Hypermobility of the mind

- a metaphor, not a diagnosis.

Are you the one who always understands? The one who tracks the mood in the house or group you are in? Do you have a critical eye always pointed inwards? I see you.

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Most of us have heard of hypermobile joints.

A joint that is hypermobile can bend further than expected. At first glance, that might seem like an advantage. Greater flexibility. Greater range. Greater capacity. But anyone who lives with hypermobility knows that flexibility often comes at a price. The joint has to work much harder to find stability. It doesn’t always know where neutral is.

Lately, I’ve been wondering if there is such a thing as hypermobility of the mind. Not as a diagnosis, but as a way of describing something I see in many people who grew up having to adapt. Their minds can't seem to stop.

Not because they’re weak or broken, but because they beccame very good at surviving. Any given Tuesday is full of questions. Like: Am I doing the right thing? Am I saying the right thing? What do they need from me? What am I feeling? Is this feeling too much? Why am I feeling this way? Do I need something? Am I allowed to need that? Is there something I'm missing? Am I doing life wrong?

All while making dinner, answering emails, caring for children, supporting friends, working, smiling, and appearing remarkably capable. It is almost like having four conversations running in your head while holding a fifth with the person in front of you.

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People often admire these individuals for their thoughtfulness, empathy, calm and understanding. Maybe they don't judge, a hyber mobility trait in and of itself sometimes, they just let people feel accepted.

What isn’t always visible is how much mental and emotional acrobatics it takes to do that.

The constant tracking. Tamping down their own reactions and emotions. Calculating a heap of variables, anticipating reactions and needs. Bending over backwards to be what the situation needs.

Children don’t learn this because life is easy. They learn it because, at some point, it became safer to adapt than to simply be. When the adults around us cannot reliably soothe, protect or understand us, we become incredibly inventive. We learn to read the room and predict moods so we can stay one step ahead. We adjust ourselves before being asked and make ourselves smaller, quieter and useful. We have learned to use our faculties, our remarkable faculties, to be adaptable.

This brings to mind a quote from Brené Brown: "The oposite of belonging is fitting in." Seen in this light it's not a surprise that this affects our relationship with or bodies, emotions and needs. Not because they disappear, but because remaining fully connected to needs that aren't consistently met is very painful for anyone, let alone a developing nervous system.

So the mind finds another strategy. It keeps moving, calculating, accomodating, and keeping the system safe. On the surface this adaptation can look like strenght. People may praise your insight, your empathy and your ability to understand everyone around you. Meanwhile, your own nervous system is still looking for safety and rest. Your reserves are eaten up and the batteries slowly limits the ability to recharge. Because bodies don't lie, even when it feels like the world demands it of us. The mind becomes so accustomed to bending that it forgets there is such a thing as a resting position.

Healing, to me, isn’t about becoming mentally rigid or even having a quiet mind. It isn’t about caring less. It isn’t about thinking less. It is about gradually rebuilding a relationship with yourself and your body.

As the nervous system begins to experience moments of enough safety, something remarkable can happen. The mind doesn’t have to calculate quite so much and the body starts to notice the present.

Then the question slowly changes from, "What do I have to become in order to survive this moment?” into an ability to wonder, “What is actually true right now?”

This opens up to a whole new kind of capacity. It lets you use your remarkable adaptability to create and become a safe and nurturing space for yourself, rather than just to survive. And perhaps that is what healing looks like more than limiting the ability to bend?