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.