Diary of Desires by Uliana Sunny

The body is a survival system. It does not judge your actions in terms of good and evil; it simply reacts to signals.

The nervous system has one primary task: to keep you alive, to ensure your safety. Everything else—closeness, sex, tenderness, spontaneity, joy—is possible only when the system (the body) feels: "I am safe." This is a basic, fundamental principle that is, unfortunately, often ignored or misunderstood in relationships. We try to build intimacy without ensuring foundational safety, and then the body, like a faithful guard, simply will not let us do it.

When safety is in question, the body engages its defenses. It doesn’t ask, "Do you love your husband? Do you want to be with him?" Those questions are simply outside its domain. It asks other, more fundamental questions that are hardwired into our instincts, deep in the subconscious: "Is it safe for me to open up right now? Do I have the strength for this? Will I be hurt if I become vulnerable?" These signals flash in an instant, long before we have time to consciously register or analyze anything.

And if the answer to these instinctive questions is "no" or "I don't know," the body shuts down. Automatically. Without your conscious decision, without your desire. It happens like a reflex, the way your hand jerks back from a hot surface, the way your eyes blink in bright light. You may want closeness with all your heart, but your body has already made a different choice, guided by its primary task: keeping you safe and preserving your resources.

Three States of the Nervous System

In psychology, especially in trauma and stress work, a model is often used that clearly explains why the body “shuts down” and why we sometimes cannot control our own reactions. It helps us understand what is happening on a physiological level when we feel detached, tense, or drained. This model gives us a language to describe internal processes that once seemed inexplicable.

We have three basic modes that determine our state and, consequently, our capacity for intimacy:

1. Safety and connection. This is the state we strive to reach. When we are in it, we are relaxed, our breathing is deep and steady, and we feel “here and now,” grounded, with solid support beneath our feet and within ourselves. In this mode, the body is open, muscles are relaxed, the heartbeat is calm, and the gaze is clear. It is in this state that true intimacy, tender embraces, deep sex, spontaneity, and joy become possible. This is a state of internal groundedness, where different parts of the personality are not at war with each other, and desires, feelings, values, and boundaries are aligned. You feel whole, and this wholeness allows you to be open to the world and to your partner.

2. Mobilization—“fight or flight.” This is a state of high alert, when the nervous system perceives a threat, whether real or imagined. We feel anxiety, irritation, a desire to control everything, constant rushing, and internal tension that can show up in clenched jaws, tight shoulders, and rapid breathing. The body prepares for danger, for fight or flight. In this mode, intimacy is perceived as yet another burden, an added stress, something that demands energy you already don't have. “There's no time for that when you have to survive or fight,” the body says. It is busy looking for a way out of danger, not building a connection.

3. Shutdown—“freeze or check out.” This is a state where the threat feels so overwhelming that fighting or fleeing is impossible. The body “gives up” to conserve energy. We feel fatigue, emptiness, apathy, a sense of “I’m not here,” “everything is in a fog,” as if we are watching our life from the outside. All processes slow down; energy drops to a minimum. Intimacy in this state is nearly impossible because there are simply no physical or emotional resources for it. It feels as though you are completely depleted, unable even to move, and any touch or demand feels like an unbearable burden.

When you turn your head away from a kiss, when you feel internal resistance to an attempt at intimacy, this is often not “I don’t want you” or “I’ve stopped loving you.” This is your nervous system saying: “Now is not the time. First, we need to ensure safety, restore our strength, and get out of survival mode.” This is a signal about your internal state, one that requires attention, understanding, and gentle care.

Window of Tolerance

Understanding these three states of the nervous system brings us to the concept of the “window of tolerance.” This is our optimal range of functioning, where we are able to effectively manage emotions, stay in contact with ourselves and the surrounding world, and feel alive and capable of connection. When we are inside this “window,” we can remain in a state of “safety and connection.” But when stress or overload pushes us outside its boundaries, we fall into either a state of mobilization (hyperarousal) or shutdown (hypoarousal). And that is precisely when intimacy becomes inaccessible.

I know this state—of being outside your window of tolerance—all too well. I know what it is like to wake up in the morning and feel not the lightness of a new day, but a heaviness inside, like a stone lying on your chest, pressing down and keeping you from taking a full breath. I know what it is like to live with the feeling that every day is just like the one before, while pain, fatigue, disappointment, and despair slowly accumulate inside. It is like a slow fading, where you seem to be living, but feel less and less alive. I know what it is like to promise yourself, “Starting tomorrow, everything will be different; I’ll start a new life,” only to wake up in that exact same state, with that same heaviness and apathy, powerless to break out of this vicious circle.

