Nobody tells you that surviving something and knowing how to live afterward are two completely different skills.

I knew how to survive.

Give me a crisis and apparently I’m your girl. 😂

I’ll figure shit out. I’ll make a phone call. I’ll solve the immediate problem. I’ll take care of whoever needs taking care of. I’ll put my own feelings somewhere in the back of my brain and tell them we’ll circle back sometime around 2047.

But ask me what I want my life to look like?

For a long time, that was a much harder fucking question.

And I don’t think I realized how hard it was because when you’ve spent enough time just trying to make it through life, surviving starts to feel normal.

You don’t wake up every morning and announce:

GOOD MORNING! I’M IN SURVIVAL MODE! 😂

You just handle shit.

At least that’s what I did.

Something happened, I handled it.

Somebody needed me, I showed up.

There was a problem, I figured it out.

And when you’re doing that long enough, you can become really fucking good at functioning while simultaneously not being okay.

I know because I did it.

Sometimes Survival Looks a Lot Like Strength

I think that’s part of why it took me so long to recognize what was happening.

I was functioning.

I was still a mother.

I was still laughing.

I was still talking.

Lord knows I never lost the ability to talk. 😂

I could still crack a joke. I could still take care of somebody. I could still solve a problem.

But functioning and living aren’t necessarily the same thing.

There were years of my life when I was dealing with things I didn’t know how to process.

I haven’t seen my youngest daughter since she was two.

There’s no pretty way for me to write that sentence.

I’ve tried.

There isn’t one.

There are some things in life that you don’t wrap in a pretty little bow and announce that you’ve “healed” from them.

I’m her mother.

That doesn’t stop because years pass.

At the same time, I had another daughter who needed me.

My oldest daughter is autistic, and I raised her while carrying the pain of not being able to raise my youngest.

That’s motherhood too.

Not the version people put on greeting cards.

The version where your heart can be absolutely fucking shattered over one child while another child still needs breakfast.

Still needs you to listen.

Still needs help.

Still needs her mother.

So you mother.

You keep going.

And somewhere in all of that, you learn a very strange skill.

You learn how to hurt and function at the same time.

Life Doesn’t Stop Because You’re Hurting

I think that’s one of the strangest things about going through something painful.

Life just keeps happening.

The world doesn’t stop because yours feels like it did.

People still have birthdays.

Bills still come.

The laundry somehow continues reproducing even though nobody remembers buying half those damn clothes.

You laugh.

You watch TV.

You go places.

You make memories.

You have genuinely good days.

And then something hits you out of nowhere.

A song.

A date.

A memory.

Somebody else’s child reaching a certain age.

A photograph.

A completely ordinary Tuesday.

And suddenly you’re right back inside something you thought you’d learned how to carry.

That doesn’t mean every good moment was fake.

It means human beings are complicated.

I can be grateful for my life and grieve something that happened in it.

I can laugh my ass off and still carry pain.

I can love the daughter I raised with everything in me while missing the daughter I didn’t get to raise.

Two things can be true at the same damn time.

It took me years to understand that.

I Didn’t Realize How Much of My Life Was About What Happened Next

When I went back and read some of the things I wrote years ago, one sentence stood out to me.

In 2016, I wrote about living in survival mode and realized that many of my decisions weren’t about moving toward a future I wanted.

They were about moving away from one I was afraid of.

That’s a hell of a realization.

Because those are two completely different ways of living.

Survival asks:

What do I need to get through today?

Living asks:

What do I want tomorrow to look like?

For years, I was damn good at the first question.

The second one?

Not so much.

And eventually the crisis doesn’t even have to be happening anymore for you to continue living like it is.

You get used to responding.

Reacting.

Waiting.

Putting yourself off.

You become so accustomed to dealing with whatever life puts in front of you that you forget you’re allowed to put something in front of yourself.

A goal.

A dream.

A business.

A routine.

A plan.

Something you want simply because you fucking want it.

That’s different.

“What Do You Want?” Shouldn’t Be Such a Hard Question

But it was for me.

I could tell you what everybody around me needed.

I could probably tell you what needed cleaning.

What bill needed paying.

What appointment needed making.

What problem needed fixing.

Ask me what Amanda wanted?

Well…

Give me a minute. 😂

And I don’t think I’m the only woman who has experienced that.

Especially mothers.

We become somebody’s mom.

Somebody’s partner.

Somebody’s caretaker.

Somebody’s problem solver.

Somebody’s ride.

Somebody’s calendar.

Somebody’s reminder system.

Somebody’s emergency contact.

And those roles matter.

But underneath all of them is still a woman.

And I think sometimes we forget to ask her anything.

What do you like?

What makes you feel good?

What do you want to build?

What do you want to learn?

What do you want to look like?

Where do you want to go?

What kind of life would make you excited to wake up?

Those questions shouldn’t feel selfish.

But sometimes they do.

I Thought Taking Care of Myself Could Wait

There’s always something more important.

That’s the trap.

I’ll take care of myself when things calm down.

I’ll start that project when I have more time.

I’ll get serious about making money when everything else is handled.

I’ll establish a routine next week.

I’ll start taking better care of myself Monday.

I’ll do my hair tomorrow.

