Survival Mode

I feel like I’m being torn apart from the inside. My parts keep pulling me in opposite directions, each one convinced it knows best, each one louder than the last. One rises up and takes control, only to vanish when another storms in. I never know which version of me will show up, and the constant switching is wearing me down to the bone. It’s not just confusion—it’s exhaustion so heavy I can barely breathe.

People around me see the fragments. They call me forgetful, lazy, scatter-brained. They think I don’t care when I forget conversations, appointments, errands, even something as simple as what I said I’d cook for dinner. But they don’t see the war inside me. They don’t see how each part is having its own conversation, making its own promises, and leaving me to pick up the pieces when none of it lines up. I’m not careless—I’m drowning in too many selves at once.

And then there’s the weight outside of me. Missing my girls is a grief that never loosens its grip. It’s a heaviness that presses on my chest every hour of every day. Relationship wounds pile on top of that—men who claimed to love me but left me broken, people who said they cared but disrespected me, hurt me, made me question my worth. My heart feels shattered into fragments, and the only thing connecting those fragments is pain. Nothing else. Just pain.

Sobriety is another battle I fight alone. Every day is a climb with no summit, every step harder than the last. And while I’m trying to hold myself together, the world keeps pushing me back—reminding me I’m a felon, reminding me of warrants, reminding me that even when I’m more than qualified, doors slam shut in my face. It’s like the universe keeps saying I don’t deserve to move forward, no matter how hard I try.

I cry so much it feels endless. Every minute, every hour, every day, every week. Tears are the only language my body knows right now. I am alone, scared, and numb to everything except the ache. The war inside me never stops, and the war outside me never lets up. I am exhausted from fighting on both fronts, exhausted from trying to prove I care, exhausted from trying to survive when all I feel is heartbreak.

My parts keep me spinning, tearing me in different directions, and I am worn down to nothing. I want peace. I want stillness. I want to stop breaking under the weight of myself and the world. But right now, all I have is the pain that binds me, the exhaustion that defines me, and the hope—fragile, flickering—that maybe one day I’ll find a way to gather all these pieces into something whole.

Why do I keep going back?

Why Do I Keep Going Back?

There are nights I lie awake asking myself the same question over and over: why do I keep putting myself in situations I know will end badly? Why do I keep going back to someone who has proven, time and time again, that he will never change?  

It’s not just the arguments. It’s not just the disrespect. It’s the way he hurts me—mentally, physically—and then flips the script, playing the victim. He finds justification for the things he does, while I’m left carrying the weight of his actions. And somehow, I still find myself drawn back.  

When I’m not with him, I think about him. I worry about him. I wonder if he’s okay. And when I am with him, I cater to him—pouring myself out, giving, bending, trying to meet his needs. But he doesn’t do the same for me. Sometimes he tries in his own way, but my mind is always on defense. The scars of the past make me suspicious of even the smallest kindness, because I’ve learned that there’s usually a motive behind it.  

The truth is, I need to stop. I need to break free before he destroys me completely.  

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Yesterday’s Breaking Point

Yesterday was supposed to be simple. I told him ahead of time that I had to leave for a few hours—to meet with my sponsor and complete an assessment for a housing voucher. Something that could give me stability, my own place, a chance to stop bouncing between couches and chaos. He said he was fine with it.  

But when I let him know I was on my way back, all hell broke loose.  

Suddenly, I was selfish. I hadn’t spent his whole day off with him. He told me to get my things and get out of his life. He threatened to keep my belongings, then changed his mind. When I went to collect them, he shut himself in his room—door closed, silence heavy. I left quietly.  

And then this morning, he told me to die.  

Do you know what that does to a person’s mind? To hear those words from someone you’ve given so much of yourself to? It’s insane. It’s breaking me down piece by piece.  

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The Cycle of Attachment

I know the sex is good—maybe too good. Maybe that’s part of the trap. But sex isn’t enough to justify being disrespected, degraded, and discarded. It isn’t enough to excuse the way he treats me.  

So why do I allow it? Why do I keep going back?  

The answer is complicated. It’s attachment. It’s trauma. It’s the twisted comfort of the familiar, even when the familiar is toxic. It’s the hope that maybe this time will be different, even though history keeps proving otherwise.  

There’s a part of me that believes he has a sex addiction, that the intensity of our connection is rooted in something unhealthy. And yet, I’ve let that intensity convince me it’s worth the pain. But it’s not.  

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Choosing Myself

I’m writing this because I need to see it in black and white. I need to remind myself that no amount of passion, no amount of “trying in his own way,” can make up for the damage he’s done.  

I need to choose myself. I need to break free before he kills me—whether that’s physically, mentally, or spiritually.  

Because the truth is, I deserve more. I deserve respect. I deserve peace. I deserve love that doesn’t come with conditions, manipulation, or cruelty.  

And the first step is admitting that I’ve been stuck in this cycle. The next step is breaking it.  

To Anyone Reading This

If you’ve ever found yourself in a cycle like mine—going back to someone who breaks you down, who makes you question your worth—please know you’re not alone. These attachments can feel unshakable, but they are not unbreakable.  

We deserve more than pain disguised as love. We deserve respect, peace, and safety. Writing this is my way of reminding myself—and maybe reminding you—that we don’t have to stay bound to people who thrive on our suffering.  

If you’re reading this and nodding along, take it as a sign: you are worthy of freedom, of joy, of love that doesn’t hurt.  

