Sheer Terror: What One Moment Taught Me About the Stress Response, Gratitude, and Who I Am At the Core.

As a facilitator in performance and wellbeing, I talk to people all the time about stress. We often dive into the science of the stress response: how we “live” in the sympathetic nervous system response of fight or flight (or freeze or appease) much of our day when we don’t take time to reset and recharge. I explain that, when a stressful event occurs, intellect is impaired, and we are limited in our ability to think clearly and perform at our best. I attribute this to our body’s evolutionary survival instincts—the stress response is designed to protect us in a life or death situation.

Thing is, I’d never experienced a life or death situation. Until last weekend.

It was 5:45 AM – first light hadn’t yet broken on our sleepy little beachside town. I was a few miles south of my house on a normally busy road that parallels the Banana River in Indialantic, Florida, with a good friend and running buddy, Georgia. We’ve met countless times for this very run: leave from her house, cell phones and pepper spray in hand, run the mile or so north on Riverside Drive to hang a left and cross the Eau Gallie Causeway, then head back over the river with the sunrise. It’s a beautiful 5-mile route and very popular with runners in our area.

There’s a half mile stretch of Riverside Drive that isn’t lit, and it was pitch black as we rhythmically pounded the pavement in unison, flashlights in hand to light the way. A few minutes in, a car’s headlights came into view ahead—distinctly yellow fog lights—and the car pulled to the side of the road into the grass on our side, a few hundred feet ahead. To be safe, we decided to cross the road away from the car to take a wide girth around it. But just as we started to cross the road, the car came back into the road and into the oncoming lane at an awkward angle, blocking our path. Both of us gasped and turned back toward the sidewalk we were on. The car turned back with us—this time slowly coming straight at us, pulling back onto the grass and even into the sidewalk, blocking our path again.

He was corralling us.

Georgia screamed. I couldn’t get the scream out—more of a whimper. We both then turned around and sprinted for cover. There was a church across the street with a deep backyard and fences with residential homes behind it. We didn’t have to talk—we were both intent on sprinting for those fences. The car took off behind us, headed our way. We could hear the engine as it accelerated. I didn’t have time to think about what was happening—I just ran. I only remember running for the church, and one more thing: I remember my mind checking in that Georgia was by my side.

Not a few seconds later, a pickup truck came into view ahead around a bend on Riverside Drive, headlights aimed right at us. We both started to scream and wave our hands frantically and the driver, thank God, pulled over. A young man rolled his window down, eyes wide, and Georgia tried to get the words out but couldn’t. I pointed to the car and said, “he’s after us.” The driver didn’t miss a beat. He grabbed his phone and started to dial 911 while the driver of the car that was chasing us calmly drove by—the tint on his windows dark and plates hard to read—and left, as if nothing had even happened. I didn’t even look at his car—I cowered behind the pickup truck, hiding. I was terrified.

A police report was filed. Our warning post on Facebook was shared over 900 times (a lot for our little town). It happened that this same car has made this same attempt a few times—police are now on the hunt. But that morning we got home safely to our families, and we cried, and the past week has been one full of fear, second guessing, reflecting, police depositions, prayer, and hours of replaying the moment over and over, searching for clues, understanding, perspective—anything to bring peace. I didn’t sleep well all week, thinking about him. Thinking about what could have happened if we hadn’t gotten away: if we hadn’t thought to cross the street to be safe. If the pickup wouldn’t have been driving by at that very moment. If we couldn’t outrun his car to the church. Where would I be? Who I would be if I’d survived whatever he had in mind?

I’m just outside of Chicago this week to teach another leadership retreat, and in preparation I read through my notes on stress response and its impact on our ability to perform at our best. I dread, and also look forward to, teaching this section. What a fresh perspective this incident has provided to talk about this survival mechanism in our design. I always ask the group—who are you under intense stress? Do you fight? Or flee? Freeze, or appease? I can say now for certain, I’m a flight. I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t think, I couldn’t even process that my feet were running (totally forgot we even had a phone or pepper spray, I’m embarrassed to say). But I also know that, at my core, I’m also a protector. I know this because my first instinct was to turn and run but I somehow had the wherewithal to subconsciously connect and make sure Georgia was by my side. At my most vulnerable, this is who I am.

I know this is much different than the chronic, everyday stress that we face—but our same instincts apply. Our brain doesn’t work any differently when the stress is a project proposal due end of day and a sick kid calls from school. It’s no different than the stress of packing for a 6 day work trip as a working mom with a busy husband (packing myself, helping my son with his gifted project, other son with his spelling, finishing lunches for the next few days, prepping easy dinners for the husband, writing lists of to-do reminders for everyone when I’m gone, laundry…you know, working-traveling-mom-life).

My instinct is to flee. Good to know. When things get hard, I retreat. In retrospect, this I sort of already knew, but now I know it with fresh perspective. When I feel the need to run, to hide, to escape to the beach and breathe, I know that this is my survival instincts kicking in and telling me I’m in crisis. I need a moment.

But here’s what hit me most: my instinct was also to connect, secure, protect—to run, but not to run and only save myself. My mind checked on my friend Georgia: I can’t stop thinking about that. When I work with clients on helping identify their core strengths, their values, their calling, I share that I feel I was meant to serve others—it is threaded into my DNA (I also add, but not at the expense of my own well-being). I am forever grateful for this moment of sheer terror, because it revealed to me that who I am at the core is in line with who I thought I was. A giver, a protector, a servant to others.

I’m okay with the fact that I’m not a fighter, or a quick thinker in a life or death situation—I’m okay with the fact that I didn’t do any more than turn and sprint; I don’t need to know what I’d do if he caught us, other than I hope I'd fight then. I don’t need to be that hero. But I’m damn proud that for a micro-moment, I wasn’t totally thinking about just myself, either. 

I need to unpack all of this and check it against an expert in the field—I’m sure I’ll be unloading it all on my business partner (a clinical psychologist) at our next coffee meeting. Maybe I’m way off in making this leap about the stress response and who we are at the core. But it’s the story I’m telling myself now.

I’m thankful nothing came of this terrifying event. I’m also confident this jerk will be caught (he’ll soon find out that tiny beach towns with huge running groups and a tight knit sheriff’s office aren’t a smart place to mess with people…).

I’m thankful, I’m thankful, I’m thankful. For gratitude, perspective. For growth, and a servant’s heart.

And a pickup truck at just the right moment.

If you're interested in teaching your team about the stress response, shifting mindset, or learning more about who they are at the core and how that impacts our everyday life and decisions, please send me a message. I create custom training programs and presentations to ignite performance and inspire connection.