Ozonḓu Chronicles: The body knows first

When I first met him, the chemistry was immediate. Electric. The kind that makes a room feel smaller, like the two of you are the only people inside it.

His name was John. Well… we will call him that.

A well-respected academic, whose title and accomplishments preceded him. The sort of man whose credentials walked into the room a few steps ahead.

He was charismatic. Funny. A good time.

But the kind of good time that tasted like I had just had my fill of junk food. Not satisfying, like a well-deserved cheat meal, but one that feels exciting in the moment, but leaves you sitting there afterwards wondering why you feel slightly sick.

The first date already raised a red flag.

It was something small, almost insignificant if you were only paying attention with your mind. The way he spoke to the woman helping us. There was a sharpness in it, a lack of clarity, a subtle impatience that made my body tense without me fully understanding why.

At the time, I brushed it aside.

But the nervous system is a quiet archivist. It records things the mind hasn’t caught up to yet.

I told him I didn’t feel safe around him.

This was after I had hesitated to invite him over to my place. He went cold almost immediately because he felt I had rejected him. I went out of my way to reassure him that I wasn’t pushing him away. I just needed time. I wasn’t ready for that step yet.

When I finally arrived – I had gone to him to explain myself – I was met with disdain.

Apparently, him giving me directions was already annoying because, in his words, I "don’t listen". The energy felt cold from the start. There were jabs. Snarky remarks. Things said through hand gestures rather than words. A frustrated frown. A condescending scowl. The sharp exhale of breath that says more than words ever could.

Too many cues.

Signals your body registers instantly, even while your mind is still trying to give someone the benefit of the doubt.

And that’s when I realised my chest was tightening instead of relaxing when I was with him. 

His silence on the other end of the call felt jarring. I could almost sense the discomfort. “I don’t feel safe around you,” I said again.

Not in the sense that he was abusive or dangerous. But my nervous system didn’t relax around him. I didn’t feel safe enough to be soft. Safe enough to unfold.

He hung up the call.

Then the paragraphs came.

Long messages explaining, defending, centering himself. Everything circling back to him, his perspective, his interpretation of my reaction. And in that moment I understood it all like a puzzle piece finally falling into place: when someone cannot sit with your truth, they will try to rewrite it.

Yes, I was told to get help, and I am. But that dynamic also showed me that your body knows long before the mind is ready to admit it.

And it also taught me something else. That criticism and cruelty are not the same thing.

I am grateful that there are men in my life who have shown me that someone can challenge you and still be kind. Someone can call you out without weaponising your flaws. Someone can be honest without making you feel like your brokenness is a burden they’re heroically tolerating.

Because that is the difference.

One leaves you feeling small and on edge.

The other leaves you feeling safe enough to grow.

Interestingly, he did apologise. But apologies have a frequency to them. You can feel when they come from genuine remorse and when they come from a desire to simply make the discomfort go away.

His never landed.

And yet, I still have to thank him.

Because sometimes people come into our lives not to stay, but to sharpen our instincts. To remind us to trust that small voice that hesitates before sending your location. The quiet pause before you move faster than your spirit is ready to.

A dysregulated man will always leave your nervous system braced for impact.

But the beautiful thing about healing is that eventually you experience the contrast.

You meet someone who lets you cry without interrogating the tears. Someone who simply holds space until you are ready to speak. Someone whose presence doesn’t rush you, try to fix you, or fight you.

They allow you just to exist.

And when you’ve come from abusive dynamics, it takes time to recognise that difference. The nuances of safety. The quiet language of respect.

But I’m learning.

Slowly.

And I think that counts.