There was a period when I kept texting the same person every time I felt bad — not the person who made me feel better, mind you. The one who had ghosted me twice, flirted in lowercase, and once called my grief “a bit much.”
I’d swear him off on a Sunday, read three trauma-healing threads by Monday, and by Thursday I’d be spiraling into his DMs with some casual, “Hey, saw a meme that reminded me of you.”
He never replied fast. He never replied kindly. But he always replied eventually.
And my brain lit up like it had won something.
This isn’t a piece about bad relationships, though we could go there. It’s about the part of your brain that knows something is terrible for you — a job, a habit, a thought loop, a coping mechanism — and keeps choosing it anyway. Over and over. Like clockwork.
It’s not a lack of willpower. It’s not a failure of self-awareness. It’s neural loyalty to familiarity.
What we don’t talk about enough is that toxic habits don’t always feel bad. Sometimes they feel safe. Known. Like a home you hate but still keep the keys to.
Here’s the thing your nervous system is really good at: repetition. Predictability. Reruns.
Your brain’s number one job is to keep you alive — not fulfilled. So if something is emotionally familiar, even if it sucks, your brain flags it as “safe.” Not because it is, but because it hasn’t killed you yet.
“The brain is a pattern-recognition machine,” says Dr. Nicole LePera, a clinical psychologist who’s become a kind of internet therapist whisperer. “We gravitate toward what we know — even if what we know is pain.”
That’s why a chaotic boss might remind you of your dad. Or why silence after conflict feels more tolerable than resolution. Or why you keep “doom scrolling” through your own thoughts instead of reaching for help.
There’s comfort in the devil you know. The brain thinks: We’ve survived this before. Let’s do it again.
At some point in our early wiring — usually childhood — we learn what “connection” looks like. If that connection came with inconsistency, criticism, or emotional starvation, those dynamics become familiar grooves in our brain.
So when we encounter them again, even in adulthood, something deep inside us whispers: Ah, yes. This feels like home.
You don’t crave toxicity. You crave the resolution your nervous system never got.
That’s why people stay in jobs that drain them, return to relationships that belittle them, and replay emotional loops they’ve long outgrown. Not because they want to — but because the brain’s fear of the unknown is louder than its hunger for healing.
I once asked my therapist why I couldn’t stop checking the social media of someone who clearly didn’t like me anymore. I wasn’t even heartbroken. I just… needed to know.
She said, “That’s your nervous system trying to close a loop. It doesn’t trust the ending.”
That landed like a slap.
Because yeah, that’s the loop: the compulsive need to solve what’s unresolved. To fix what never made sense. To keep engaging with the familiar — even if it never feeds you.
This shows up in small ways, too. Like the way I rewatch shows I’ve already seen. Or the way I delay joy by over-prepping. Or how I spiral into worst-case-scenario planning, as if pre-hurting can prevent actual pain.
It’s all the same trick: Familiarity over freedom.
Let’s be real. We’re not just wired for toxic loops — we’re often rewarded for them.
Hustle culture tells you that burnout is noble. Dating culture turns avoidant behavior into “playing it cool.” Social media tricks your dopamine system into thinking likes are love. And therapy language gets used as a shield for self-isolation. (“I’m just protecting my peace,” we say, while ghosting someone we love.)
We live in a world that constantly confuses comfort with health.
And that blurs the line between what we’re choosing… and what we’re tolerating.
Sometimes toxic habits aren’t even habits. They’re somatic memories — feelings your body holds onto, long after your mind has moved on.
Your muscles remember the posture of defensiveness. Your chest remembers the tightness of bracing for rejection. Your shoulders remember what it felt like to shrink.
Breaking free isn’t just about thinking differently. It’s about feeling safe doing something new.
And that takes more than logic. It takes slowness. Repetition. And the terrifying permission to feel good without guilt.
I wish I had a clean ending here. A cute reframe. A hopeful mantra.
But the truth is, I still catch myself leaning toward what’s familiar. I still reread old texts like they’re maps to something I lost. I still notice my body relax when someone shows me just enough affection to stay confused.
But I also notice faster now. I pause. I breathe. I ask: Is this safe — or just known?
And sometimes, I choose the unknown instead.
Not because I’m healed. But because I’m curious what else could be familiar someday.
