Some days it doesn’t feel like survival, it feels like failure in slow motion...
Some days it doesn’t feel like survival; it feels like humiliation. You wake up already heavy, already behind. The mirror shows you swollen eyes, and the voice inside says “failure” before you’ve even had a chance to breathe.
Everyone around you seems to be running ahead — posting their wins, sharing their pictures, living their normal, while you’re still sitting at the bottom of the day, wondering how you’ll get through the next hour.
This post is for you. The ones who can’t hold on.
I want to say this out loud because I don’t hear it enough: holding on is hard. Sometimes impossibly hard. And if you’re here, reading this, you’re already doing it better than you think.
When “hold on” feels like a chokehold...
We grow up with clichés like “just hang in there”, as if holding on is a gentle thing. But sometimes it feels more like hanging off a cliff by two fingers while your legs kick in mid-air. When people say “hold on,” they don’t see the truth: that you’ve been gripping so tightly for so long, your arms are burning, your throat is raw, and your faith is frayed. They don’t see how the skin of your palms is torn from the rope. How the muscles in your jaw ache from clenching through one more bill, one more slammed door, one more morning you didn’t want to wake up.
They don’t see how it feels when you look around and everyone else seems to be climbing, while you’re still dangling, begging for a ledge. Sometimes holding on isn’t brave. It’s brutal and humiliating and like dragging yourself through another day that feels like proof you’ve already lost.
And maybe no one tells you this: it’s okay to admit it hurts. It’s okay to admit you’re tired. It’s okay to scream at the sky, “I can’t do this anymore.” Because that scream doesn’t mean you’ve failed. It means you’ve been fighting in silence longer than anyone knows.
Holding on, in real life, looks like:
-Getting up with puffy eyes and making toast anyway.
-Answering the phone even when your voice shakes.
-Relisting the same rug on Marketplace for the fifth time because maybe this is the day it moves.
-Putting the vacuum on because noise feels safer than silence.
That’s what survival looks like in the raw and the hardest part to accept: the fact that it feels unbearable doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means the weight was unbearable to begin with. You were never meant to carry it all.
The shame spiral
What makes it worse isn’t just the weight. It’s the shame.
The shame that says:
“You should be stronger.”
“Everyone else is fine.”
“You’re a burden for even feeling this.”
That shame is lying to you because exhaustion is not weakness. Struggling is not a failure, and wanting to let go is not proof you are unworthy. It is proof you have been carrying too much, for too long, often alone.
Loosening the grip
Loosening your grip does not mean letting go of everything. It means deciding, with the smallest possible mercy, which fingers you can release so the rest of your hand can open for air. You do not need a dramatic surrender. You need three tiny mercies:
Permission to be as small as you are.
Say it out loud: “I am allowed to be small right now.” Don’t roll your eyes. Say it and feel the absurdity of how radical that permission is. The world expects production, solutions, and performance. Your body asks for a pause, so give it one. This is not failure; it is a triage.
One honest act each day.
Not a life overhaul, not a manifesto. One thing: list an item, send a message, make the appointment you’ve been avoiding. You do it, you mark it done, and your brain gets a little proof that you are still a mover in the world.
A witness who is not a fixer.
Tell one person the truth in one sentence. Not the whole novel and not the pleas for rescue. One sentence: “I’m barely hanging on today.” If they can’t hold that without trying to patch, then they’re not the witness you need right now, so please keep looking. A witness matters more than the advice.
The small practical things that actually move things.
When you’re living in dread, grand plans feel impossible. Your body is already shouting at you, so the last thing you need is someone telling you to design a five-year vision board. Survival in the low comes from the granular.
Here’s what it looks like in real life:
Sell or share one thing today. Post the shoes you never wear, the chair collecting dust, the jacket hanging at the back of the closet. Not because it fixes everything, but because it puts breath into your lungs when you see proof that the world still responds.
Offer one small piece of yourself. A quick service, a short consult, a helping hand. People are far more likely to say yes to something bite-sized than to something overwhelming. Start where yes is easy.
Ask directly, not apologetically. If someone owes you, if a promise was made, ask for confirmation. Treat money like fact, not shame. You are not a burden for wanting clarity.
Speak clearly when you need to be heard. Whether it’s an online post or a conversation in your kitchen, state what you can give or what you need in plain words. Not dressed up, not overexplained. Clarity moves faster than silence.
These aren’t magic solutions. They’re maintenance that will keep you in the game long enough for the tide to turn.
Closing the feeling...
If you’ve read this far, it means you understand the weight I’m describing — you’ve carried it. Perhaps you’re carrying it right now.
I don’t have quick fixes, but I know how to sit in the hard parts without flinching. I know how to pull words out of silence and find the thread that keeps you moving.
Sometimes that’s all any of us need: a space where we don’t have to perform strength, where we can name the dread out loud and still be seen as whole.
If you’re tired of holding it all alone, reach out. Send me a message. Let’s sit down — with coffee, with tears, with honesty, and talk about what survival actually looks like for you.
You don’t have to carry this weight by yourself.
If this feels like you today, don’t carry it alone ...