Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria is often described as a problem to be managed or reduced, as though it were an unfortunate glitch in the system. Something excessive. Something that would ideally calm down if we could just get a better grip on our emotions.

But that framing has never really sat right with me.

Because when RSD shows up, it does not feel chaotic or vague. It feels strangely precise. There is often a sudden sense that everything clicks into place, even if what has clicked into place is deeply painful. A meaning arrives quickly and fully formed, and it carries a kind of certainty that is hard to argue with in the moment.

That sense of certainty matters.

We think our brain is not primarily interested in truth, when it fact what it chases is a sense of safety. Uncertainty, particularly in relationships or social situations, is deeply uncomfortable for the nervous system. Not knowing where you stand or what something means can feel threatening in itself.

So the brain does what it does best: it simplifies.

If you listen closely to the stories that tend to sit underneath RSD, they are rarely elaborate. They usually boil down to a small, familiar set of messages that are often pretty brutal and unforgiving.

‘I am not good enough.’
‘I am worthless’.
‘I am lazy.’
‘I am stupid.’
‘I am not anyone’s priority.’

These stories are short for a reason. In moments of emotional overwhelm, simplicity creates order. When the external world feels unpredictable or out of reach, the one place we can exert control is internally. Naming a reason, even a cruel one, brings a sense of containment.

If I know why this hurts, I know where I stand.

There is something stabilising, from a nervous system point of view, about familiarity, even when the familiar thing is negative. A known pain can feel safer than an unknown one. These stories offer predictability. They give the nervous system something solid to hold on to. Yes, the negative can offer a sense of comfort when it offers itself as familiar.

Seen this way, the harsh internal narrative is not random self-attack. It is a coping strategy. It is an attempt to make sense of experience in the only way that once felt available.

For many neurodivergent people, this pattern develops early. An over-efficient brain learns to scan for threat, anticipate rejection, and turn inward as a way of staying oriented in a world that can feel inconsistent or overwhelming. Blaming the self can feel safer than sitting with ambiguity, because at least self-blame offers us a clear explanation.

In that sense, RSD is not fragility. It is adaptation on speed dial.

It can even be functional for a time. It can sharpen focus, drive action, and create a last-minute surge that gets things over the line. The cost tends to come later. Over time, the internal environment becomes harsher. Compassion is delayed. Rest becomes conditional. The body stays braced, waiting for the next moment it might need to protect itself again.

What makes RSD particularly difficult is that understanding it does not automatically stop it. You can recognise the pattern and still feel overtaken by it. That is because this is not a thinking problem. It is a nervous system response. The body reacts first. The story arrives already formed, not as a thought to weigh up, but as something that feels unquestionably true.

When we begin to recognise RSD as a protective mechanism rather than a personal failing, something important shifts. Instead of taking the story at face value, we can become curious about what the system is actually trying to protect us from.

Often, it is not rejection itself, but what rejection threatens to stir underneath. Fear. Hurt. Disappointment. Old memories of moments that once felt too much to bear.

The bluntness of the story starts to make sense in that light. If the feeling is named quickly and decisively, the nervous system does not have to linger in uncertainty. The story contains the feeling. It keeps it familiar. It keeps it manageable.

But once we can see that, we are no longer limited to the same response.

Often with enough life experience behind us, something else becomes possible. We begin to know, not intellectually but somatically, that we have been here before. That we have felt this intensity and survived it. In many cases, we did more than survive. We adapted. We grew. Sometimes we even thrived in the aftermath.

That lived knowledge matters to the nervous system – and can help us move past. But it can also keep us stuck, and associate the RSD with a necessary step to overcome.

There is a gentler kind of scaffolding. Instead of forcing ourselves through the moment with self-criticism, we can begin to offer reassurance, containment, and support. Not by pretending it does not hurt, but by trusting our capacity to stay with the feeling without collapsing.

This is not about getting rid of RSD. It is about reducing how much it has to carry on its own.

When the system knows there are other ways to move through fear, hurt, or disappointment, it does not need to reach for the same blunt tools every time. The protection can soften. The story can loosen. The response becomes less urgent, less absolute.

We do not heal by cutting off our protective mechanisms. We heal by understanding them well enough that they no longer have to work so hard.

RSD is not a flaw in your wiring. It is evidence of how much your brain has been doing to keep you safe, often with limited information and very few alternatives.

And once you see it that way, the question shifts from what is wrong with me to what helped me survive, and what might help me now.