Blowing up your life is not a reasonable response to overwhelm

One True Sentence #1 (and a rage rant)

Jul 17, 2024

“All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.”
- Ernest Hemingway

Before I get to my one true sentence, I just want to acknowledge that I sat on this post for almost a month unsure whether or not I should share. I was hesitant for several reasons. One, it feels vulnerable to share my “weaker” moments publicly. To admit my struggle outloud. And two, it feels completely insensitive(?)/out of touch(?)/self serving(?) to share with the realities of the world outside of myself. Between the genocide and mass killings and political turmoil and threats of basic human rights and and and…it feels unbelievably privileged to be writing about my own overwhelm. But the truth is, so much of the below post - of my feeling of overwhelm - is escalated because of the world’s events and feeling so completely helpless. I don’t know how any of us are moving through the world and not feeling it. Maybe we’re all feeling it and just moving through the world the best we can.

All that to say, I decided to share because this space is called I’m Fine (& Other Lies) and when I wrote this post, I was clearly not fine (and I don’t want to lie about it). I decided to share because maybe there’s value or a lesson here for others. Maybe someone else will find their own boundaries a little sooner or care for their own heart a little deeper. I don’t know. Mostly this post feels like a big old pile of word vomit, but maybe there’s value in sharing the shit, too.

My one true sentence:

Blowing up your life is not a reasonable response to overwhelm.

Recently, I’ve wanted to blow up my life. Burn it all down. Start over. Be a fucking phoenix, rising from the ashes to start anew.

I’ve daydreamed about taking over a small used bookstore in a remote town with a population of 500. I’ve imagined escaping to live among the wild olive groves of coastal Portugal. I've longed to buy a van and sleep under a canopy of stars and redwood trees. I’ve envisioned disappearing for 3 months to a cabin deep in the woods to write my book.

I’ve thought about blowing it all up just take a fucking nap.

But here’s the thing. I don’t actually want to blow up my life. I like my life. I have work that is fulfilling and a partnership that is loving and a home that is nourishing. I prioritize adventures and connection and depth.

I’m just utterly overwhelmed.

I’m not sure how to balance the many, many hats required to run a business. How to take time for myself and the many, many tasks in the day. How to hold space for my own heart and the heart of many, many others.

After years of being available for everyone else’s needs - years of not instilling healthy boundaries - I have reached a breaking point and want to blow it all up. To quit everything.

There was a moment last fall when I knew something needed to change. My sweet pup, Dune, was in his final days and I was crumbling over the anticipatory grief of the inevitable. With Dune snoring in the crook of my arm, I opened Instagram, looking for an ounce of distraction. There in my DMs was a message from someone looking for support.

Over the years, I’ve received countless messages from strangers. Reaching out because a friend was diagnosed with cancer or their spouse had died or they were wondering what to say to a grieving friend. I’ve done my best to respond to each message, remembering how desperate I was for help. It’s been an honor to be a part of these exchanges.

But on this particular day, that simple request from a stranger was too much for me and something inside me broke.

“I can’t even grieve my own fucking dog in peace,” I yelled through tears as I hurled my phone across the room.

I couldn’t hold both my grief and the grief of this stranger together. And worse, I resented them for asking me. It was more than my shattered heart could handle.

Shortly after, I was filled with guilt and shame over what I felt. This stranger on the otherside of a screen had no idea what I was going through. They were simply reaching out for help. My DMs have always been a 24-hour convenience store, open at all hours of the day for anyone who needed them. I didn’t know how to close, which is why, minutes later, with tear soaked cheeks, I picked up my phone and responded to their request, them none the wiser to the pain I was in.

I didn’t want them to hurt alone.

A similar incident happened more recently. Over the span of a few hours, I was asked for advice from one person, asked why I charge money for my “services”1 from another, and asked why I don’t offer more by a third.

This time it wasn’t my heart that shattered, but my spirit.

No matter how exhausted I was, how stressed I was, how overworked I was, how present I was, it was never enough.

I was never enough.

I had unknowingly set the expectation that I could keep doing more.

And I broke.

And in that brokenness, I rage-wrote this rant:2

I Quit: A Manifesto I Wrote While in a Depressive Spiral

I quit.
For a day? A month? Forever? I don’t know.
But right now, I quit.
I’m tired. Oh so fucking tired.
Of grief. Of joy. Of life.

