Stuck in Survival Mode: When your nervous system doesn’t get the memo

So here’s the thing: I’m not working right now—and for once, I’m not drowning in guilt about it.

That’s progress, right?

I’ve finally started giving myself permission to slow down, take a breath, and focus on healing. You’d think that would automatically mean less stress. Fewer breakdowns. Some actual peace.

Ha. Cute idea.

The truth? My body still thinks it’s running from a bear. I’ve been stuck in survival mode for months. Fight, flight, freeze—you name it, I’ve danced the whole trauma tango. And no matter how many times I whisper, “Hey body, we’re safe now. We’re just making tea and stretching our hamstrings, not being chased through the jungle”—my nervous system isn’t buying it.

Why? Because for most of my life, I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. I was surviving.

Let’s talk receipts:

• Childhood trauma? Yep.

• Caregiving for an ex who nearly destroyed me emotionally? Unfortunately, check.

• PTSD? Hello darkness, my old friend.

• Chronic pain, relentless surgeries, and joints that click like old floorboards? All included.

• A go-go-go mentality that made rest feel like failure? You bet.

I built entire businesses and held down full-time jobs while falling apart inside. At one point, I was literally running a company and working a day job simultaneously. You know… just casually doing the work of three humans while ignoring the screaming sirens of my own body and mind.

Then March happened.

I hurt my knee—again. Except this time, something changed. My body didn’t just whimper in protest. It screamed. It was the kind of “NOPE” that you can’t push through. No bootstraps. No band-aids. No hustle. Just full-stop shutdown.

And suddenly, I had no choice but to face the thing I’d been expertly avoiding: myself.

Turns out, slowing down after decades of distraction doesn’t come with a spa-day soundtrack and soothing lavender oil. It comes with grief. Trauma. Flashbacks. Frustration. The kind of silence that makes you feel like you’re sitting in a room with all your past pain—and no remote control.

Now, I’m in the trenches of healing. Doing the work. The real, unglamorous stuff:

• Pain support groups where I cry more than I expected.

• Chair yoga that makes my body sigh in ways I didn’t know were possible.

• Meditation, even on the days I want to throw my phone across the room.

• Therapy that’s slowly unraveling years of “I’m fine.”

And just last week, I had a nerve block—ten brutal injections straight into my back, all to try and shut down my overactive nervous system. The goal? To stop it from constantly screaming to my brain that I’m in crisis-level pain when, in reality, I’m just trying to live.It was excruciating. But honestly? One of the best things I’ve done.

That, and the week before… my millionth cortisone injection (okay, slight exaggeration, but not by much). These aren’t magic cures, but they’ve helped me feel just enough relief to exhale.

Now if I can just get my face pain under control, I might finally catch a break. (Stress, is that you again? You little rascal.)

I’m trying to learn how to be slow. How to soften. How to care for myself without feeling like I’m somehow failing at life. And let me tell you—it’s hard to go from being a high-functioning, do-it-all machine to… someone who needs rest. Stillness. Support.

Sometimes I feel weak. But I’m working on it.

Because maybe true strength isn’t found in pushing through—maybe it’s found in finally letting go. In letting yourself fall apart so you can rebuild with intention.

So if you’re also stuck in survival mode, feeling like your body is living in the past even while you’re trying to move forward—I see you. You’re not broken. You’re unwinding decades of defense mechanisms. That takes time, courage, and an absurd amount of bubble baths.

I don’t have all the answers, but I’m here. Still showing up for myself, even when it’s messy.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s the bravest thing I’ve ever done.

To read more about my healing journey, click the link below.

Let’s keep getting real about what recovery really looks like. Because no one heals alone.

What Healing Really Looks Like (Spoiler: I’m Not There….Yet)

Let’s be real—this isn’t some glossy “healing journey” blog post where I tell you how I found my inner peace and now do yoga at sunrise. I’m not there. Not even close. I’m in the thick of it—waiting for surgery, dealing with daily pain, riding a scooter some days, and doing whatever I can to not completely lose my mind. It’s messy. It’s exhausting. And it’s definitely not the vibe I had planned for this year.

Just yesterday, my hip slipped out of place—because of course it did. Add that to the growing list: sciatica, face and jaw pain that honestly feels like it belongs in a horror movie, vertigo that makes the room spin at random, and the looming reality of a full knee replacement. It’s like a never-ending game of “which body part will betray me today?”

Some days are better than others.

Some days I move.

Some days I cry.

Some days I just survive.

The face pain has been next level lately—enough to send me for more blood work to try and rule out a few things. I don’t know what we’re chasing anymore—answers, relief, a diagnosis that makes it all make sense. But I keep showing up, because I don’t know what else to do.

