When Survival Mode Becomes the Default

During a therapy session, I was telling my therapist all the things I’ve been doing to make sure the girls feel safe and secure through all this chaos—because, as always, they’re my #1 priority.

She took a pause, then asked:
“But how are you holding up?”

And I froze.

Because I didn’t know how to answer.

This was before my hysterectomy, so I was already dealing with that—along with divorce, bankruptcy, an insurance mess, government shutdown, and the weight of keeping everything steady for my daughters. And I had just found out Michigan Medicaid is cutting GLP-1 coverage—the medication that’s been helping me maintain my weight and health after bariatric surgery.

Starting January 1, only the morbidly obese will qualify. Which, thankfully, I’m not anymore. But that means I don’t have much time to taper off safely. If I stop cold turkey, I risk gaining weight again—and with it, all the shame society attaches to it. So yeah. That’s fun.

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Surviving Is Not the Same as Living

Back to my therapist’s question: how am I holding up?

I’m not.
Not in the healthiest way, at least.

I’m functioning—sure—but I’m bracing for the crash I know is coming. Because survival mode is deceptive. It tricks you into believing you’re okay simply because you haven’t collapsed yet.

But functioning isn’t the same as living. It’s running on fumes, convincing yourself that exhaustion is just another form of discipline.

I still feel love and joy for my girls—they’re the light in all this darkness—but every other system in me has gone offline.

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The Invisible Labor of Holding It Together

Nobody really talks about how much emotional labor it takes to “keep going.”
The kind where your body is moving but your soul is lagging three steps behind.

You’re paying bills, attending appointments, cooking dinner—but it’s like doing life through static.

And when you’re a mother, it’s even harder. You’re not just responsible for your own stability—you’re the gravity holding everyone else in orbit. So you push through. You fake composure. You keep showing up until your nerves hum like power lines.

That’s not strength. That’s survival dressed up as resilience.

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The Part Where I Breathe Again

Here’s what I’m learning—healing doesn’t look like powering through. It looks like admitting you’re tired. It’s the moment you stop pretending your coping mechanisms are personality traits.

Because autopilot might keep you alive…
but it also keeps you numb.

So I’m trying—really trying—to let myself feel again. To stop defaulting to endurance and start practicing softness. To stop being the emergency exit everyone else uses, and become the home I need.

I’m not there yet. But I’m finally off autopilot.

And maybe that’s enough for today. 🖤