I did not arrive at this realization, at an understanding of what was happening to my body and nervous system, overnight. It took time. A great deal of time. It took going through my own mistakes, disappointments, losses, betrayals, fears, and moments when it felt like I had no strength left, that I had hit rock bottom. Sometimes life literally brings a person to her knees, stripping away her familiar supports and illusions, solely so that one day she can finally rise as a different person—more whole, more aware, and able to truly listen to herself and her body. It was a long and difficult path, but it was precisely what brought me to understand how our internal system works and how we can reclaim our capacity for intimacy.

Wholeness is not just a pretty word; it is a real, tangible state of internal groundedness, where the different parts of your personality finally stop fighting each other. Imagine that your desires, feelings, values, and boundaries are individual instruments in an orchestra. In a fragmented state, each plays whatever it wants, creating a cacophony. You want one thing, but feel another; you value one thing, but act differently because you are afraid of violating someone’s boundaries or standing up for your own. In wholeness, however, they sound in unison, creating harmony. In this state, your self-esteem does not hang by the slender thread of external approval; it does not depend on what people say or think about you. It rests on a deep, stable sense of your own self-worth that comes from within, regardless of circumstances.

When you are in such a state, you stop operating from a place of deficit. This means you are no longer driven by core fears: the fear of being abandoned, the fear of being unwanted, the desire to constantly prove your worth, or the desperate need to fill an inner void. These fears pull at you like invisible marionette strings, forcing you to make decisions that do not align with your true desires and needs. You agree to things you don’t like, you stay where you feel miserable, just to avoid being left alone or feeling rejected.

The path to wholeness begins with returning to baseline, to that very point where there is only you. This is not selfishness; it is the foundation. It is like a system reboot, where you shut down all external programs and begin getting to know yourself anew. Who are you really? What do you love? What are you afraid of? Where are your personal boundaries, and what happens when they are violated? This getting to know yourself happens through living it out. Living through hardships on your own, without someone else’s safety net. This might be a period of establishing financial independence, where you learn to manage your own money and take responsibility for it. It might be growing up, where you make decisions that others used to make for you. It is living through and mastering communication skills, where you learn not just to speak, but to be heard, to defend your opinion even if it differs from the majority. And, of course, learning to say “no”—one of the most difficult, yet most essential skills. Learning to endure silence, to be alone with yourself and your thoughts, without immediately trying to fill that emptiness with external stimuli or another person's presence.

Very often, it is precisely because of this deep-seated fear of living life alone, this fear of confronting your real self, that it seems easier for a woman to find a man who will supposedly become her support. The thought is simple: “I will find a man, and we will go through all of this together.” As the thinking goes, two together isn't as scary. But a trap lurks within this formula: you are not looking for an equal partner, but rather a savior. You do not yet know what you are like, what you want, or where you are going, and therefore you cannot choose someone who will walk alongside you rather than carry you in his arms. You project the role of savior onto him, even if he does not support you financially, even if you work on equal footing. His presence becomes a shield against the world: “We’ll go sort out the paperwork together, we’ll visit friends together—it won’t be so scary.”

Imagine that throughout your school years you went everywhere with your parents, holding their hands. And now you have grown up, you have become an adult woman, yet at the crucial moment you fail to switch on the internal ability to be comfortable alone. It feels abnormal to you to handle going anywhere on your own. Of course, it is very often important for girls to go somewhere with a friend—to a workout, to visit people, to an event. That is natural; it is part of social life. But you need to cultivate the ability to go places alone, to run errands alone, to travel alone, to sit in a café alone. Not because you have to be a hermit, but because it gives you inner freedom and confidence. If you do not learn to be in a calm, safe state when you are by yourself, you will constantly cling to your partner. He might be the most wonderful person, but if you hold on to anything with your teeth, it starts trying to run away from you. It is very difficult to be around someone who is constantly clinging, someone who cannot breathe without your presence. Such attachment, rooted in fear, suffocates a relationship, turning it into a cage for both of you.

This was precisely the path toward finding inner ground and wholeness that I began to walk. A month after I realized the necessity of these changes and began taking my first steps toward myself, I decided to go out with a friend to talk. This was not just an outing, but a conscious desire to share what was bubbling up inside me. We agreed to visit an exhibition and then have dinner together, so that we would have time to talk unhurriedly. I wanted not merely to exchange news, but to speak about what was happening in my life, to share my new plans, which were only just beginning to take shape. I felt that I needed to move to another country. Where exactly, I did not yet know. How, I did not know either. But inside there was already a distinct, persistent feeling that I needed to move forward, to change something, and to take active steps toward it. We talked about everything: about relationships, about work, about the future, about how we saw ourselves in it.

