The Weight We Carry: Unlearning Survival as a Lifestyle
As a Black Muslim woman, daughter of immigrants, mother, and therapist, I often sit with women who are exhausted, not just physically, but spiritually. They are tired of surviving. And I understand that deeply, because for so long, survival was my default too.
What Is Survival Mode?
Survival mode is what happens when your nervous system stays stuck in “go.” It’s waking up already bracing for something to go wrong. It’s overthinking every decision, caring for others while ignoring your own needs, or holding your breath through your entire day, without even realizing it.
Many of us learned to survive before we even knew we were doing it. Whether it was witnessing grief in our homes, managing adult responsibilities too young, or navigating racism, immigration, or faith-based pressures, we adapted. We kept going. But eventually, what helped us survive begins to hurt us when we try to heal.
You may feel like you’re constantly doing, fixing, proving. You may feel guilt when resting. You may be high functioning on the outside, but numb or overwhelmed on the inside.
If this sounds familiar, I want you to know this: it makes sense. Nothing is wrong with you. You’ve been surviving the best way you knew how.
Understanding Your Window of Tolerance
In therapy, we often talk about the Window of Tolerance, the zone where your nervous system feels safe enough to engage, connect, and be present. When we’re outside that window, we may shut down, numb out, lash out, or spiral with anxiety.
Living in survival mode often means our window gets smaller and smaller. Everyday stress feels overwhelming. Small decisions feel like huge risks.
But here’s the hope: your window can expand. With gentleness, safety, and support, your body can relearn what calm feels like.
And as a woman of faith, I hold onto Tawakkul, the deep trust that healing doesn’t require me to control everything. It reminds me that even in chaos, Allah is Al-Latif, the Most Subtle, the Most Gentle. Sometimes regulating our nervous system also means leaning into spiritual safety: “Verily, with hardship comes ease.” (Qur’an 94:6)
My Lived Experience
Before I became a therapist, I was a young girl holding silence, culture, and responsibility all at once. I knew how to show up for others, but didn’t know how to name my own needs. For years, I thought healing meant becoming stronger. Now I know: healing is about becoming softer with yourself.
Now, as a mother, I carry this work not just for myself, but for my children, so they can inherit softness, presence, and rest instead of survival. Every step I take toward healing is also a step toward breaking the cycles I was born into.
And with each session, I return to one truth: healing begins when we reclaim our voices. When we are finally allowed to speak in a language that doesn’t shrink us. Our stories matter, in all their complexity, grief, faith, joy, and resistance. Therapy isn’t about fixing you. It’s about making space for you, your truth, your voice, your becoming.
How Do We Begin to Heal?
You don’t need a perfect plan, just a starting point.
Notice Your Body’s Cues: Do you clench your jaw? Feel tired even after rest? These are signs your nervous system needs safety.
Name What You’re Carrying: What responsibilities are no longer yours? Say it. Write it. Grieve it.
Create Micro-Moments of Calm: A walk. A prayer. A deep breath. A boundary. These are nervous system affirmations.
Remind Yourself: “I am not a burden. I am safe enough to slow down. Allah is with me in this.”
Final Words
You are not here to only survive. You are here to feel, to rest, to belong, to be.
Whether you’re healing for yourself or for the generations coming after you, your efforts matter. You are already rewriting the story. Reclaiming your voice is not selfish. It is sacred. It is how we break silence, break cycles, and come home to ourselves.
This chapter of your life can be one of gentleness. And if you’re unsure where to start, know that healing begins the moment you believe you are worthy of it.
You are.
