Feeling the Weight of Words: A Journey Through RSD

The Email That Launched a Thousand Fears

There I was again, locked in a tragic embrace with an innocuous email that no sane person would blink at twice. My heart staged a mutiny against the calm I was supposed to embody. The message was simple, almost painfully mundane:

“Just wanted to circle back on that report from yesterday. Could you revise the conclusion? It didn’t quite land for me.”

A dozen words, all perfectly harmless, yet there I was, concocting a saga of my imminent unemployment.

She despises what I’ve done. It’s always been the case. She’s probably rallying the troops as we speak.

My mind raced ahead, betting on how quickly I’d be packing up my desk, escorted by the sad tune of my career’s demise humming in the background. This catastrophizing was, of course, based on vast evidence such as Tara not making eye contact at yesterday’s meeting. Clearly, she was the ringleader of my professional downfall.

When Everyday Moments Become Emotional Landmines

I took a sip of my now-cold coffee - a cruel reminder that time hadn’t stopped, even if my brain had. The office buzzed around me, oblivious to my internal soap opera.

Last week, my partner dared to suggest another restaurant over my choice, which obviously meant they were bored stiff of not just my dining picks but of me entirely. I spent that dinner crafting a mask of “everything’s peachy,” while internally scripting our breakup scene by scene.

RSD, my therapist calls it. Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria. It sounds like a rare tropical disease, but it’s just my brain treating every perceived slight like a lion lurking in the tall grass.

Remember, my therapist’s voice echoed in my skull, this is just your personal alarm system cranking up to eleven. The apocalypse isn’t here yet.

Grounding in Reality: Finding the Path Back

I tried to ground myself with facts. My last review was stellar. My boss had even highlighted my keen eye for detail. Just yesterday, she’d beamed at me for spotting a glitch that could’ve made our presentation a blockbuster flop.

So, the email wasn’t a coded message saying, “Pack up, you’re done.” It was just… feedback. Normal, everyday feedback.

Your nervous system can’t tell the difference between an awkward email and a saber-toothed tiger, my therapist would say. Fascinating, if not slightly inconvenient when trying to maintain professional composure.

I anchored myself to the present moment. My desk was a solid mess of papers, my plant was slightly wilting - relatable, really - and I could see the rain painting streaks down the window. The world was still turning, despite my brain’s conviction that it was all collapsing.

The Gradual Return to Equilibrium

As the drama in my head dialled down from a Shakespearean tragedy to something resembling normality, I revisited the email.

“Could you revise the conclusion? It didn’t quite land for me.”

Not an attack. Just a nudge.

I could tweak a few things, add that chart she likes - easy fixes. I drafted my response with the grace of a swan paddling frantically under the water: “Thanks for the feedback! I’ll tweak the conclusion and have it on your desk by the end of the day. Anything specific you’d like me to focus on?”

Look at me, being all professional without a hint of the nervous breakdown that had just transpired.

Sent.

The Unexpected Moment of Connection

I was just basking in the glow of my apparent normalcy when Tara approached, a peace offering of caffeine in hand. She smiled, a real one this time. “Hey, got a minute to discuss the Henderson project? I loved what you did last time.”

And just like that, the menacing clouds in my mind parted. Maybe I wasn’t the office pariah after all.

This is the exhausting dance of understanding RSD. One moment you’re spiraling into a vortex of doom, and the next, you’re being praised and reminded that you might just be competent. It’s about learning to ride the wave from “they all hate me” to “maybe I’m actually okay.”

“Sure, I’d love to help,” I said, managing to sound like someone who hadn’t just mentally lived through their own professional funeral.

The Quiet Aftermath: Processing and Progress

Later, no doubt, I’ll replay this chat with Tara. Did I sound too keen? Was my relief too palpable? The echo of the interaction will ripple through my evening, each wave a little gentler than the last.

It’s a cycle; this much I know. My brain has its quirks, but understanding them - that’s half the battle. Each freak-out feels a bit shorter than the last, each recovery a tad quicker.

The texture of RSD is unique - like velvet rubbed the wrong way, creating a sensation that’s both familiar and jarring. It’s the temperature dropping suddenly in a warm room, leaving goosebumps on your skin that only you can feel.

Back to the report I go, armed with fresh insights and slightly steadier hands. Tomorrow, a new challenge will likely throw me. But each time, I find a little more footing, a little more grace in the face of my mind’s tendency to catastrophize.

Finding Peace in the Pattern

Understanding RSD isn’t about eliminating these moments of intense emotional response. It’s about recognising the pattern, knowing that the intensity will fade, and trusting that you’ll find your way back to solid ground.

In the soft light of my desk lamp, I revise the conclusion. The words flow more easily now, my fingers no longer trembling over the keyboard. There’s a rhythm to recovery that becomes more familiar with practice - the initial shock, the spiral, the gradual return to reason, and finally, the quiet acceptance.

The rain has stopped outside. A colleague laughs at something across the office, the sound bright and untroubled. I take a deep breath and feel the tension in my shoulders ease just slightly.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s progress enough.

The Gentle Art of Self-Compassion

Perhaps the most important lesson in understanding RSD is learning to extend the same grace to yourself that you would to others. Would I ever judge a friend for feeling wounded by criticism? Would I dismiss their emotional response as an overreaction?

Of course not.

So why do I hold myself to an impossible standard of emotional stoicism?

As I finish the revised report, I allow myself a moment of recognition. Not pride, exactly, but acknowledgement. I navigated another emotional storm. I didn’t let it derail my day. I completed the task with care and attention.

These small victories matter. They accumulate like gentle rainfall, gradually filling the reservoir of resilience.

The next time RSD strikes - and it will - I’ll remember this moment. The feeling of coming back to myself, of finding solid ground beneath my feet again. The knowledge that the intensity always passes, leaving behind clarity and, sometimes, unexpected connection.

Understanding RSD isn’t about curing it. It’s about learning to coexist with this particular wiring of my brain, recognising its patterns, and finding my way through the emotional landscape with increasing skill.

And in that understanding lies a quiet kind of freedom.