Co-Regulating with Systems and Earth

In previous posts, we’ve looked at our own nervous systems, at adaptive states, burnout, and the subtle process of co‑regulation between people. Let’s now look at how nervous system literacy doesn’t stop with the individual.

Many of us first learn the language of ventral vagal safety, sympathetic activation, and dorsal shutdown to make sense of our inner landscape; yet the moment we step into teams, communities, or the wider web of life, our once‑private physiology becomes relational. Polyvagal Theory (1) helps name this shift: our capacity to feel safe emerges from specific autonomic states, and those states are tuned by social cues in real time, what Stephen Porges calls “neuroception. (2)” When safety is present, the social engagement system comes online and we naturally co‑regulate; when it isn’t, our defences dominate, often outside our conscious awareness

Systems have nervous systems too

Families, organisations, and communities carry patterns that look strikingly like nervous system states. A team in chronic urgency begins to resemble sympathetic fight/flight. I have seen adaptive stress responses become so normalised in workplaces that they become codified in organisational culture. A community in despair mirrors dorsal shutdown. Sometimes whole organisations collapse into numbness, or spin in reactive loops. I have seen this a lot in my work over the years. These aren’t just metaphors but ways of noticing how living systems adapt and protect under stress. Tone of voice, facial expressions, the rhythm of meetings—can either broadcast safety and restore capacity, or amplify danger and drain it. Behaviour creates culture.

It’s helpful to remember that these patterns are influenced by the larger systems we inhabit. Many of our dominant systems — economic, political, cultural — have been built on extraction rather than reciprocity. Over time, this orientation shapes our collective nervous systems, normalising states of pressure, collapse, or domination. Seeing this gives us language for experiences that might otherwise feel personal or inevitable.

As Tricia Hersey of the Nap Ministry (3) teaches, rest itself can be a form of resistance — a way of remembering our humanity in cultures that push us beyond our natural rhythms. Importantly, these practices are not only about individual wellbeing; they are collective strategies that interrupt cycles of extraction. Caring for ourselves and each other is part of how we challenge the conditions that create exhaustion in the first place.

Burnout isn’t just personal — it’s systemic. And in cultures that glorify urgency, even our “rest” often keeps us wired. As Anna Lembke notes in Dopamine Nation, scrolling or bingeing may feel like downtime, but our sympathetic nervous system is still switched on. Real rest asks for different rhythms, ones that let the body truly downshift like with days that begin with presence and practices like tea ceremony and grounding.

These perspectives matter because if we only focus on individuals, we risk missing the larger fields that shape our states. Nervous system literacy gives us language not only for “what’s happening in me,” but also “what’s happening in us.” And that “us” includes our organisations, our communities, and the more‑than‑human world that is always present with our bodies and our breath.

The Earth as a living nervous system

If we zoom out further, we might ask: what if Earth itself has a nervous system?

The Gaia Hypothesis (4) suggests the planet self‑regulates through feedback loops, maintaining temperature, atmosphere, and life itself. Theories of a global brain (5) describe communication networks as a kind of planetary nervous system.  Ecosystems mirror the web‑like complexity of our human neural networks. River systems look like nerves.

When I spend time in nature — with the trees, the insects, and the winged ones — I feel my own nervous system change. My breath slows. My body settles. I’m reminded that co-regulation isn’t only between humans. We are constantly in relationship with the wider web of life. Nature provides a firm, supportive ground for us, a way to regulate, available any time.

I am so blessed to live on acreage amongst the gum trees on the NSW South Coast. I notice the settling of my system each time I return home after days in the city. My nervous system is an instrument I’ve learned to tend and befriend.

Each morning, I begin with bare feet on the earth and the early morning light on my skin. Research shows that direct contact with the Earth (“earthing”) supports autonomic nervous system balance and reduces stress (6), while morning light helps regulate circadian rhythms that influence mood and energy (7).

Often, I also begin with a tea ceremony rooted in ancient Chinese culture. In Taoist philosophy, tea is not just a drink — it is a way (dao) of slowing, tasting, and being present (8). Preparing tea with attention supports my nervous system in ways both subtle and profound. When I sit outdoors in the early light, cup in hand, I feel anchored and connected. These rituals align with traditions that weave Taoism, simplicity, and harmony with nature into everyday life. For me, these practices are a form of conscious co-regulation with Mother Earth. They are fundamental for my wellbeing, and my creative, and relational capacity

Decolonising the lens

It’s important to say: these insights aren’t new. Indigenous and ancestral traditions have long spoken about the relational intelligence of land, water, animals, and spirit. 

I have been fortunate to spend some time with indigenous teachers in the Kimberley’s of Australia and also in Peru. In Australian Aboriginal Yawuru culture, Liyan describes a felt‑sense of inner guidance and relational resonance, that is knowing through Country, kinship, and spirit (9). I am so grateful to have had the opportunity to spend some time with Kankawa Nagarra learning about Liyan on her country.

In Andean culture, the cosmovision (10) understands Earth (Pachamama) as a living being and the mountains (Apus) as protective elders. Community is understood to include both human and more-than-human kin. Balance is maintained through the collective, communal practice of reciprocity (ayni), i.e. giving and receiving to keep life circulating. Rituals like the despacho ceremony (offerings) are not about luck, but reciprocity. They recalibrate the relationship with place, allowing heavy energy (hucha) to be released so that balance and harmony can return. (The image shows a despacho ceremony I attended with Andean Shaman elder, Puma Quidpe Singona near Cusco (11)).

From this view, nervous system literacy is not just about self‑management. It’s a relational paradigm. Polyvagal Theory offers a useful framework, but decolonising our lens means remembering that nervous system literacy is not only a Western scientific discovery. It is a remembering of wisdom carried in cultures for millennia.

If we only use regulation tools to help ourselves tolerate unsafe or extractive systems, we miss the point. Nervous system literacy, at its best, is collective and regenerative …. it invites us to tend to systems so they too can become more life-giving.

Reflection: Sensing the Larger Field

Take a moment outdoors if you can. Notice your breath. Let your body register the presence of a tree, a cloud, or the call of a bird. What happens inside you as you pay attention in this way? Can you sense the field you are part of, not just within you, but all around you?

This is nervous system literacy too. A practice of widening awareness, and of remembering that we are always in relationship.

Another Reflection: Practising Ayni (Reciprocity)

Choose a nearby place you’re in relationship with, a tree you pass, a patch of grass, a stretch of shoreline.

Offer something simple: attention, gratitude, a few minutes of clearing rubbish, water in a dry spell, an acknowledgement of beauty.

Notice how the act of giving shifts your breath, posture, and mood. What changes in your body when you relate with intention in this way?

References