And it was on that very evening, when I was open to the world and to my new sensations, that another completely chance acquaintance occurred right at the exhibition. I was standing near one of the paintings, immersed in my thoughts, when a man addressed me. We struck up a conversation, and it turned out that he headed the external affairs of a major corporation. The conversation started easily, effortlessly, as though we had known each other for a long time. I spoke about my work, and it suddenly emerged that I worked in a holding company that was a subsidiary of their corporation. It was an astonishing coincidence. He invited me to take part in their events as a guest. One of these exhibitions was due to take place in the near future, and this offer became another confirmation for me that I was on the right path, that the world was beginning to respond to my inner changes.

This experience, like many others, led me to an understanding of an important concept—the “window of tolerance.” Every person has an individual range, their own “window,” within which they are capable of tolerating various feelings, bodily sensations, touches, and intimacy, while remaining in contact with themselves and the world around them. This is not a static state, but rather a dynamic capacity. When you are inside this window, you can feel anxiety, sadness, joy, or even slight irritation, but your internal compass continues to function steadily. You do not lose yourself, even if something inside sways slightly. You are able to notice your vulnerability, to acknowledge it, without letting it consume you completely. You remain connected to your body, to your thoughts, and to the reality around you.

When we move outside this window, we fall either into a state of hyperarousal—panic, anger, excessive activity—or into a state of hypoarousal—numbness, apathy, a sense of emptiness, detachment. Wholeness is not the absence of these fluctuations, but the ability to return to your window, to endure these states without losing yourself. It is the ability to recognize: right now I feel uncertain, but that is normal, it is temporary, and my internal compass is still here, guiding me. This allows you not to panic at the slightest inner discomfort, but gently, step by step, to return yourself to groundedness, to contact with yourself and with life.

Inside the window of tolerance: this is a state where your nervous system functions optimally, allowing you to experience inner harmony and safety. You are able to be deeply aware of your emotions without suppressing them or allowing them to overwhelm you. The presence of another person nearby is perceived as a source of support and comfort, rather than a threat. You easily receive affection, feeling its warmth and tenderness, and you yourself are capable of showing genuine tenderness without feeling discomfort or constraint. Your body is relaxed, your muscles are not tense, and your breathing is deep and rhythmic, which reflects parasympathetic activation and a sense of internal stability. This state allows you to be fully engaged in the present moment and to interact effectively with the surrounding world.

Above the window of tolerance: this is the hyperarousal zone, where the body and psyche react to overload, perceiving it as a threat. This manifests as mounting anxiety that can escalate into panic, or flashes of anger directed at yourself or those around you. An acute feeling arises that there is “too much of everything”—too much information, too many stimuli, demands, emotions. On a physiological level, this is accompanied by muscle tension, especially in the neck, shoulders, and jaw, a rapid heartbeat that can feel like a pounding in the chest, and shallow, ragged breathing. The body shifts into “fight or flight” mode, preparing for immediate action, which creates a feeling of internal instability and a loss of control.

Below the window of tolerance: this is the hypoarousal zone, a state of numbness and dissociation that occurs as a defensive reaction to excessive stress or trauma. The organism seemingly “shuts down,” attempting to protect itself from an excess of stimuli or unbearable pain. This manifests as profound fatigue, detachment from what is happening, and a sense of inner emptiness and apathy. The body becomes sluggish, movements slow down, and emotional responses are dulled. A person may feel “out of their body,” disconnected from reality, which is the nervous system’s attempt to minimize the impact of the traumatic experience.

If you have lived for years in conditions of chronic stress, your window of tolerance has inevitably narrowed. This is not simply a metaphor or a psychological construct; it is a real physiological change, in which the nervous system is constantly on high alert, like a taut string. In such a state, even the gentlest touch from your husband, which would normally bring pleasure and relaxation, can instantly cast you outside its bounds—either into hyperarousal or into hypoarousal. Then the body, acting according to an embedded survival program, instinctively defends itself: it turns away, tenses, clenches, shuts down, as if trying to create a physical barrier. It is vital to understand: this is not a whim, not a sign of bad character or an absence of love. It is a deep, unconscious reflex, a protective reaction of an organism that has learned to survive in conditions of constant threat, real or perceived. It is a mechanism that once helped you cope, but now stands in the way of genuine intimacy.