Some mornings I wake up and forget, for exactly 3.7 seconds, that my life is held together with duct tape and dissociation.

And then I remember.

Oh right—this is the life I survived into. The one where trauma isn’t some big event that explodes and leaves behind a movie-worthy redemption arc. It’s the slow, corrosive aftermath that leaks into everything. Like glitter. Or mold. It clings.

And yet—here I am. Still living it.

Still brushing my teeth, mostly. Still answering emails like a functioning adult. Still folding laundry while I quietly debate whether my soul has left my body for good or is just napping somewhere under the couch.

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Trauma isn’t a moment. It’s a lifestyle.

People think surviving something traumatic ends with the survival. That once you’re out, once it’s “over,” you should be grateful, healing, resilient.

But no one talks about what comes next:

• Making dinner while remembering the exact weight of a man’s hand around your throat.
• Attending a Zoom meeting while fighting the urge to crawl under your desk and sob for absolutely no new reason.
• Listening to your kid ask for help with math while a voice in your head quietly whispers, “You’re still not safe.”

This is the kind of survival that doesn’t get applause. It’s not photogenic. It’s slow, invisible, and boring. It’s brushing your hair when you’d rather hide. Taking the trash out because the flies don’t care what you’ve been through. Answering a text with a smiley emoji when your brain is screaming run.

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The checklist of survival isn’t glamorous. It’s practical:

• Eat something green. Or at least something that wasn’t handed to you through a drive-thru window by a teenager named Skyler.
• Drink water. Not just coffee. Not just wine. Actual water. With ice, if you’re feeling fancy.
• Move your body. Even if it’s just walking from the bed to the shower. Or sitting in the shower. That counts.
• Reply to one thing. Not all the things. Just one. One email. One bill. One broken friendship that maybe deserves a soft no.
• Cry when you need to. Preferably not in the grocery store aisle next to the tampons and tortilla chips, but if it happens, hey, you’re not the first.
• Laugh at something stupid. A meme. A cat video. The sound your dog makes when he dreams. That little moment? That’s you reclaiming your nervous system.

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Healing is not a straight line. It’s a loop. And a spiral. And sometimes a dumpster fire.

There are days I feel better. Days when I do yoga and meditate and actually believe that inner peace is possible. And there are days when I forget how to breathe properly and wonder if I’ll ever feel whole again.

Spoiler: “whole” is a scam. A myth we tell ourselves.

You don’t have to be whole to be worthy. You don’t have to be healed to be good. You don’t have to be over it to be doing amazing things, like wearing real pants and remembering your Wi-Fi password.

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I used to think surviving meant getting out.

Now I know it means staying in. In your body. In your truth. In your day—even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

And if all you did today was:

• Feed yourself
• Say no to someone toxic
• Keep your heart beating
• Stay alive

Then you’re doing it. You’re surviving. And some days, that’s everything.

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To the ones surviving the quiet way—one laundry load, one breath, one frozen Trader Joe’s dinner at a time—I’m with you. I see you. And I swear, you’re not alone.

Keep going. The world may never fully understand what it takes just to do the basics. But I do. And I think you’re a damn miracle.