Introduction:

By now, we’re all familiar with the instruction repeated by flight attendants everywhere: “Put your oxygen mask on first before assisting others.” This phrase has become so ubiquitous that it’s nearly impossible to discuss mental health without invoking it. The only advice that is more overused might be the ever-present call to “practice self-care.”

For law professors navigating the unrelenting demands of supporting students amid today’s political and social upheaval, the oxygen mask metaphor falls short. It works well for singular, short-term crises but fails when applied to the ongoing, compounding stressors we experience today—what experts call complex trauma.

In this essay, I offer a new metaphor and a pragmatic, trauma-informed perspective to help us better navigate the times. Drawing on my research into trauma and my experiences as a law professor, I’ll share strategies for sustaining ourselves and supporting others in the midst of these unrelenting challenges.

Why the Oxygen Mask Metaphor Falls Short

Since I’m apparently contractually obligated to talk about oxygen masks, let’s get it out of the way. The reasoning for this instruction is simple: if you don’t help yourself first, you won’t be able to help anyone else. Logical, right? The only problem is that in times of crisis, logic tends to fly out the window.

Law professors love a good hypothetical, so here’s one for you: You’re on a plane seated next to a young child. Suddenly, the cabin jolts, the lights flicker, and oxygen masks drop from above. The child panics, screaming and gasping for air, their small hands desperately reaching for the life-giving mask hanging so far out of reach.

What do you do? Do you calmly secure your own mask while they scream in terror? Or do you jump at the chance to help a terrified, vulnerable child?

I don’t know about you, but I can feel my blood pressure rise at the very thought of leaving that child to her fate—even for a moment. I can almost hear myself thinking, “It’ll only take a second. My mask can wait.”

Do you know why airlines repeat the oxygen mask instruction so often? There are two reasons, actually. The first is that we are notoriously bad at following directions in high-stress situations. When panic sets in, the brain’s executive functioning—the part responsible for logical thinking and decision-making—often goes offline. Instead, we default to instinct.

The second reason is even more revealing: in a crisis, we instinctively prioritize helping others, often at great personal cost. Research on earthquake survivors in Italy highlights this deeply ingrained tendency. Over 64% of participants reported providing practical or emotional support to others despite experiencing significant distress themselves. Their actions ranged from offering food, water, and other essentials to personally rescuing survivors from the rubble. When chaos strikes, our first impulse isn’t to look inward—it’s to focus outward, attending to the needs of those around us.

That is precisely why flight attendants repeat the oxygen mask instruction so often. The industry understands that, in a moment of crisis, our instincts can work against us. The repetitive reminder is designed to override our natural urge to help others first—just long enough to prevent us from succumbing to hypoxia. After all, if we suffocate to death, we won’t be able to offer the support we instinctively want to give.

But what works for a singular shock event—the sudden loss of cabin pressure in an airplane, for example—falls apart when applied to the ongoing, compounding stresses of long-term trauma. How long can we put off our deeply human need to help others? Imagine sitting on that same airplane while the child next to you screams in terror for hours, days, or even a semester. Could you truly sit there, ignoring their cries?

For most of us, the answer is no. We can’t override our empathy indefinitely, and when we try, we end up in a vicious cycle. We berate ourselves for failing to follow advice like “put your mask on first” or practice “self-care,” convinced we lack the willpower to prioritize ourselves. At the same time, we burn out because we keep giving and giving, attending to others’ needs without pause.

Our students, scared, disoriented, and overwhelmed by the instability of the world around them, turn to us for guidance and support. How do we continue to meet their needs without exhausting ourselves in the process? We need a better metaphor.

Rest Between Contractions

The oxygen mask metaphor works well for acute, singular events—a sudden loss of cabin pressure, for example. If we ignore our instinctive reaction to help others first and help ourselves, we actually stand a better chance of being more useful to others without catastrophic consequences. But this metaphor falls apart with the prolonged and persistent demands of ongoing trauma—the kind our law students are likely to experience amid the political upheaval in the U.S. These times are nothing short of a seismic shift: a political, social, and cultural shakeup that feels as disruptive as any earthquake.

