why I still work like I’m in survival mode (and what I’m learning about it)
Sometimes I wonder why I still work like the world will collapse if I stop for one second.
Sometimes I look at my to-do list and laugh because wow, I’m still moving like the whole world will fall apart if I breathe for one second. Like, isn’t this when it’s supposed to get easier? Didn’t I earn some “slow mornings and deep trust” after all the hustling, heartbreak, and gut-it-out years? You’d think I’d be sleeping in and sipping coffee slow in Barcelona by now, right? Instead, there’s still that old drumbeat—the feeling that if I let up, something will slip away.
It’s honestly wild. I worked so hard to crawl out of survival mode, but some days it’s like my body’s stuck in a group chat with my past self and she’s constantly texting “keep going, don’t stop, faster.” Even when the chaos is gone, that wired urgency hangs around, just in case. I sometimes wonder if there’s an off switch (and if I’ll ever find it).
I’m not gonna romanticize it. Most days, choosing rest is still a leap of faith. The urge to hustle, to prove, to outwork every “what if” is alive and well at 9am and 2am and basically anytime I sit still. But here’s where things are actually shifting: I’m learning (awkwardly, and honestly) to pause for no reason. Not just because I can, but because I want to. Because I’m allowed to be gentle with myself, even if I’m still learning how.
I used to think healing meant “never feeling anxious again” or suddenly becoming someone who doesn’t flinch at the idea of a free afternoon. But nah. Healing, for me, is giving that hustler part of me a seat at the table, hearing her out, and then softly reminding her we’re building something different now. I notice the urge to sprint, thank it for getting me this far, and—on a good day—slow down by a tiny bit. Sometimes I just take a breath and remind myself: Nothing bad happens if I chill for a minute. Safety isn’t performance.
I’m deeply proud of the girl who survived, who built this foundation brick by painful brick. She’s the reason I’m here—she really is. But… I’m also tired of living like panic is the price of admission. So, I’m working on being the kind of founder, the kind of human, who knows how to choose softness, too.
The truth is that I’m still figuring it out. There are days I nap and call it brave. Days I can’t sit still and call it human. Days when the only thing that’s crystal clear is that showing up—aware, grateful, imperfect—is a win all by itself. Honestly, for today, maybe that’s enough. And if you’re in this messy middle too, trust me, I see you. We’re both learning—one slow, hopeful breath at a time. ❤️
Sometimes I look at my to-do list and laugh because wow, I’m still moving like the whole world will fall apart if I breathe for one second. Like, isn’t this when it’s supposed to get easier? Didn’t I earn some “slow mornings and deep trust” after all the hustling, heartbreak, and gut-it-out years? You’d think I’d be sleeping in and sipping coffee slow in Barcelona by now, right? Instead, there’s still that old drumbeat—the feeling that if I let up, something will slip away.
It’s honestly wild. I worked so hard to crawl out of survival mode, but some days it’s like my body’s stuck in a group chat with my past self and she’s constantly texting “keep going, don’t stop, faster.” Even when the chaos is gone, that wired urgency hangs around, just in case. I sometimes wonder if there’s an off switch (and if I’ll ever find it).
I’m not gonna romanticize it. Most days, choosing rest is still a leap of faith. The urge to hustle, to prove, to outwork every “what if” is alive and well at 9am and 2am and basically anytime I sit still. But here’s where things are actually shifting: I’m learning (awkwardly, and honestly) to pause for no reason. Not just because I can, but because I want to. Because I’m allowed to be gentle with myself, even if I’m still learning how.
I used to think healing meant “never feeling anxious again” or suddenly becoming someone who doesn’t flinch at the idea of a free afternoon. But nah. Healing, for me, is giving that hustler part of me a seat at the table, hearing her out, and then softly reminding her we’re building something different now. I notice the urge to sprint, thank it for getting me this far, and—on a good day—slow down by a tiny bit. Sometimes I just take a breath and remind myself: Nothing bad happens if I chill for a minute. Safety isn’t performance.
I’m deeply proud of the girl who survived, who built this foundation brick by painful brick. She’s the reason I’m here—she really is. But… I’m also tired of living like panic is the price of admission. So, I’m working on being the kind of founder, the kind of human, who knows how to choose softness, too.
The truth is that I’m still figuring it out. There are days I nap and call it brave. Days I can’t sit still and call it human. Days when the only thing that’s crystal clear is that showing up—aware, grateful, imperfect—is a win all by itself. Honestly, for today, maybe that’s enough. And if you’re in this messy middle too, trust me, I see you. We’re both learning—one slow, hopeful breath at a time. ❤️
Sometimes I look at my to-do list and laugh because wow, I’m still moving like the whole world will fall apart if I breathe for one second. Like, isn’t this when it’s supposed to get easier? Didn’t I earn some “slow mornings and deep trust” after all the hustling, heartbreak, and gut-it-out years? You’d think I’d be sleeping in and sipping coffee slow in Barcelona by now, right? Instead, there’s still that old drumbeat—the feeling that if I let up, something will slip away.
It’s honestly wild. I worked so hard to crawl out of survival mode, but some days it’s like my body’s stuck in a group chat with my past self and she’s constantly texting “keep going, don’t stop, faster.” Even when the chaos is gone, that wired urgency hangs around, just in case. I sometimes wonder if there’s an off switch (and if I’ll ever find it).
I’m not gonna romanticize it. Most days, choosing rest is still a leap of faith. The urge to hustle, to prove, to outwork every “what if” is alive and well at 9am and 2am and basically anytime I sit still. But here’s where things are actually shifting: I’m learning (awkwardly, and honestly) to pause for no reason. Not just because I can, but because I want to. Because I’m allowed to be gentle with myself, even if I’m still learning how.
I used to think healing meant “never feeling anxious again” or suddenly becoming someone who doesn’t flinch at the idea of a free afternoon. But nah. Healing, for me, is giving that hustler part of me a seat at the table, hearing her out, and then softly reminding her we’re building something different now. I notice the urge to sprint, thank it for getting me this far, and—on a good day—slow down by a tiny bit. Sometimes I just take a breath and remind myself: Nothing bad happens if I chill for a minute. Safety isn’t performance.
I’m deeply proud of the girl who survived, who built this foundation brick by painful brick. She’s the reason I’m here—she really is. But… I’m also tired of living like panic is the price of admission. So, I’m working on being the kind of founder, the kind of human, who knows how to choose softness, too.
The truth is that I’m still figuring it out. There are days I nap and call it brave. Days I can’t sit still and call it human. Days when the only thing that’s crystal clear is that showing up—aware, grateful, imperfect—is a win all by itself. Honestly, for today, maybe that’s enough. And if you’re in this messy middle too, trust me, I see you. We’re both learning—one slow, hopeful breath at a time. ❤️
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