Misattunement, Power, and the Wound of Being Misunderstood
I had a dream where I was being stalked. I never saw his face, but I knew it was my abuser. My body knew. It was dark-ish out, and I was on a pathway to a door—moving fast, trying to get inside.
I made it to safety.
The door closed behind me. I was okay.
But I was still scared.
Still charged from the chase.
Still holding the imprint of being stalked.
That’s the thing about trauma—just because the threat is gone doesn’t mean your body knows that yet.
And no one else saw it.
Some never have.
Some still don’t believe it could be real.
Then the dream shifted. I walked onto a high wooden deck, still trying to calm down. Still carrying the fear. I thought maybe being around others would help—safety in numbers, right?
But as I stepped into the gathering, something strange happened.
Everyone looked at me—with fear.
They didn’t see what I’d just escaped.
They didn’t feel the chase, the danger, the reason for my trembling.
They just saw my fear. And it made them uncomfortable.
They looked at me like I was the threat.
All while they stood casually on a deck with no railing.
Like that wasn’t dangerous.
And it hurt.
Because that’s not just a dream.
That’s been my life.
When Fear Is Seen As Threat
Whenever I’ve been scared in real life, people have been scared of me. My distress has been misread as danger. My fear mistaken for rage. My passion mistaken for instability.
I’ve lived in a body that others project fear onto. A voice, a presence, an energy that feels “too much.” I’ve been called wild, chaotic, loud. I’ve been asked to quiet down—even when I was breaking myself open to heal someone else. I’ve been seen as intimidating even in my softness, even in my care.
People say things like,
“One hour with you did more than a year of therapy,”
or
“It’s wild how spiritual you are for someone so chaotic.”
But it never lands quite right.
Because what they’re really saying is:
I didn’t expect someone like you to be holy.
You’re not what healing is supposed to look like.
You’re too much—but somehow it works.
They speak of my energy as “spastic,” “loud,” “so big”—like my presence is some kind of glitch in the system. They don’t realize I can feel it when I’m being managed. When my power is admired but not welcomed. When I’m held at a distance because I reflect something unruly inside them.
I’ve been told I’m intimidating—even when people are trying to be kind.
They don’t realize:
I read between the lines.
I feel the fear I trigger in others.
I can sense the moment their nervous systems start to contract.
And that’s the heartbreak.
To be called powerful, but left out.
To be praised, but only in ways that still imply I need to be smaller.
To be “seen,” but not actually received.
The Angry Face Was Fear
I had a breakthrough analyzing this dream with AI about my mother. Her angry face—the one that still echoes in my body—haunted me for years. The tight jaw, the narrowed eyes, the one raised eyebrow, the cutting tone delivered through her teeth. I thought it was rage. I thought it was about me.
But now I know:
It was fear.
Her fear. Her overwhelm. Her inability to regulate.
She didn’t know how to hold her own fear, let alone mine.
And I—sensitive, intuitive, deeply attuned—learned that my emotions created distance.
That my fear made others turn cold.
That’s misattunement.
It’s not just that someone didn’t understand you.
It’s that they responded in a way that made you question your reality.
Your feelings.
Your worth.
That dream… that deck with no railing… it gave me something.
It showed me a pattern I’ve lived my whole life.
And for the first time, I didn’t collapse under it. I saw it.
And I woke up with this truth:
She was afraid. Not frightening.
Misattunement and Trauma: When Fear Is Seen as Threat
This is a common experience for trauma survivors. Our nervous systems, shaped by years of vigilance, react quickly and sometimes loudly. If we grew up with caregivers who misread our distress—or punished it—we often learned: my fear makes people leave. Or worse, my fear makes me bad.
A child who expresses fear but is treated like they’re being dramatic or aggressive will grow up believing: people don’t get my distress—they just get scared of me. And we carry that into adulthood. We either shut it all down, or we explode from years of being unseen.
In my dream, the setting said it all: a childhood location, a missing safety rail, a festive crowd that didn’t see the risk. It reflected a familiar pattern—my fear was valid, but no one noticed. When I reacted, they got scared. This wasn’t about me being “too much.” It was about them not being attuned. Just like so many moments in my waking life.
But this time, something was different.
I didn’t shapeshift to soothe them.
I didn’t collapse or apologize for existing in a state of fear.
I stood there, trembling—but whole.
And I saw the truth:
My fear was evidence that I survived.
Their fear of me was evidence they never learned how to see.
Misattunement taught me to question my reality.
Healing taught me to trust it again.
I am not too much.
I am not a threat.
I am not chaotic, I am alive.
And I no longer seek safety in places that fear my aliveness.
If this speaks to you—if you’ve ever been the “too much,” the misunderstood, the misread—
you’re not alone.
We are many.
We are holy.
We are here.
And we are not collapsing anymore.