A Reflection on Sensitivity, Creativity, and Somatic Renewal

I used to think that the challenge of singing in public was just about skill—about how well I knew the song, how clear my voice was, or how much I had practiced. But what I have discovered over time is that the greatest challenge was not outside of me, but within my own nervous system. Performing was not simply a test of musical ability; it was a tidal wave of intensity inside my body.

On stage, I often forgot my lyrics. My mind would blank, my body would feel like it was going to float away, and the vulnerability of being seen would overwhelm me for days after a performance. For years, I thought this was a flaw—that my sensitivity was something I needed to overcome if I wanted to “make it” in music or even fulfill my basic desires to share my songs in live performance.

What I understand now, through the lenses of polyvagal theory, body budget, and the theory of constructed emotion, is that my nervous system was doing exactly what it was designed to do: protect me. These frameworks gave me language for the things I was living. They showed me that what felt like weakness was actually my body’s profound intelligence.

The Nervous System as Ally: Polyvagal Theory

Polyvagal theory, developed by Dr. Stephen Porges, offers a way of seeing the nervous system not as a simple “on/off” switch between calm and stress, but as a nuanced system of states shaped by safety and connection. According to this view, my nervous system is always scanning—asking: Am I safe? Am I supported? Am I in danger?

When I stepped onto a stage, my body didn’t just see a microphone and an audience. It registered exposure, unpredictability, and the risk of rejection. My system could slide quickly into fight-or-flight (racing heart, trembling hands) or even into freeze (blanking out, feeling disconnected). What I once called failure was simply my biology protecting me.

Understanding this has softened the way I hold my experiences. Instead of berating myself for going blank on stage, I can see it as a survival response—and then work with it.

The Body Budget of a Performer

Lisa Feldman Barrett’s idea of the “body budget” gave me words for something I had always felt but couldn’t name. Just as we manage financial resources, our brains constantly manage energy: balancing what we spend and what we restore. Every performance drew heavily from my body budget.

The adrenaline of being on stage, the cognitive load of remembering lyrics, and the emotional weight of feeling exposed—all of it quickly depleted my reserves. Afterward, I would crash. For days, I felt incredibly exhausted and sensitive, as if every cell was emptied of its charge.

Instead of understanding this as my nervous system’s natural recovery, I felt shame. Why did I need so much time when others seemed to bounce back? Often, I muscled through, pushing myself toward “normal,” or reached for sugar and food to soothe my system.

Now, I practice something different: pre- and post-performance renewal. Recovery is not weakness; it’s part of the cycle of being an artist. My body budget has also changed with time. Menopause, the long impact of Hurricane Helene, and family stress all draw from my reserves in ways I cannot ignore. This has been sobering—and strangely liberating.

The Emotions of Creativity: Theory of Constructed Emotion

Another shift came through Lisa Feldman Barrett’s Theory of Constructed Emotion. This perspective tells us that emotions aren’t fixed packages waiting inside us. Instead, the brain is a prediction machine, constantly drawing on past experiences to construct what we feel in the present.

On stage, when my hands shook and my mind went blank, I wasn’t just “feeling anxious.” My brain was predicting danger, using past memories of shame, fear, and exposure. It then constructed the reality of panic as a way to protect me.

This became even clearer when I acknowledged my history of relational trauma. Being on stage—exposed, watched, and vulnerable—was not separate from those earlier wounds. My sensitivity wasn’t brokenness; it was a deep intelligence carrying memory, trying to keep me safe.

Finding My Tools

What has changed everything for me is realizing I don’t have to override my sensitivity. I don’t have to push through exhaustion or pretend my system can do what it cannot. Instead, I can listen.

When intensity builds, I turn to practices that help my body return to safety. If I feel the weight of freeze, I shake—letting my body finish what it couldn’t on stage. I move through simple qi gong flows to remember rhythm and circulation. Sometimes I use muscle contractions—squats, wall push-ups—to feel grounded and strong again.

When deep rest is needed, I lean into yoga nidra, drifting into that liminal space where the nervous system can reset. I’ve learned the value of dopamine reset times—stepping away from overstimulation, giving myself quiet so balance can return. I even give myself permission for “dead fish days,” knowing it takes me about 24–48 hours to restore after a big performance.

And then there is community. Circles of support—friends, colleagues, creative allies—remind me I’m not alone. Co-regulation isn’t an abstract concept; it’s a lived reality of being held in connection.

At the center of it all, I listen. I respect my body budget. I ask: What is possible today? What is not? My goals shift in response. That flexibility feels like freedom.

Permission to Ask

And yet—I find myself in a tender place. Do I want to keep enduring the stress of performing? Or is there another way of self-expression that would honor me more deeply now? I don’t have the answer. But granting myself permission to ask is itself a form of healing.

Looking Ahead

What excites me most is the possibility that others might find freedom sooner than I did. That artists, entrepreneurs, and sensitive souls might learn that their nervous systems are not obstacles, but landscapes where creativity takes root.

The practices I’ve gathered—shaking, qi gong, yoga nidra, dopamine resets, community, body budget awareness—are not just personal. They are maps for sustainable artistry. They show us how to honor sensitivity instead of overriding it, how to nurture resilience without force.

Whether I continue singing, writing, or exploring new mediums, I know this: my nervous system and my art move together. Holding that awareness is my way forward. And through my coaching and workshops, I walk alongside others who are learning the same.

My creativity and my nervous system are not separate. They are companions. And honoring that bond has become my most vital creative practice.