critique, translated even the smallest suggestion as: You failed. You don’t belong.

There’s a particular heartbreak that lives in the creative process—the grief of being misunderstood. At first, I wanted to disappear. To hide.After offering something sacred and receiving silence or scorn in return. That grief is real. And it deserves a seat at the table, too.

Over time, I learned to protect the tenderness of those early drafts. I made it a practice to share first with the YES people—my sister, my partner, my writing buddy the ones who already saw me whole. That way, by the time I received something “constructive,” I had built up walls of love. I had evidence of my worth. And that changed everything.

So no, you’re not too sensitive. You’re not being dramatic. You’re being human.

And your nervous system is doing exactly what it was designed to do: keep you safe.

If a single comment has ever left you spiraling while the kind ones faded, know this:

You are not broken. You are beautifully alive. And protection doesn’t mean we can’t grow.

With reflection, trust, and the right witnesses, we can retrain ourselves to stay with praise. To receive what is nourishing and grow from what’s working. To recognize a safe space when it comes.

We learn to walk the woods of our creativity with care.…. We name our wolves.
We invite the butterflies back. And this time, we notice the sun, the breeze, the blooming tree. We remember we are not in danger. We are creating something alive.

If this stirred something in you—or if you’re holding the weight of feedback right now—try this:

✨ Place one hand over your heart, and one on your belly.
Inhale slowly through your nose for a count of four.
Hold for four.
Exhale gently through your mouth for a count of six.
Let your shoulders soften. Let your jaw go slack. Do this three times.

This kind of breath soothes the vagus nerve, reminding the body that it is safe. You are here. You are not alone.

You can also tilt your head gently from side to side, releasing tension in your neck and shoulders—especially helpful after long hours in creative focus or emotional alertness.

And know this:

The breath can help. A stretch can soothe.
But often, the most profound regulation is relational.

Choosing who gets to see your early work isn’t just a logistical decision.
It’s a nervous system practice. A trauma-informed boundary. A way of building safety from the inside out.

Who you let witness your becoming is part of your becoming.

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🌀 Reflection prompt:
Have you ever had an experience where one piece of feedback stayed with you—positively or negatively? What helped you process it? I’d love to hear.

🌿 Want to go deeper?
Looking for a creative space that feels both inspiring and safe? I offer trauma-informed mentorship and guided writing spaces that support your nervous system as much as your story. Join us Fridays at 12 noon ET. Your first two weeks are free.
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