In the middle of all this, I’ve been doing pool physio with a group of 80-year-olds who have better rhythm, stamina, and honestly probably better knees than I do. (Love them—but wow. )

And then there’s the scooter. I never thought I’d be using one in my 40s, but here we are. It’s helped me get outside, get moving again—but it also comes with a whole lot of side-eyes. Some people stare. Some pretend not to see me at all. There’s this weird in-between where you’re either too young to be “disabled” or too invisible to be acknowledged. But I use it anyway. Because I have to choose my sanity and independence over someone else’s opinion. Every. Single. Time.

Right now, I’m doing everything I can to stay above water mentally. From face physio and acupuncture to journaling, red light therapy, chair yoga, crying in the car, laughing at weird TikToks, and praying for one good day—I’m throwing the whole toolbox at this season.

But let’s be clear: I’m not healing yet.

I’m waiting to heal.

I’m working to heal.

I’m surviving the part that no one claps for—the in-between.

And through it all, I’ve been forced to face the trauma I’ve carried for years. I’ve had to start letting go of guilt—the guilt of slowing down, of not being able to show up for people the way I used to, the guilt of needing help. And most of all, I’ve had to start grieving.

Grieving the version of me I used to be.

The one who never stopped.

The one who could push through.

The one who didn’t need a scooter or a physio pool or a break.

I didn’t choose this—but I’m choosing to face it.

Messy, honest, and painfully human.

So no, I’m not healed. Not yet.

But I’m still here.

Still fighting.

Still doing my best in a body that sometimes feels like it’s falling apart—but a spirit that refuses to give up.

If you’re in your own messy chapter, I hope this post reminds you that you’re not alone.

This is what healing really looks like.

And even if you’re not there yet, you’re still allowed to keep going.

With love (and just enough sass to keep things interesting),

Lisa-Marie

Welcome to Living with Lisa-Marie: My Journey of Healing, Art & Purpose

Hi, I’m Lisa-Marie—
Welcome to Living with Lisa-Marie, a space I created straight from the heart.

This blog isn’t just a collection of stories. It’s a reflection of the winding, messy, beautiful journey I’ve been on—a journey through chronic pain, healing, reinvention, and rediscovery. I’ve lived through more surgeries than I can count, navigated physical pain, faced down mental health struggles, and come out the other side stronger… though still healing every day.

Here, you’ll find pieces of me—
My art, which has been one of my greatest forms of therapy.
My thoughts, raw and real.
My story, shared in hopes that it helps you feel less alone in yours.

Whether you’re here for inspiration, connection, or just to scroll through some heartfelt posts, I’m so glad you’ve found your way here.

I believe healing is never linear. Some days we thrive, some days we survive—and both are worth talking about. 💫

If my words or my art can bring even a moment of comfort, encouragement, or “me too,” then this blog is already doing what I hoped it would.

Thanks for being here.
Here’s to healing, one step at a time.

With love,
Lisa-Marie

When your forced to Pause: When guilt comes with pain

It’s taken me a while to write this. Not because I didn’t want to—but because I didn’t know how to say it out loud.

I’ve been off work since March.
And no, it wasn’t planned. It wasn’t wanted.
It broke me.

Over the past few months, I’ve faced what feels like a mountain of physical pain—sciatica that made walking feel impossible, dizzy spells from vertigo, relentless joint and muscle pain, and the life-altering confirmation that I need a full knee replacement.

The thing is… deep down, I’ve always known this day would come.
After 18 knee surgeries in my adult life, I knew my body was running out of options.
I just didn’t think it would be now. Not yet.

I wasn’t ready.
But are we ever?

My world—once so busy and full of purpose—suddenly stopped. And with it came something I didn’t expect: guilt.

Isn’t it strange how we feel bad for being in pain? For not showing up? For needing rest? I’ve always been someone who pushed through. A go-go-go kind of woman. I took pride in working hard—crazy hard. So when my body gave out, my heart followed. I felt like I’d failed.

I couldn’t even bring myself to visit the thrift store I loved so much—the place I poured my creativity into. I missed my team terribly, but I stayed away. I worried:
If I can show up and smile… will they think I’m okay? Will they wonder why I’m not working? Will they judge me?

That’s the invisible part of pain—the part no one sees but we carry every day.

And then, when I finally got the official news—you need a new knee—something strange happened. The guilt began to lift. Because now I had something “visible.” Something people might understand.

And that realization hit hard.
Why do we need proof to validate our pain?
Why do we hide? Why do we carry shame over something we didn’t choose?

Since March, I’ve been grieving more than just mobility. I’ve been grieving a life I loved. I've been navigating what it means to lose rhythm, routine, and the ability to just be who I used to be.

Some days I’m hopeful. Some days I’m grieving.
Some days I’m just trying to be okay.

But this is my truth.
This is healing.
This is what life looks like when you’re rebuilding from the inside out.

If you’ve ever felt the guilt of slowing down, the fear of being judged, or the crushing weight of losing the life you used to live—I hope this post helps you feel less alone.

I’m still here.
Still healing.
Still writing.
And I’ll keep showing up and sharing it all, one step at a time.

With love,
Lisa-Marie