You Are Getting Sleepy

The enteric nervous system contains over 100 million neurons—a neural network embedded in our digestive tract so complex that neuroscientists have termed it our "second brain." When this system dysregulates, conventional medicine offers limited solutions. For years, my enteric nervous system telegraphed distress signals that no diagnostic test could properly interpret.

Today I know I hold my stress in my stomach. But for years, my stomach was a total mystery. I saw doctor after doctor about my mysterious stomach pain. I did what good patients do. I followed the FODMAP diet with religious precision. I swallowed probiotics by the handful, each promising gut harmony through some proprietary blend of bacteria with unpronounceable Latin names. I eliminated foods until my diet consisted primarily of steamed vegetables and oatmeal.

What I know in hindsight—and what no medical test could reveal—was that my physical symptoms were messengers carrying news I couldn't hear. My body was responding to an environment in which memory became a deeply buried feeling rather than a cohesive narrative. The physiological manifestation of psychological distress is well-documented in trauma literature; my body was following established neurobiological patterns.

Over the years, I've learned to manage my stress and found treatments and therapies that address the root causes. But I'm always on the lookout for new tools to add to my toolkit—particularly those with empirical validation.

One night, sleepless and scrolling through Instagram, I saw an ad for Nerva, an app offering gut-directed hypnotherapy for IBS. The research behind gut-directed hypnotherapy is surprisingly robust. Clinical trials like this one have demonstrated efficacy for reducing IBS symptoms. There was a week-long free trial. Zero cost to try it. My curiosity was piqued.

I downloaded the app that night and pressed play on the first session. The voice guided me through progressive muscle relaxation, a technique first developed by American physician Edmund Jacobson in the 1920s. "Notice the sensation of release," she instructed as I systematically tensed and released muscle groups from my scalp to my toes. This exercise was fascinating from a neurophysiological perspective—by intentionally tensing and then releasing, I was training my body to recognize and reduce muscular holding patterns associated with chronic stress.

The hypnotherapy transported me to constructed landscapes: a peaceful swing gently rocking back and forth; a control room with dials I could adjust to regulate my discomfort. The guided imagery leveraged principles of neuroplasticity—creating new neural pathways through repetitive visualization. The storylines were descriptive, designed to activate multiple sensory cortices simultaneously: the somatosensory cortex registered the feeling of grass beneath my feet; the visual cortex processed the sight of a river ahead in the woods; the auditory cortex attended to the gentle narration guiding me deeper into relaxation.

At first I was wary of the safe space Nerva was creating for me. What would happen if I let myself believe I was safe? What would happen if I let myself be vulnerable? This hesitation wasn't irrational—it was my amygdala functioning exactly as it should, questioning whether it was truly safe to lower defenses that had been established for protection. As it turns out, when those defenses are lowered: I'll fall asleep.

Like my stomach woes, I've long experienced insomnia. Falling asleep is the process of ruminating, tossing, and turning until I'm exhausted. Sleep onset latency—the time it takes to transition from full wakefulness to sleep—should average about 15-20 minutes in healthy adults. Mine often stretched to hours. OK, it's gotten better since then, thanks to a better environment and practices like meditation. And tools like Nerva.

I didn't finish that first Nerva session conscious. Something had shifted. The vice grip of insomnia had momentarily released. Though it wasn't the developer's original intention for the app, I used Nerva for months to help me fall asleep, until the repetition of guided meditations meant my brain went into autopilot (a phenomenon neuroscientists call habituation, similar to when you drive somewhere and can't recall the specifics). I still employ some of the relaxation techniques today.

Hypervigilance: Sensitivity on Overdrive

As a child, I was very sensitive and still am. Sensory processing sensitivity affects approximately 20-30% of the population. I've transitioned from being ashamed of—to being appreciative of this. How beautiful it is to be able to feel everything so precisely. The exact moment the season changes. Dried salt on my skin after a long bike ride.

That sensitivity became hypervigilance in adulthood. In response to crossed boundaries. In response to broken trust. From a neuroscientific perspective, hypervigilance represents an adaptive shift in threat detection thresholds. My amygdala—the brain's alarm system—was calibrated to an environment where vigilance equaled safety.

When you feel that it's dangerous to let down your guard, it's hard to escape the relentless clutch of insomnia. The sympathetic nervous system remains activated, cortisol levels stay elevated, and sleep-inducing hormones are suppressed. The American medical system has no diagnostic code for "your body is correctly responding to a toxic environment." No doctor ever suggested that my nervous system might be in revolt against the life I was living. Because no doctor (until very recently) had access to the full picture.

Democratizing Access to Therapeutic Tools

As someone who works to create positive impact through technology, I've come to appreciate how digital tools like Nerva can democratize access to therapeutic approaches that might otherwise remain out of reach. The emerging field of app-based therapeutics represents a significant shift in healthcare delivery. While not a replacement for comprehensive care, these tools provide evidence-based interventions at a fraction of traditional costs. They eliminate geographical barriers and reduce stigma associated with seeking mental health support.

The data is clear: digital interventions for conditions ranging from IBS to insomnia show meaningful efficacy when properly designed and implemented. My experience with Nerva wasn't just anecdotal—it was part of a broader pattern emerging in clinical research about the power of these accessible tools to create measurable physiological change.

What began as an attempt to soothe my stomach unexpectedly recalibrated my sleep architecture. The mismatch between intended and actual outcome highlights something crucial about healing: our bodies are integrated systems. Interventions targeted at one subsystem often cascade through others. The enteric nervous system that was meant to be calmed remained reactive, but my central nervous system found a pathway to rest.