The challenges we are currently experiencing are more akin to complex trauma, a term that describes the psychological toll of prolonged exposure to pervasive and inescapable stressors. Unlike a singular shock event, complex trauma involves a relentless cycle of stress with few opportunities for recovery. For law professors, navigating this turmoil demands a new metaphor that reflects the cyclical and enduring nature of this challenge. Here, the childbirth community offers a powerful alternative: rest between contractions.

Complex trauma, by its nature, destabilizes. For many law students, especially those from marginalized communities, the political and cultural upheaval in the U.S. feels like an unending storm. Racism, sexism, economic instability, and threats to fundamental rights erode their sense of safety and belonging. As professors, we become their anchors, holding space for their fear and uncertainty. Yet, this ongoing emotional labor—while necessary—creates its own strain. We are expected to support our students, manage institutional pressures, and confront the same external crises ourselves.

Our instinct, unsurprisingly, is to put others first. It feels almost impossible to ignore the needs of students who are scared, disoriented, and overwhelmed by the instability around them. And so we tell ourselves we’ll attend to our own needs “later.” But “later” never comes. Instead, this cycle of self-sacrifice leads to burnout and emotional depletion, leaving us unable to support anyone—including ourselves.

Here is where the metaphor of childbirth offers profound wisdom. In labor, contractions come in waves, each bringing its own intensity and pain. Between contractions, however brief the interval, rest is not just encouraged—it is essential. This pause allows the birthing person to preserve strength, regulate their breathing, and prepare for the next wave. It is not about avoidance or indulgence; it is a pragmatic response to a process that demands resilience.

The same principle applies to navigating the emotional labor of complex trauma. When the demands feel unrelenting, the key is to create intentional moments to pause, regroup, and replenish. This rest doesn’t eliminate the challenges, but it enables us to endure them. By embracing the principle of resting between contractions, we can sustain ourselves through the ongoing waves of challenge and strain. This is not about giving less to our students; it’s about ensuring we remain present and capable—not just for a single moment, but for the long haul.

How do we implement this strategy? Resting between contractions requires small and large acts of self-regulation, woven into our daily lives. On a micro level, this might mean stepping away after an emotionally charged class, pausing for a few deep breaths before diving into a difficult conversation, or finding stillness between back-to-back meetings. On a medium scale, it could involve cultivating mindfulness practices, establishing an exercise routine, or engaging in activities that help us to become more embodied. On a larger scale, it might mean intentionally carving out time for joy and renewal—a long-overdue vacation, moments of shared laughter, or the simple pleasure of doing something that makes you feel alive. These pauses are not indulgences; they are lifelines.

The truth is, this isn’t groundbreaking information—you already knew it. So why is it so hard to put into practice? What gets in our way?

Why Is It So Hard to Care for Ourselves?

In a previous section, we discussed the human tendency to help others, even when it puts our own safety at risk. While this instinct is admirable, it has a darker side: Our focus on others can sometimes serve as a defense mechanism, allowing us to avoid confronting our own pain.

In the Italian earthquake study, participants described engaging in emotional labor to suppress and control their feelings, projecting a calm and rational exterior for the benefit of those around them. They saw others as “open containers” into which they could inject tranquility, even as they themselves felt hollowed out and emotionally depleted.

One participant described feeling “nothing” as he watched rescuers pull the lifeless bodies of his two children and partner from the rubble. He had “frozen” his emotions as a way to manage the unmanageable. “I felt like an emptied carcass, only bones,” he said. This emotional blunting allowed him to detach in the moment but came at the profound cost of disconnection from his own grief.