Self-Care Rituals for Busy Moms: From Chaos to Quiet

Self-Care Rituals for Busy Moms: From Chaos to Quiet

Before the girls packed their bags for New York and my son settled in at his grandma’s, my house was anything but quiet. Mornings were a symphony of cereal spills, missing shoes, and last-minute homework confessions. The walls echoed with laughter, arguments, and the kind of noise that only a full house can create. It was messy, exhausting, and beautiful all at once.

In those days, self-care wasn’t about escaping the chaos—it was about surviving it. My rituals were small anchors in the storm. A cup of coffee sipped slowly before the whirlwind began. A bath bomb fizzing in the tub after bedtime, reminding me that joy could be simple and affordable. Even folding laundry became a ritual, each shirt a quiet act of love, each meal a rhythm of care that kept us all steady.

Then the house grew quiet. Too quiet. Without the girls’ chatter and my son’s high energy, the silence pressed in. I realized that self-care rituals weren’t just about grounding me in chaos—they were about filling the spaces left behind. Lighting a candle, journaling for five minutes, or stepping outside for fresh air became ways to remind myself that presence matters, even when the noise is gone.

Self-care isn’t selfish, and it isn’t reserved for spa days or vacations. It’s the oxygen mask we put on first, whether we’re navigating the beautiful chaos of a full house or the aching quiet of an empty one. Rituals carry us through both seasons, teaching us resilience, balance, and the art of finding joy in the everyday.

So today, I invite you to choose one ritual—big or small—and claim it as yours. Because whether your house is bursting with noise or wrapped in silence, caring for yourself is the thread that keeps it all together.

Found Energy

Found Energy

Today I woke with found energy — a small, unfamiliar spark after a long season of quiet heaviness. Instead of celebrating, I moved. I turned toward the overdue chores, the warm hum of the stove, the leash clipped to the puppy’s collar, the laundry that’s been waiting longer than it should. I wrote a little. I kept myself busy with busy work, anything to keep my mind occupied.

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What I noticed about the motion

I can name what I’m doing and why it feels complicated. On the surface it looks like productivity: dishes, laundry, a walk, a meal I cooked instead of ordering. Underneath, it’s doing several things at once.

- Protecting. Motion creates a buffer. If I keep moving, there’s less time to sit with the weight that lives in my chest.  

- Nurturing. Cooking and walking the dog are small, clear ways of proving to myself that I matter.  

- Reorienting. Completing overdue tasks stitches me back into a life that felt paused; each small win is proof that things can shift.  

- Measuring. There’s a harshness in checking off what I neglected, as if the list will tell me how far I’ve fallen or how much ground I need to gain.

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Why today, of all days?

Maybe this energy is a shield. Maybe it’s a hand reaching toward me, asking to be fed. Maybe it’s both. When you’ve been sad for so long that “normal” slips out of reach, sudden liveliness can feel dangerous — like it will break or vanish if I look at it too closely. So I blow on the ember with frantic breath, or I cup it and hold it, or I simply let it warm me for a moment. All of those responses are human and valid.

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How I’m learning to hold it gently

I don’t want to rush this small flame into a conflagration, nor do I want to snuff it out out of fear. Here’s how I’m practicing tenderness with my found energy:

- Two intentions, not ten. One task to calm the space (laundry, dishes), one to feed the heart (15 minutes of writing; a slow walk).  

- Time-box the motion. Work for 20–30 minutes, then pause five. Notice how the body and mind feel.  

- Turn chores into care. Brew better tea while cooking; play a song that makes the room softer while folding.  

- Capture one sentence. Jot a single line about today into a note — a checkpoint without pressure.  

- Return to the body. Two deep breaths and a gentle stretch between tasks remind me I’m here, present and humane.

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If it feels like too much

If you’re reading this and you feel close to breaking, please reach for someone — a friend, a family member, a counselor. Asking for help is not surrender; it’s a brave, practical step. If you ever feel unsafe, get help immediately.

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A small truth to hold

Keeping busy today is not only avoidance. It’s also evidence: you still care enough to show up for yourself. The chores, the walk, the cooking, the writing — these are acts of repair. They are how you practice being human again, one ordinary, imperfect step at a time.

Today, I’m learning how to be with myself. I’m letting the ember glow, and I’m trying, gently, not to blow it out.

It’s Okay to Carry the Pain

It’s Okay to Carry the Pain

Some days feel heavier than others. The kind of heavy that sits behind your eyes and in your chest, quietly reminding you of what’s missing. My girls aren’t here, and that ache doesn’t go away. But I’ve learned something important: it’s okay to carry the pain.

I used to think I had to hide it. That if I smiled enough, stayed busy enough, surrounded myself with love, maybe the grief would loosen its grip. But I’ve realized that carrying it doesn’t mean I’m stuck—it means I’m surviving.

I go to work. I keep myself moving. I lean into the warmth of supportive faces. I let the rhythm of routine hold me when everything else feels uncertain. And even on the bad days, I remind myself: I’ve survived those before. I’ll survive this one too.

Grief doesn’t make me broken. It makes me real. It makes me a mother who still loves fiercely, even in absence. It makes me someone who chooses to keep going, even when the weight is hard to bear.

So today, I’m not fighting the pain. I’m walking with it. I’m letting it be part of me. And I’m trusting that tomorrow will come, just like it always has.

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