For a long time, I thought the way I was living was normal.
I was functioning. I was productive. I showed up. I delivered. I held things together. From the outside, my life looked fine – even successful.
Inside, I was exhausted.
But not the kind of tired that sleep fixes.
What survival mode looked like before I could name it
I was always “on.” My mind never really switched off. Even at home, even in the evenings, even on weekends – there was a constant hum in my body, like I was bracing for something I couldn’t name.
Rest didn’t feel restorative.
Weekends were for recovering, not living.
Joy felt distant.
I didn’t have language for it then, but I was living in survival mode.
It showed up quietly.
I craved things that would help me come down – a drink, distraction, numbing. I struggled to do basic things at home, not because I didn’t care, but because I had nothing left. My energy was spent before I even walked through the door.
I told myself this was just adulthood.
Just responsibility.
Just ambition.
The realisation (language arrived later)
I didn’t realise my nervous system had been stuck in fight-or-flight for years.
The language came later — unexpectedly — while scrolling on Facebook, when one of Dr Mindy Peltz’s videos appeared on my feed. Cortisol. Chronic stress. Nervous system dysregulation.
I remember that moment so clearly.
It was a lot of information in a very short space of time, but somehow it all made sense. Pieces I’d been carrying without names suddenly had somewhere to land.
And then the questions started.
How do I process all of this?
How do I change it?
What can I do to actually feel better?
At the time, all I truly knew was this: my body felt unsafe, even when my life wasn’t.
Gentle insight
What I understand now is this: my body wasn’t failing me.
It was protecting me.
It had learned that there was no real pause, no exhale, no space to soften. So, it stayed alert. Ready. Guarded.
Survival mode isn’t loud.
It doesn’t announce itself.
It just slowly becomes your baseline.
And you don’t question it – until you stop.
Looking back, I have so much compassion for the version of me who didn’t know any of this. She wasn’t weak. She wasn’t broken. She was doing exactly what her body believed was necessary to get through the day.
Healing didn’t begin when I tried harder.
It began when my body finally felt safe enough to stand down.
I didn’t change anything all at once. I didn’t have a plan, or a formula, or answers yet. What I had was awareness – and the quiet sense that my body had been trying to tell me something for a long time. I didn’t know where it would lead, only that I couldn’t unsee what I’d just learned. That was the beginning. Not of fixing myself – but of listening.
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