Other participants noted that actions like calming others or offering practical support gave them a temporary sense of agency in an otherwise uncontrollable situation. Yet this “hyperfocus on action” often consumed all their emotional and cognitive resources, leaving them numb, detached, and, ultimately, burnt out.

This pattern reflects a broader truth: when we focus entirely on helping others, we risk losing touch with our own humanity.

For law professors navigating the unrelenting emotional labor of supporting students, this dynamic is all too familiar. It often feels easier to hold space for our students’ fear and uncertainty than to sit with our own pain. But this outward focus comes at a high cost. Emotional blunting, whether intentional or unconscious, depletes us over time, leaving us feeling like we have nothing left to give.

Breaking this cycle means recognizing that turning inward to address our own wounds ultimately allows us to show up more fully for others. Even the most compassionate acts can serve as a shield, keeping us from doing the hard but necessary work of tending to our own trauma.

Get Your Nervous System In Order: The Science of Rest and Regulation

“Rest between contractions” may sound simple in theory, but in practice, it can feel almost impossible. There’s so much working against it: the fear that stepping away means abandoning our students or shirking responsibilities, even when we know that constant self-sacrifice is unsustainable. Slowing down also requires something profoundly uncomfortable—confronting our own pain. It’s often easier to keep moving and staying busy to avoid that discomfort.

Sometimes, stepping away isn’t just difficult—it feels entirely out of reach. This isn’t always because of external pressures; it’s often because our nervous systems are overwhelmed and unable to regulate. When dysregulated, rest can feel out of reach, leaving us trapped in cycles of exhaustion and overwork.

To break this cycle, we must first understand what’s holding us back. One of the most significant barriers is the state of our own nervous systems. Trauma expert Dr. Stephen Porges, creator of the Polyvagal Theory, explains that our ability to rest and recover depends on the nervous system’s capacity for regulation. When stuck in survival mode—whether in chronic hyperarousal (fight-or-flight) or hypoarousal (numbness and shutdown)—we lose access to the calm, restorative states necessary for recovery.

Dr. Bessel van der Kolk explains that trauma lives in the body, where it overwhelms the nervous system and disrupts self-regulation. Prolonged exposure to stress without periods of rest can lead to chronic dysregulation, trapping us in cycles of emotional and physical depletion. Regular moments of rest—through mindfulness, grounding practices, or simply stepping away—are essential for recalibrating the nervous system and maintaining resilience.

Dr. Kristin Neff’s work on self-compassion complements this perspective, showing how small, intentional acts of care reduce burnout and restore emotional resources. Neff emphasizes that self-compassion isn’t indulgent—it’s pragmatic. By caring for ourselves, we create the capacity to show up for others. Rest, in this sense, becomes an act of necessity rather than luxury.

Getting our nervous systems in order means recognizing when we’re dysregulated and taking deliberate steps to restore balance. This might involve grounding techniques like focusing on your breath, reconnecting with your body through movement, or seeking co-regulation with trusted colleagues or friends. It also requires addressing the deeper traumas that keep us locked in patterns of overwork and avoidance.

Ultimately, rest between contractions is about pacing ourselves through the ongoing marathon of emotional labor that law professors face. It’s about shifting our mindset to prioritize sustainability over survival, joy over obligation, and resilience over burnout. Rest isn’t the absence of effort—it’s what enables us to keep going.

Conclusion

As law professors, our work is deeply intertwined with the lives and well-being of our students. To show up fully for them, we must first show up for ourselves. By embracing the principle of “rest between contractions” and learning to regulate our nervous systems, we can find balance amidst the chaos. This isn’t solely about self-preservation; it’s about ensuring we have the resilience to continue guiding and supporting those who depend on us.

Embracing “rest between contractions” is the foundation for enduring and thriving in turbulent times.

Marjorie Florestal, JD, MA, PhD candidate in Human Development. Certified in the NeuroAffective Relational Model (NARM) for trauma healing. Trained in Mindfulness-Based Meditation.