Triggers, Stories and the Art of Not Feeding the Horse

We explore emotional triggers and the cover stories we knowingly (or unknowingly) tell ourselves to mask behaviours and emotional responses we would rather not have. This excerpt is from lecture 14 of The Calmness in Mind Process for overcoming anxiety disorders.

Most of us still react as if the thing that just happened is the real problem. Someone asks a simple question, rolls their eyes, criticises us, or simply exists in a way that feels awkward — and within a second the body floods with emotion. We justify, defend, explode or withdraw. Later we may feel foolish, yet the next time the same button is pressed the reaction fires again.

These are triggers. They are not conscious choices. They are old programs, installed long ago and stored in the amygdala’s “unsafe” database. Once there, they do not get reviewed. Language does not reach them. Telling yourself “it’s only a Chihuahua” or “they didn’t mean it as criticism” has almost no effect, because the part of the brain holding the program predates language.

A simple childhood example shows how it works. A three-year-old is knocked over by a large dog that only wants to lick his face. The mother screams. The child’s own survival wiring screams. Nothing truly dangerous occurred, yet the amygdala records “dog = danger.” Years later a tiny dog on a lead can still fire the same response. The conscious mind has forgotten the original event. The ego, embarrassed by an irrational fear, invents a more acceptable cover story: “I’m allergic,” or later “dogs are dirty.” The cover story becomes identity. The real landmine remains untouched.

The same process installs quieter, more social landmines. A child is told to stay silent and still when an angry parent comes home. Decades later, a raised voice from a boss produces the identical freeze or flight, even though the adult consciously wants to speak up. Pattern-matching does the rest: a moustache, a certain tone, a particular look can all light the fuse.

The practical work is to separate three things that usually arrive glued together: the external trigger, the bodily emotion, and the story the mind immediately writes about both.

When the partner asks why the dishwasher is still full, the landmine may fire. The old reaction is to snap back with justifications. The new response is to notice the surge, pause, sag the body, and stay out of the story long enough for the energy to move through. Only then do you answer: “You’re right, I forgot. Sorry.” The emotion is allowed. The story is not fed.

This is how the parasite of anxiety is starved. Anxiety feeds on the emotional charge generated by the stories. Stop generating the stories and the charge has less to feed on. The same principle applies to the daily practice of “decompressing the day” each evening and “pre-decompressing” the next day each morning. You deliberately bring up the residual irritations or the anticipated difficulties, stay with the feeling without the narrative, and let the energy discharge. Over time the landmines lose their charge.

You will notice other people more clearly once you start watching your own buttons. You will see their cover stories, their justifications, their sudden outbursts. Compassion becomes easier because you recognise the same mechanism. You may even choose not to press their buttons out of simple kindness, while still refusing to walk on eggshells around your own.

The goal is not to become a person without triggers. The goal is to become the rider who can remain calm while the horse rears, who can feel the surge without immediately believing the story that arrives with it, and who can use those moments to discharge what has been stored for years. The more you practise the separation, the less power the old programs retain.

Exposure remains the primary route for the classic anxiety and OCD triggers. For the subtler interpersonal ones, the daily practice of noticing, pausing, and staying out of the story is the work. Both aim at the same result: a nervous system that no longer treats every reminder of the past as a present emergency.