G=Goals O=Outlook A=Authentic T=Truth (#coateisaGOAT)
Sweet friend, can I be honest with you today?
I have spent the better part of my life in survival mode. And I don’t mean that as a figure of speech. I mean the kind of survival mode that gets wired into you — the kind that starts in the environment you grew up in, gets reinforced by the relationships you find yourself in, deepens through a marriage that didn’t make it, and settles into your bones through years of financial uncertainty and just trying to keep the lights on and the wheels turning.
After a while, you don’t even realize you’re doing it anymore. It just becomes who you are. You become capable. Resourceful. Hyper-aware. You learn how to anticipate problems before they happen. You learn how to carry things quietly. You learn how to stay ready, because somewhere deep inside of you there is always this lingering belief that if you let your guard down for even a second, everything could fall apart.
And here’s the thing nobody tells you: when life finally starts to get better — when you find yourself in a genuinely good place — survival mode doesn’t just politely pack its bags and leave. It lingers. It whispers. It creeps back in through the side door the moment things feel uncertain or distant or hard. That’s where I find myself right now, y’all.
And I felt led to write about it because I have a feeling I’m not the only one.
Right now, on paper, life is really good. I truly love my work at Locklin Technical College. I feel fulfilled there. I feel purposeful there. I feel appreciated there. And after years of simply trying to survive, that kind of peace still feels almost unfamiliar to me sometimes.
And those Saturdays at Southern Specialty? Sweet friend, they fill me up in such an unexpected way. The conversations, the laughter, the slowing down, the community — it has become such a sweet little part of my life that I didn’t even realize I needed.
Spiritually, I am in one of the strongest seasons I can remember.
Our message at church this week was about drifting — how we can slowly, almost imperceptibly, allow ourselves to drift away from the Lord if we are not intentional. And as I sat there listening, I remember thinking, thank God, I don’t feel that right now. Spiritually, I feel anchored. I feel held. I feel closer to God than I have in a very long time.
But even in the middle of all of that goodness, I’m not going to pretend everything is perfect. Because it’s not.
Richie works for himself, and anyone who loves someone who is self-employed knows that it carries its own particular brand of stress. The uncertainty. The hustle. The pressure of making sure the work keeps coming and the bills keep getting paid. The seasons where you just put your head down and grind because you have to.
And somewhere along the way, in an effort to give him space, to not add to his load, to not be too much, I think I have unintentionally allowed some distance to creep into our relationship. Not dramatic distance. Not the kind born from a lack of love. Just the quiet kind.
The kind that happens slowly when two people are both tired and carrying responsibilities and trying to do the right thing. The kind where one day you look up and realize you haven’t really connected in a while, even though you’ve been sitting in the same room night after night.
And you know what survival mode does with that distance? It reaches for all its old tools. The anxiety. The worry. The overthinking. The trying to control. That completely false — and I know it’s false even while I’m doing it — sense that somehow, if I just manage things correctly enough, if I just say the right thing, do the right thing, anticipate enough, carry enough, then maybe I can protect the people I love from pain. My children. My husband. The people I would move mountains for if I could.
But here’s what I’m learning, slowly and imperfectly: I cannot love people into safety by white-knuckling my way through life. I never could. That was never actually within my power, and deep down I think I’ve always known that. But when you’ve spent decades surviving through hypervigilance, your nervous system doesn’t just suddenly relax because your circumstances improved. Your body remembers survival even when your heart is craving peace. And whew… that has been such a hard truth for me lately. Because I think somewhere along the way, I confused control with safety. I convinced myself that worrying was protecting. That carrying everything was loving. That staying ten steps ahead of every possible problem was wisdom.
But anxiety is such a liar like that. It whispers that if you just hold tighter, manage harder, think more, brace yourself better, then maybe bad things won’t happen.
And faith keeps gently reminding me: that was never your job. So this is where faith has become very real and very practical for me lately. Not as a bumper sticker. Not as a pretty verse hanging on a wall. But as the daily work of loosening my grip. Of saying out loud, sometimes through tears if I’m honest: God, I am not in control of this… and I don’t have to be. Of learning that peace is not something I earn through exhaustion. It is something I receive through surrender. And I’m also recognizing that there are relationships in my life that deserve more intentionality from me moving forward.
The distance between Richie and me didn’t happen on purpose. It happened because we were both surviving in our own ways. But intention can close the gap that drift opened up. It always can. And maybe that’s part of maturity too — realizing that healing is not just about becoming emotionally healthier yourself, but also about showing up differently in the relationships that matter most.
I don’t want to keep defaulting to old survival habits every time life feels uncertain. I don’t want fear to keep writing the story. I don’t want distance to become normal just because life gets busy or stressful. Those habits protected me for a long time, and I can honor that while also acknowledging something really important: I don’t need them the same way anymore.
I am allowed to receive peace. I am allowed to stop bracing for impact. I am allowed to soften. I am allowed to communicate instead of retreat. I am allowed to trust God with the things I keep trying to carry myself. And maybe healing isn’t some dramatic overnight transformation. Maybe it’s quieter than that.
This is the work, sweet friend. Not the dramatic kind. The quiet, daily, I’m choosing this again today kind. And maybe growth looks less like becoming a completely different person and more like gently teaching yourself that you are safe now. Safe enough to rest. Safe enough to connect. Safe enough to soften. Safe enough to let peace in without immediately waiting for it to disappear.
I don’t have this figured out yet. Not even close. But I do know this: I no longer want survival mode to be the loudest voice in my life. I want faith to be louder. I want peace to be louder. I want intentionality to be louder. I want connection to be louder.
And I think we’re both worth that kind of healing.
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