Imagine a battlefield, not with soldiers but inside your child's mind. When their emotions surge, they enter what’s known as a survival state. This state is neurologically wired: fight, flight, or freeze (numbness) takes over. It’s a primal response designed to protect us from danger, but when your child is stuck there, everything feels like a threat - even you.

Let’s break it down.

In survival mode, your child is highly charged. Their body is flooded with stress hormones like cortisol and adrenaline, preparing them to fight, run, or shut down entirely. But here’s the kicker: numbness, often mistaken for calm, can manifest as sudden meltdowns when the internal pressure becomes unbearable. For example, you might think they’ve “been fine all day’” only for them to explode over something trivial, like being asked to turn off the TV.

Your instinct might be to counteract their chaos with soothing tones and rational words.

“Let’s take a deep breath.”

“Calm down.”

But here’s where the disconnect happens: the child isn’t rejecting your effort to help - they’re just unable to connect with it. Your calm demeanor operates on an entirely different energetic plane, and in their stormy emotional state, it feels like trying to have a conversation across a chasm.

Here is a true story to illustrate this:

It was a typical day during my school career when the foyer erupted in chaos. A 17-year-old boy was going ballistic, screaming obscenities with fists clenched. Teachers encircled him, speaking to him in the usual measured, calm tones, trying to de-escalate, but it wasn’t working. If anything, he seemed angrier and more volatile.

I decided to step in. I knew enough not to yell back, but I wouldn’t try to meet him from a place of stillness, either. Instead, I chose something in between: controlled energy.

I approached him and, in a voice louder than usual but steady, said, “Whoa, you’re angry, aren’t you?”

His response was immediate: “Yes, I f***ing am!”

I didn’t flinch. “Yes, I can see you are,” I agreed, matching his intensity but staying grounded. I was not just another distant adult trying to impose calm at that moment. I was in his field, speaking his language - and that was the key.

What followed was remarkable. His anger softened, not because I “fixed” him but because he felt seen. “No one listens to me,” he burst out, his voice cracking. “No one cares.”

“I care about your point of view,” I said, maintaining my established energy. Seconds later, he muttered, “Well, you’re the only person listening.”

That’s when the U-Turn happened.

I invited him into a quieter room, and he stormed in, still bristling. But within minutes, the walls came down. This young man began to sob, pouring out his frustrations about school, his family, and his struggles to feel understood. He felt safe enough to let it all out for the first time that day.