I’ll organize everything eventually.

I’ll start writing again when I know exactly what I want to say.

And then suddenly you’re looking backward wondering where the hell the time went.

Because life never sends you an email saying:

Good news, Amanda! Everybody else’s needs have officially been handled. You may now begin your life. 🎉

Would’ve been nice.

Never got that email.

At some point, I had to understand that my life couldn’t continue being something I would get around to eventually.

Understanding My Past Doesn’t Mean Living There Forever

This part matters to me.

I can understand why I became certain versions of myself without making those versions permanent.

There are reasons I learned to survive the way I did.

There are reasons certain things became difficult.

There are reasons I shut down sometimes.

There are reasons I put things off.

There are reasons I learned to anticipate problems.

There are reasons taking care of everybody else sometimes feels more natural than taking care of myself.

Understanding those reasons has helped me have more compassion for myself.

But compassion isn’t the same as giving myself a lifetime permission slip.

At some point I still have to ask:

Okay, Amanda. Now what?

This happened.

It changed me.

Some of it hurt me.

Some of it taught me.

Some of it made me stronger.

Some of it gave me habits I’m now trying to unlearn.

Some of it will probably always hurt.

Now what am I going to do with the life that’s still in front of me?

That’s the question I’m more interested in now.

I’m Learning How to Build Instead of Just Survive

And I’m definitely not going to sit here pretending I’ve mastered this.

Have we met? 😂

I’m still learning.

But I’m doing things differently.

I’m writing again.

I’m creating.

I’m building a business.

I’m learning more about making money for myself.

I’m trying to create structure instead of constantly operating according to whichever thing is screaming the loudest.

I’m taking better care of myself.

I’m paying attention to the things that make me feel like me.

I’m allowing myself to have goals that aren’t attached to an emergency.

That’s actually a pretty big deal for me.

Because for a long time, success meant:

I made it through.

Now I’m starting to think success can also mean:

I made something happen.

Not because I was backed into a corner.

Not because somebody needed me to.

Not because something terrible happened and I had no choice.

Because I chose it.

There’s a Difference Between Something Happening to You and Something Happening Because of You

I’ve spent enough years responding to things that happened to me.

I want more things in my life to happen because of me.

Because I wrote something.

Because I created something.

Because I took the chance.

Because I finally started.

Because I stayed consistent.

Because I learned something new.

Because I made a decision and followed through with it.

Because I believed one of my ridiculous ideas might actually work and decided to find out instead of talking myself out of it.

And yes, sometimes I’m still going to procrastinate.

Sometimes I’ll get overwhelmed.

Sometimes I’m going to have an incredibly productive Monday followed by a Tuesday where apparently I’ve forgotten every goal I’ve ever had. 😂

I’m human.

But I’m not waiting until I’m perfect to participate anymore.

Maybe This Is What Healing Actually Looks Like for Me

I used to think healing would eventually mean something didn’t hurt anymore.

I’m not sure I believe that now.

Some things become less sharp.

Some things you understand differently.

Some things you forgive.

Some things you accept.

And some things remain tender because they mattered.

Maybe healing isn’t erasing those things.

Maybe it’s making room around them.

Enough room for laughter.

Enough room for another dream.

Enough room to love people.

Enough room to love yourself.

Enough room to build something.

Enough room to have a really good fucking day without feeling guilty because you’ve also had really terrible ones.

That’s the kind of healing I’m interested in.

Not pretending nothing happened.

Building anyway.

I Survived. But I Don’t Want Survival to Be the Greatest Thing I Ever Accomplish.

I’m proud that I survived the things I did.

I am.

There were versions of me who genuinely didn’t know what the next chapter was going to look like.

And somehow she kept turning the damn page.

I love her for that.

But I don’t want to spend the rest of my life proving how much I can endure.

I’ve done enough of that.

Now I want to find out what happens when all that stubbornness gets used for something other than survival.

What happens when the woman who could figure shit out during a crisis uses that same determination to build a business?

What happens when the mother who spent years making sure somebody else was okay decides her dreams deserve attention too?

What happens when the woman who has started over more times than she’d like to count stops being embarrassed by starting over and realizes:

Bitch, apparently you’re really fucking good at starting again.

😂

What happens when survival isn’t the goal anymore?

I don’t completely know.

And for once, not knowing doesn’t scare me quite as much.

Because maybe the next chapter of my life isn’t about proving I can survive another terrible thing.

Maybe it’s about discovering what I can create when I’m no longer using all of my energy just trying to make it through.

I survived.

Now I want to live.

And I don’t mean some perfect Instagram version of living.

I mean really live.

Make shit.

Try shit.

Fail at shit.

Make money.

Take care of myself.

Love my family.

Laugh until my stomach hurts.

Be inappropriate.

Change my mind.

Learn things.

Take chances.

Build something I’m proud of.

And probably say “fuck” significantly more often than necessary.

I want to participate in my own damn life.

Because after everything I’ve survived, I don’t want to look back someday and realize I spent the rest of it waiting to live.

I’m still figuring out what comes next.

But this time I’m not just trying to get away from something.

I’m finally building toward something.

And that feels like a pretty damn good place to start.

— Amanda Lee