When the ink dances with the nib, it creates a refuge where thoughts settle, and letters stand watch!
Anxiety became a familiar state to me from a very young age.
I didn’t know what name to give it, what definition would capture its essence, but I could recognize that constrictive inner tension with absolute precision as a sensation.
It migrated in location, but its manifestation remained the same.
Instinctively, I began a conversation with it.
As a child, I would ask it to leave, I would argue with it—literally—because I didn’t know how else to relate to it.
But guess what? As I grew up, so did it.
At some point, in high school, it had turned into a constant discomfort.
…ironically, that made me stop searching for an immediate meaning or hoping it would disappear.
I believed that this was simply who I was…
In those dark times—amidst the rationing of basic goods, lack of electricity and heat, repression of free speech, restricted freedom of movement, severe deficiencies in the healthcare system, and the banning of sociology and psychology—no one spoke to us about understanding our psychological profiles, about self-awareness, about the emotional spectrum, emotional regulation, trauma, shadows, vulnerability, attachment styles, relationship dynamics, mental patterns, mind-body connections, and so on.
Lacking this educational context or external sources of explanation, I had to compensate. I had to refine my inner observation, increase my frustration tolerance, and find ways to recycle my own states and sensations.
Unknowingly, I was naturally practicing what today’s scientists and biologists call hormesis.
Hormesis = Strengthening through adversity.
A physiological illustration of the well-known phrase: “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”
Hormesis, it turns out, is one of the most effective processes for preventing aging. It has been closely studied in recent years.
For example, in the 1980s, during Taiwan’s economic boom, Taipei saw rapid construction. Some of the steel used in building approximately 1,700 apartments was contaminated with radioactive cobalt-60. No one noticed the problem until 1990.
It is estimated that nearly 10,000 people lived in these radioactive apartments before they were demolished. Residents were exposed daily to radiation levels far above the safety limit, raising concerns about DNA mutations and cancer risks.
However, when doctors analyzed the medical history of these residents, they were stunned: cancer rates were lower than in the general Taiwanese population, across all types.
A similar phenomenon was observed in the U.S. among workers involved in building nuclear submarines and among radiologists exposed to ionizing radiation. Studies indicate that they tend to live longer than doctors in other specialties and have a lower risk of developing cancer.
I was fascinated by the nervous system. I spent countless hours (and I’m still not bored of it) reading books and gathering information, trying to understand it, to understand myself, to diagnose my own functional state.
By the end of university, I had finally figured it out.
I realized that the emotion itself wasn’t the problem—what mattered was what happened before it was triggered.
I had a chronically overactive sympathetic nervous system, running at high revs for a long time, with a “logical incompetence” on the parasympathetic side, and weak vagal tone—which, on a sensory level, translated into anxiety.
Still, I had no clear solution (even today, there’s no universal protocol or definitive understanding).
By then, the Internet had arrived in Romania, and I continued to seek clarity from foreign sources.
That’s when I started writing.
It wasn’t journaling, but rather a kind of recording—on any scrap of paper I had available—of sensations transformed into words, symbols, scribbles, and signs.
…they described my states, so I wouldn’t forget them, so I could see what triggered them, whether there was a common thread, so I could break them down into pieces, disassemble them, deconstruct them visually, metabolize them aesthetically, detoxify them into the welcoming vastness of paper.
I was never a big fan of handwriting in school, but I know for sure that written expression flows more naturally for me than spoken words.
And the black imprint of authentic ink on the silent white of the paper still tempts my eye with a seductive aesthetic (even though we were required to write in blue ink).
I quickly realized that the physical act of writing with the nib was a reflection of me.
The writing instrument is an unforgiving mirror of self-awareness:
It shows you, with every stroke, who you are at that moment.
Where you say more or less than your essence truly wants to express.
It directly confronts your weaknesses, insufficiencies, exaggerations, limitations, emotions, or the mind’s conditioned illusions.
Ultimately, this entire process became a very useful graphic framework for emotional monitoring.
And I proved to myself how art, in the primitive form I practiced, is a powerful metabolic mechanism for transforming darkness.
Much later, I came across Polyvagal Theory, developed by Dr. Stephen Porges.
Introduced in the 1990s, the theory was rapidly embraced in psychotherapy and trauma treatment because it explains the neurobiology of safety—essentially, it’s a kind of “neuroscience of security” and social connection.
In other words, it explains how the nervous system functions depending on how safe we perceive the external or internal world to be.
For emotional regulation, co-regulation through social engagement is essential, says Dr. Porges. We can use relationships—other balanced nervous systems—to help us feel safe and connected.
Hemingway intuitively captured the essence of this theory:
"In our darkest moments, we don’t need solutions or advice. What we truly long for is simple human connection—a silent presence, a gentle touch."
But what if you don’t have access to that external connection?
The next best option is self-regulation.
It means using your own autonomic nervous system, in whatever state it’s in, to recalibrate toward safety.
And here’s where an “Arc Over Time” connected back to my writing process.
That’s exactly what I had been doing: helping my nervous system strengthen and function efficiently through the ventral branch of the vagus nerve (if you’re familiar with Polyvagal Theory), the branch responsible for safety and connection.
Over time, my writing refined itself—it blurred the boundaries between words, settled into increasingly stable spaces, evolved into an aesthetic, free-flowing script with a personality independent of the anxiety from which it was born.
I never spoke about this aspect—until a few days ago, when I received a phone call from a dear client:
"Ana, I definitely want your book, but first, tell me its story! Knowing you, I’m sure there is one!"
I won’t share our entire conversation, but that was the essence!
With joy and gratitude, today, alongside my integrative coaching sessions—which have a direct impact on nervous system balance and recalibration—I can also offer you a safe space for self-regulation and tranquility through this work.
Perhaps you also have a drawer filled with thoughts, emotions, or states waiting to be brought into the light.
Maybe now isn’t the right time for exploration or sharing one-on-one with a coach or therapist.
…sometimes, all you need is a safe space, a deep breath and a little inspiration!
In this book, I have carefully designed spaces specifically for introspection and discovery.
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