Week 43: How Are We Supposed to Feel Okay Right Now?

Let’s just be honest.

It feels like the world is on fire—literally and metaphorically.
And a lot of us are pretending we’re fine while quietly falling apart.

I’ve had session after session this week where clients look at me with a mix of shame and exhaustion and say some version of:

“I’m so anxious and I don’t even know why.”
“I wake up already bracing for something bad.”
“It feels selfish to focus on myself when the world is falling apart.”

And here’s what I want to say to that, and maybe to you too:

You are not selfish. You are not dramatic.
You are not numb or broken or weak.
You are responding like a human being to a time that feels relentlessly inhuman.

We Are Not Meant to Process This Much

We weren’t built to carry headlines about war, violence, climate disasters, political division, and attacks on basic human rights every single day—all while showing up to work, responding to texts, packing lunches, and somehow keeping it together.

We are not wired to be this informed, this exposed, and this overstimulated. Especially without pause. Especially without support.

So if you're feeling like your capacity is low, like you're snapping more easily, like your body is tired in a way that sleep doesn’t fix—of course you are.

Your nervous system is sounding the alarm.
It’s saying: “This is too much.”
And it’s right.

What Helps Right Now

When the world feels too loud and your body too tired, it’s easy to forget what steadies you. Here are a few reminders—truths I return to again and again with my clients, and with myself:

1. Feeling heavy doesn’t mean you’re broken—it means you care.
If your heart aches, if your chest feels tight, if the weight of the world keeps you up at night—it’s not a flaw. It’s proof that you’re still connected to your values. Still tethered to your humanity. Still in it, even when it hurts.

2. Numbing out isn’t failure—it’s a signal.
When you find yourself zoning out, endlessly scrolling, or moving through the day on autopilot, don’t rush to shame. These are signs that your nervous system is overloaded. Instead of judgment, try curiosity: “What do I actually need right now?”

3. Limit the doomscrolling.
Doomscrolling tricks us into thinking we’re staying informed. It starts with a quick check of the news—but suddenly, it’s 45 minutes later, your chest is tight, your mood has tanked, and you feel worse than before. Step away from the constant stream. Turn off alerts. Give your nervous system a break. Tuning out the noise is sometimes the most responsible thing you can do for your well-being.

4. Joy is not betrayal—it’s medicine.
Laughter, beauty, love, connection—they aren’t signs you’ve stopped caring. They’re what refuel your care. You can hold space for grief and still find light. This isn’t bypassing—it’s balancing.

5. The smallest acts are not small.
You drank water. You texted a friend. You got out of bed when the world felt too heavy. These aren’t just wins—they’re acts of resistance.
And as I’ve said before—celebrating the small wins is not optional in hard times. It’s essential.

Know Where to Refill Your Cup - And When to Rest

When everything feels like too much, our instinct is often to shut down. We cancel plans, ignore texts, scroll aimlessly, or keep moving through the day on autopilot.

Pausing, saying no, letting something go—these are not signs you’re giving up. They’re signs you’re listening to what your body and mind are asking for.

But here’s the part we often miss: while pulling back can protect us, it can also quietly disconnect us from the very things that nourish us. In the hardest moments, we tend to avoid what we most need—connection, stillness, beauty, breath. Not because we don’t want it, but because we don’t feel like we have the energy to seek it out.

This is your reminder: you don’t have to feel okay to move toward what restores you. You just need to know what refills your cup. For some, it’s a voice that calms you. For others, a walk in fresh air. A prayer. A playlist. A few deep breaths with your eyes closed. A quiet room. A person who really sees you.

It doesn’t have to be big. It doesn’t have to be social.
Go to what holds you—without pressure or performance.

Finally…

There is no perfect way to move through a world that feels this uncertain. Some days will ask more of you than you have to give. Others will offer small moments of steadiness, and even joy. Both are part of it. You don’t have to navigate it all with grace. You don’t have to always get it right. What matters is that you keep coming back to yourself in the ways you can—through rest, through connection, through breath, through boundaries.

The goal isn’t to outrun the heaviness. It’s to find ways to live alongside it. To let it be real without letting it consume you. To feel what you feel without apology—and to remind yourself that it’s okay to seek softness, to hold joy, even when the world feels heavy. This isn’t about escaping the weight. It’s about learning how to carry it differently.