When Courage Emerges: A Story of Healing, Co-Regulation, and Hope

If you want to listen to a discussion of this blog article, then you can listen on The Regulated Mother Podcast, by Afshan Tafler on Apple or Spotify

Staying with the Good

Today, I feel good.

I’m walking in the forest—which is very regulating for me—and I’m allowing myself to stay with this good feeling. Not long ago, it was hard for me to stay with any good feelings. They would quickly be followed by worry: "What if something bad is going to happen again?" I couldn’t hold onto the good, couldn’t bask in it, couldn’t let it nourish my nervous system. And yet, it’s these good feelings that help our nervous systems recover, rebuild, and grow more resilient.

Having a regulated nervous system isn’t only about tolerating challenging sensations and emotions. It’s also about being able to stay with the pleasant ones—to build up your system’s capacity to feel joy, peace, and connection. It teaches your nervous system that you can experience the full spectrum. You can feel the pain, and you can also return to the good.

So today, as I walk among the trees, I notice the warmth of the sun on my face, the soft breeze against my skin, the scent of spring flowers blooming, the joyful chirping of birds. My nervous system is resonating with all of it. And I allow myself to let it in.

Then I ask myself, what else is contributing to this good feeling today? And the answer comes from deep inside: I feel like I have more of a handle on life lately. And I’m reflecting on how far we’ve come—especially when I think about where we were just a year ago, when my son had to be hospitalized for his OCD and aggressive meltdowns.

A New Challenge

Just last week, we faced another intense situation. My son has been dealing with some digestive challenges and GI symptoms, and some of them were concerning. We were working with doctors over the phone, and had plans to get blood and stool tests done from home—but after four days of trying to get a stool sample with no success and symptoms seeming to get worse, my fear escalated.

I began feeling the weight of responsibility—was I being negligent by not pushing him to be taken in and be seen? My nervous system got activated, but I used my tools to come back to enough regulation to say: this is the right decision. We need to go to the hospital.

This, of course, was not going to be easy. My son is currently mostly housebound and very resistant to leaving the house, especially for something anxiety-provoking like a medical visit. So when we told him we needed to go to the hospital to get things checked out, he immediately went into panic—followed by rage. He started running around the house, throwing things, banging things.

My husband and I stayed calm. We knew this was expected. Our nervous systems were regulated enough to stay grounded, even in the face of his intense reaction. We knew the panic energy had to come up and out. We gave it space.

We also knew that we were dealing with an 11 PM situation—it was already late, but this is when our son is most awake. His current circadian rhythm keeps him up through the night, so in a way, we were working with his nervous system's flow rather than against it. I was also intentionally offering something unfamiliar but positive—being up together in the middle of the night, as a family, going on an adventure, while pairing it with something extremely hard. It was a strategy, and it was working.

Letting Him Lead

There was still fear in me and my husband—memories of past hospital traumas, including my husband’s severe Crohn's flares and my son's mental health hospitalization last year. But this time, we were able to contain that fear with compassion. We held it gently, instead of letting it take over.

And something amazing happened: as we stayed present, our son began to come down too. He began to regulate. And then, astonishingly, he moved into a state of creativity and courage.

He came up with the idea of using a wheelchair we had borrowed from a family friend. He suggested taking a wheelchair-accessible taxi to the hospital. This way, he could bypass the stress of getting into the car, which often triggers his OCD and PDA, and he wouldn’t feel the need to control us while driving—something he usually struggles with.

It was a brilliant solution. He even said he’d wanted to ride in one of those taxis for a while, so it added an element of fun and novelty. Unfortunately, by midnight, we couldn’t find an available wheelchair taxi. So I gently suggested he could go in the car, like he had done six weeks ago.

He didn’t respond right away. I stayed quiet and let him process. Eventually, he said he wanted to sit in the back seat and bring the wheelchair in the trunk to use at the hospital.

My husband and I were stunned. He had just found his own way through the fear.

Trauma Memory and Reassurance

But then, another wave hit. He froze again. Something was coming up inside him.

He told us what it was: the memory of last year, when he was left alone in the hospital ward. He was afraid we were going to leave him again.

This was new—his ability to name the fear so clearly, to express it out loud. We reassured him again and again. We told him this was different, that we would stay with him the whole time. That the hospital allows parents to sleep beside their children. That no one would make us leave.

It took a few repetitions, but he believed us. He said: "Okay, let’s go."

Orientation to Safety

On the drive, I helped orient him to things he loves to see. We used to go on drives all the time to help ease his anxiety, and I brought that same energy now. I stayed joyful, light. I reminisced about good memories. And he responded to it. I could feel it.

When we got to the hospital, he asked for the wheelchair. He remembered that sitting in it helped him last year when he felt frozen—that being wheeled in was easier than trying to overcome the freeze response on his own.

This was another big shift for me and my husband. In the past, we would have resisted the idea of using a wheelchair. We would have feared enabling an OCD ritual or creating dependency. But now, we understand PDA. We understand that in times of extreme stress, certain accommodations are necessary.

We saw this as autonomy, not avoidance. He came up with the idea. He was trying to solve the problem. And we supported it.

The Hospital Experience

Inside the hospital, we oriented him again. I showed him the glass elevators he used to love as a child. That memory brought him comfort and excitement.

When we reached the ER, the triage nurse told us there was a nine-hour wait. It was now 2 AM. And then something incredible happened—the nurses greeted us with words that are usually massive OCD triggers for my son. "Hi." "Thank you."

And he didn’t activate.

Just one year ago, those words would have sent him into a spiral. But now, he tolerated them.

The nurse advised us that, since he was not in pain and the symptoms were manageable, we could go home and complete the bloodwork and stool tests the next day. We agreed.

But before we left, I wanted to end the night on a positive note. We rode the glass elevators. We talked about the gluten-free store we visited years ago. We remembered how the nurses used to love him when he had bloodwork done. I was gently planting a seed for the next day's blood draw at home.

We got home at 3 AM. I sat with him for another hour as he processed the entire experience. He talked and talked. And he smiled. He was proud of himself.

A Moment Six Years in the Making

The next two days, he kept talking about his courage. He finally managed to provide a stool sample after five days of trying. And he got his blood drawn at home by a nurse who was amazing with him. He looked at me and said, "Mommy, that wasn’t so hard."

I saw joy and pride in his eyes. I hadn’t seen that in six years.

Six years of being stuck. Of being housebound. Of school refusal, violent rages, shame, OCD rituals, and trauma responses.

And now—he was beaming with pride.

I let it in. I let it land in my nervous system. I didn’t rush past it. I stayed with the good.

Looking Back, Moving Forward

Later, I said to him, "This was a challenging week, but we are both stronger than we know. We can do hard things."

He smiled.

My heart melted.

As I walk through the forest today, I reflect on the contrast between now and the trauma vortex we lived through not long ago. We still face challenges, but we’re not stuck in the same way.

This healing is a result of trauma work, deconditioning, environmental shifts, and nervous system regulation. It’s helping our whole family, including my relationship with my husband. We’re more of a team now.

To the Parents Still in the Thick of It

If you're still in the hard part, I see you. If your child hasn’t yet found their courage, if you haven't yet found your calm, please know this:

You’re not behind. You’re not doing it wrong. You’re planting seeds that will grow.

Even if you can’t see the progress yet, it’s there. Even slivers of hope matter. Even moments of calm ripple outward.

Your healing helps their healing. Your presence makes a difference.

You and your child are stronger than you know.

You can do hard things.

And there is joy ahead.

Hold on. Let the good land. And let it grow.