Out of Survival Mode

Letter to My Young Self

Safety is the foundation that teaches us we are allowed to be — to rest, to feel, to take up space. It gives us permission to exist, to be held, to soften into presence. This drive for safety is universal.

I didn't always have that foundation.

My father had norms I couldn't opt out of. Even the way I ate had to match what he wanted. When visitors came, I had to appear, regardless of my own state, regardless of whether I had the capacity to. Forgive people anyway, he'd say, regardless of what they'd done. Looking back, I think my space kept being diminished, piece by piece, until there wasn't much of it left for me. Maybe that's why I gravitated toward my grandmother's house  it was the one place I could just exist without having to perform.

I lived with my parents until I was four. Then came typhoid at six, then regurgitation, then restless leg syndrome — one thing after another, never enough room to settle before the next one arrived. My body learned to survive before it ever learned how to rest. And then, at thirteen, I lost my mother.

Survival mode wasn't a phase for me. It was the only setting I knew.

But oh, my young self 

It was never your fault.

You are safe now.

You are slowly recovering.

You are out of the typhoid, out of the restless legs, out of the regurgitation.

You are not in survival mode anymore.