01/06/2026
Co-Regulation Without Words: Animals Show the Nervous System Doesn’t Need Explaining
Animals are some of the closest examples of nervous system regulation that we can actually observe in real time.
They don’t have a thinking brain that overrides their body’s wisdom the way humans do. Their nervous systems are designed to sense, respond, complete, and return to regulation—without stories, shame, or conditioning getting in the way.
All my life, we’ve had animals—especially cats and dogs. But between the ages of 7 and 15, I began to notice something very specific. One of our cats, Kittles, would always come to me during moments of domestic disturbance. Every time there was yelling or tension in the house, that cat found me and sat with me.
When she did, I would hold her, snuggle into her warmth, and cry.
I didn’t try to stop the tears.
My body was doing exactly what it needed to do.
At the time, I didn’t have language for any of this. I just knew that I felt less alone—safer somehow. Looking back now, I can say honestly: that cat helped regulate my nervous system when no human could. That cat saved me.
Here’s why this happens.
Animals live almost entirely in the present moment. Their nervous systems are constantly scanning for safety or threat, but when a stress response is activated—fight, flight, or freeze—it completes. They shake, move, hide, vocalize, seek closeness, and then return to baseline once safety is restored. Nothing gets stuck.
Neuroscientist Robert Sapolsky explains this through the biology of dogs. Dogs have a**l scent glands (a**l sacs) located near the base of the tail. These glands release pheromones—chemical signals that communicate information about the dog’s internal state to other animals. The composition of these signals reflects what’s happening in the dog’s body, including levels of stress hormones like cortisol and adrenaline.
When a dog is frightened, they instinctively tuck their tail. This isn’t just a posture of submission—it also limits the dispersal of fear-related chemical signals while the nervous system assesses safety. When a dog feels safe or joyful, they wag their tail, which helps disperse those chemical signals outward.
In other words, movement helps complete the stress cycle.
The nervous system activates → the body responds → chemistry is released → movement disperses it → regulation returns.
Humans experience the same stress hormones. But because we have a highly developed thinking brain, we often interrupt the process. Instead of allowing the body to move, shake, vocalize, cry, or discharge the energy, we override it with thoughts like:
~~“Don’t react.”
~~“This isn’t safe to feel.”
~~“Stay quiet.”
~~“You’re overreacting.”
The nervous system doesn’t get to finish what it started. The energy meant to resolve stays stored in the body. Over time, this can show up as anxiety, hypervigilance, chronic tension or pain, dissociation, or emotional numbness.
Animals don’t do this.
They don’t a**lyze the threat.
They don’t judge their response.
They don’t suppress their bodies to remain acceptable.
They feel, they respond, and then they settle.
I see this even now in my work. Some of my clients choose to let my cat lie across their legs during a session. No explanation is needed. Instinctively, they know how calm and regulated an animal’s nervous system is—and they feel that steadiness in their own body through proximity and contact.
That’s co-regulation in action.
When Kittles came to sit with me, she wasn’t “trying to help” in a cognitive way. She was simply present. Through her warmth, steady breathing, and stillness, my nervous system received cues of safety. Holding her and allowing myself to cry gave my body permission to complete what it was holding.
As I later learned more about the nervous system, I began watching my own animals differently. I noticed how clearly they listen to their bodies. How quickly they move through stress. How naturally they seek connection or space—without apology.
And I’ll add this.
Over the years, I’ve heard people say to me, “You’re going to end up alone with your cats.”
As if that were a warning.
As if it were something shameful.
And I think—amazing!
To be surrounded by beings who know how to regulate, who respond honestly to the moment, who offer presence without conditions, and who don’t require me to override my body or my truth to belong.
There is nothing broken or lonely about choosing connection that is safe, attuned, and real.
Animals don’t ask us to perform.
They don’t ask us to explain ourselves.
They don’t punish us for having a nervous system.
If being “alone with my cat” means living alongside the clearest examples of co-regulation I’ve ever known, then that sounds less like a failure—and more like wisdom.
And there is absolutely nothing wrong or shameful about that at all.