Tired of building a business based on my grief, that supports others’ grief, while tending to my own fucking grief.
Every day, holding space.
Holding space holding space holding space.
It used to feel different. Purposeful. Fulfilling.
Maybe it was always just a distraction.
But now it feels like screaming (into a void).
Hours and hours spent answering questions and sharing resources and holding space. Always available. Never wanting to leave anyone feeling more alone than they already do.
Time time time for other people’s grief. But what about my own?
What about when I need help? Do I ask? Who? How? They are strangers. It’s not a two-way street - it’s a tumultuous river - a dam, ready to break.
Everything crashing down.
I’m exhausted. For years, freely giving everything I have. My grief, my story, my joy. Proving my worth, over and over and over again. Proving that joy still exists, yes even in grief. Proving that grief still exists, yes even in joy.
Stuck holding space for everyone else’s trauma, blocking out space for my own.
My health is declining - answer the DMs.
My dad is deteriorating - answer the DMs.
My dog is dying - answer the DMs.
And even when this space no longer serves me, I’m shackled to it, unable to leave because the business. Because now we are supposed to sell, sell, sell. Now we must play the game and I don’t know the rules.
Share more, get more, do more.
Be trending and go viral and show up again and again and again.
Be an inspiration!
Be real!
Be human!
Be vulnerable!
Be successful!
Be you!
But be the you that we want. Don’t change, don’t grow, don’t shift, and certainly don’t charge.
Share the wreckage of your grief (because that’s what goes viral). Share the joy, but only in a way that’s aesthetically pleasing. Be happy, but not too happy. Pick your niche and stick with it. Be human, but more importantly, be a brand. Talk about growth, but don’t grow away from your topic. Use keywords. Be searchable. Be trending. Be you (but only the pre-approved version).
I threaten to leave, dropping breadcrumbs to see who will follow.
The breadcrumbs remain, mostly uneaten.
No one wants another platform, another email. No one wants words. Only content. Digestable, small-bite content.
But what about what I want? What about what I need?
It’s too much for one person to hold.
It’s too much.
I want my own space.
I want to expand. I want to try and fail and try again.
I want to rest.
But no. Keep going, keep giving, keep sharing.
I can’t.
I quit.
I want to blow it all up.

Several Months Before

“Where are your boundaries?” My therapist asked from her chair across the room. We were separated by the rock garden I was tinkering with to distract myself. “Dana, how do you shut it all off and make space to care for you?”

She told me about her boundaries - the ones that had been built into her practice - the ones that are part of her extensive education when building her practice.

Leave work at work.
Don’t answer calls or emails outside of a very specific window.
Leave their trauma in the room.

Nobody taught me about boundaries. About the impact of creating a business around the stories of other people’s grief. About the imprint of being a highly sensitive person who feels other’s emotions deeply.

I didn’t know where my boundaries were.

All I knew was to keep going, keep giving, keep sharing. Keep inspiring.

Several Months Before That

“Are you aware of the impact of second-hand trauma?” My brother-in-law texted me an article on the subject from across the country. “Do you know the toll of holding everyone else’s horror?”

Of course I knew. I felt it, every day. But reading about it - validating it - meant something would have to change. And I didn’t have the time or the energy to change. I didn’t have time to read about the toll of my life’s path. It remained unread for over 6 months.

Until I finally broke.

After my rage rant, I opened the article. It read:

What Are the Signs of Secondhand Trauma?

Hopelessness and helplessness
A sense that one can never do enough
Hypervigilance
Diminished creativity
Inability to embrace creativity
Minimizing
Chronic exhaustion/Physical ailments
Inability to listen/Deliberate avoidance
Dissociative moments
Sense of persecution
Guilt
Fear
Anger and cynicism
Numbing/Inability to empathize
Addictions
Grandiosity

“Over time, what you’re exposed to affects your entire world view.”
“When unchecked, secondhand trauma can be debilitating.”
”Secondhand trauma can lead to burnout, and burnout is a career-ender.”

Blowing up your life is not a reasonable response to overwhelm.

What is a reasonable response to overwhelm?

I don’t know.

This isn’t a post with a lesson at the end. This isn’t where I share how I figured out the perfect balance in caring for myself alongside others.

I haven’t gotten that far.

This is simply a post acknowledging that there must be a change. That something must give.

I just don’t know what that is yet.

But here’s what I do know:

I want a business that helps others feel less alone in their grief experience.

I want a business that makes space for stories, without me having to be the sole reader.

I want to have a reciprocal community who responds to each other with care and tenderness and shared experiences.

I want to remove the pressure to respond and hold space to every single comment and DM myself (which means maybe turning off DMs completely for my own sanity).

I want to make space for the grief of others but also the life of myself.

I want slow, intentional, growth.

I want to feel “enough.” Not like I need more, more, more. Not growth for the sake of growth. I want sustainable enoughness.

I want a small team that believes in the heart of the Forced Joy Project so I don’t have to do it all alone.

I want more long-form writing and less “content.”

I want the space to be creative. To go slow. To be bored. To see what new ideas emerge.

I want a work/life balance where I don’t feel constant heart palpitations and pressure in my chest.

I want to trust that yes, life is short, but it’s also long - and there is time.

I want more ease, more play, more laughter, more light.

I want peace.

Sometimes blowing up your life IS a reasonable response to overwhelm. Others have walked this path and come out the other side. Here are voices from others related to this topic:

Below is a beautiful read about the pressures of being online, being a woman, being a human with expectations from others - and then who did actually blow up her life (on purpose):

homecoming

I just walked away from my entire life

1 // How to Begin I haven’t known how to begin this post, or even what to write. Silence was easier than having to figure out how to write about the thousands of steps, big and small, taken this past year, all culminating in several cataclysmic shifts in my life, how to figure out w…

a year ago · 48 likes · 4 comments · Kate Oliver

Creativity in the Era of “Peak Content” (and personal validation that maybe I should blow it all up, move the woods, and write the damn book).

“I find myself increasingly compelled to resist a culture where the precious substance of human creative expression is reduced to content—literal FILLER—for Meta et al to sandwich between the ads that form the basis of their billion-dollar business models.” - Ruby Warrington

Lessons on NOT “Finding what you love, and letting it kill you” from

Emily McDowell