Coming Down From Chaos

I woke up with a weight in my chest. Not metaphorical—like a real, crushing weight, pressing down before my eyes even opened. My first thought wasn’t peaceful or grateful or inspired. It was panic.

So much to do. So much pressure. And yet… I’m frozen. Doing nothing. Freaking out about doing nothing.

If you’ve ever been in survival mode—like real survival mode, where just staying alive takes everything you’ve got—you’ll understand this.

When you finally start to come out of it, your nervous system doesn’t throw you a party. It doesn’t say, “Congrats, you made it! Let’s relax now.” Neither do the people around you.

No. It says, “WHERE IS THE THREAT? WHY ARE WE NOT RUNNING?”

And even if the chaos has stopped, the body doesn’t know that yet.

That’s where I am right now.

I’m coming out of years of fight-or-flight. Years of bedrest, agony, fear, abandonment, betrayal. Years of being overworked and severely taken advantage of at work, white-knuckling my way through pain and pretending I was fine because people expected me to “get better” the moment I stood up. More accurately, they expected me to jump up off of bedrest and go back to work… and I was made to feel guilty for being so “weak”.

But here’s what I’m only just beginning to realize:

The panic I feel in stillness isn’t just about now. It’s about then.

It’s about all the years of:

“Why aren’t you moving fast enough?”

“Why isn’t this done?”

“How dare you be a minute late! You’re on time? That means you’re late!”

“You got an A—why wasn’t it an A+?”

“You started a business—why isn’t it producing more?”

“Why aren’t you painting more?”

“Why are you not moving fast enough to produce what I feel is the appropriate amount?”

“Dana, I don’t understand why you’re productive at 95% all the time, but that extra 5%… we have to fix that.”

I have been groomed to be a robot with no feelings—just a machine designed to enhance the lives of everyone around me. I thought I was born with OCD. As a kid I always loved a fresh white piece of paper, a fresh pencil. But I understand now… the my real OCD.. the panic to get things done immediately, the way i jump up as soon as somethng is asked from me, the terror i feel when there is something not completed.. someones walk to come in here and humiliate me, put me down, find the ONE part of my work that isnt perfect and tear it apart… and in the end even if i give everything - its never enough.

And now I’m waking up to the truth.

That is not love.

That is not care.

That is trauma.

And that trauma lives in my nervous system.

So when I lay in bed and feel like I’m drowning in guilt for “not doing enough,” it’s not laziness—it’s PTSD. It’s my nervous system screaming, “If you don’t push harder, you won’t be loved. You won’t be safe. You’ll be discarded.”

But I don’t want to be a machine anymore.

I want to be a person. A human being. With needs. With limits. With a soul. And I am so greatful that I found someone who loves me just for being me. Not for the amount I can offer them, what I can produce for them, how much I can contribute. Just me. He tells me Im enough, and I dont believe him.

Yes, I’m lying in bed.

Yes, I’m overwhelmed.

Yes, I feel like I should be doing a thousand things.

Yes, I had a mini panic attack and took anxieety medication.

But here’s the truth I’m holding onto:

I’m not behind.

I’m recovering.

And that’s work, too.

This is parasympathetic crash. This is the body thawing. This is what they don’t talk about when they say “healing isn’t linear.”

It’s not just about progress.

It’s about grieving the version of you who had to be in constant pain to be taken seriously.

It’s about learning how to rest without guilt.

It’s about fighting the belief that you’re only lovable when you’re useful.

It’s about grieving the toxic relationships that I didn’t realize were toxic before, and coming to terms with how new relationships will have be transformed.

I’m fighting that belief right now.

If you’re in this place with me—if you’re coming out of fight-or-flight, and everything feels too loud, too fast, too much—I see you. It is a LOT. I didn’t expect such a physical, emotional, psychological response to this.. but im in it and its real. Its very real. And its worth it - because I can say from my own personal experience that I feel I am having a spiritual awakening to this - so as painful as it all is - it makes it worth it.

You’re not lazy. You’re not weak. You’re not broken.

You’re detoxing from survival.

You’re learning how to live.

That’s brave. That’s worthy. That’s enough.

Take the pressure off. Let the world wait. Let them judge. You don’t owe anyone a performance of healing. You owe yourself peace.

With all my love,

Dana

(and Nicky, who is currently wrapped in a blanket like a chaotic little burrito and thinks you’re doing amazing, sweetie)