Relationships

Lately, I’ve been feeling very off. I know I’ve been talking about what it’s like to live on autopilot, but I really want to go a little deeper into what that actually looks like for me.

For me, it feels like being here, but not fully here. It’s like I’m living my life at a distance—going through the motions without really feeling connected to them. It’s subtle, which makes it harder to explain. Nothing is obviously wrong, but something feels off in a way I can’t quite name—like a quiet internal fog I can’t fully step out of. And for a long time, I didn’t understand what that feeling was—I just knew I wasn’t fully present in my own life.

I’ve felt that way for a long time—empty, absent, hollow. It’s a strange feeling because I’m such an emotional person. But when I’m in this daze, this heavy fog, I don’t feel very much of anything. Everything feels muted. Someone could be telling me something awful, something painful, and my mind just passes it by in an instant—like it never fully sticks. There’s no feeling, no weight, no reaction sitting in my body. It’s not done purposely. It’s just dissociation.

I used to think I was just flighty. Ditzy, maybe. Either way, I didn’t feel good about it. I didn’t like presenting myself to others when I wasn’t fully aware—fully present. It’s embarrassing to be in the middle of a conversation and completely forget what someone is saying as they’re saying it, like the words slip right through me. I’m just… lost.

I’ll sit down to do something simple, like read a book, and realize I’ve reread the same sentence multiple times without absorbing it—like my eyes are moving but nothing is registering. I’ll watch a movie or TV show and not be able to explain what it was about, like it never fully made it into me. And often, I’ll walk into a room and forget why I went there in the first place, standing there in this quiet mental blankness.

Emotionally, it feels like I’m muted. Not sad. Not happy either. Just… distant.

I remember one time a friend and I were chatting about an upcoming trip we had planned. She kept telling me the details—when we’d get into town, when we’d leave, small things like that. But I kept asking her over and over again without even realizing I had already asked. My brain couldn’t hold onto it. I was too far from the moment.

She jokingly called me out for it, but I could tell she was getting frustrated. And I just remember feeling embarrassed afterward—like a sinking feeling in my chest—like I couldn’t trust my own attention, or my own mind in that moment.

After conversations, I would replay everything in my head—not because something went wrong, but because I couldn’t trust what I experienced in the moment. I’d wonder if I seemed off, if I was engaging enough, if I missed something important without realizing it—like I was trying to reconstruct moments I didn’t fully hold onto.

And slowly, that started to shape how I saw myself in relationships. Like I wasn’t fully there for people the way I want to be. Like I was slightly out of sync with everyone else, even when I was trying my best to connect. That disconnect starts to feel like something other people might notice before I even say a word.

It also started to affect how I thought about myself more broadly.

It’s disorienting—feeling present in your life on the outside, but not fully connected to it on the inside. Like I’m doing all the “right” things, but not fully experiencing them the way I should—like life is happening slightly beside me instead of through me. And over time, it turns into this feeling of being behind in your own life.

Like everyone else is moving forward in ways I can’t quite access.

I think it happens when I’ve been overwhelmed for too long—when too much has been happening internally or externally, and something in me pulls back quickly, almost instinctively. And I don’t always notice it while it’s happening. I notice it after.

I still don’t have a perfect way of explaining it yet. But I’m learning not to be so hard on myself for it. It doesn’t mean I’m a bad person because I drift sometimes, and I’m learning to stop judging myself for it. For me, it’s about learning how to notice when I’m not fully there—and to try not to abandon myself in the process.

When do you first notice yourself feeling “not fully here”—and what do you usually do in those moments without even realizing it?

“Sometimes the hardest part is not knowing you’ve drifted until you’re already far from yourself.”— Unknown

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #ADHD #ADHDInGirls #AutismSpectrumDisorder #DistractMe

There have been so many circumstances in my life where I didn’t take action, but I wish I had. For me, I’ve been a pushover for most of my life. I let people take advantage of my kindness, my generosity, and my care. I don’t know what it is about me that made me this way, but it’s always affected me and my self-esteem

I’ve been the supportive one, the shoulder for people to cry on, and the one who offers good advice but never takes it myself. I’ve been there for others through thick and thin, regardless of whether or not I’ve been taken advantage of.

I remember one time when a friend of mine had me drive all over town to pick up some items. I initially didn’t feel like going and doing that, but I never want to let a friend down, so I did it. It turns out I ended up driving a very long distance just to satisfy his needs.

When we got to one destination, we were there for hours. I was led to believe it would only take a few minutes. So there I was, stuck. I couldn’t just leave him.

And the thing that shocked me was that I didn’t get one thank you for it.

In that moment, I wish that I would’ve stuck up for myself. I wish I would’ve expressed my feelings of being used for their own gain. But no, I stayed quiet, sucked it up, and never said a word about it.

Today, I wouldn’t let that fly. After so many years of playing second fiddle to everything, I now stand my ground and use my voice. I’m no longer fearful of doing that. It’s a change within myself that I never thought would come to fruition. I think I finally reached a breaking point and just refused to be stepped all over. It’s not who I am anymore, and I’m proud of that.

So, I would’ve handled that situation differently. I would’ve told my friend that I didn’t appreciate being misled on that little venture. What I thought was going to be quick ended up taking forever—the whole day, in fact. I would’ve told him that I wanted to leave the moment I found out it would take longer, because I sat there miserably, just waiting and waiting.

And most of all, I would’ve demanded a thank you. A thank you for driving all over town, for waiting for him to finish whatever errand he had me on, and for being used because I was the only one at the time with a car.

I’ve learned so much about myself recently, and I’ve noticed how much bolder I am. How much stronger I am than I ever thought possible. I couldn’t be prouder of myself for using my voice when I feel taken advantage of.

Sure, I’ve lost friendships in the process of standing up for myself, but I’ve realized it’s okay to let those friendships go because they never cared about me to begin with.

I used to care deeply about losing any of my friends. But a recent experience opened my eyes and made me see, perhaps for the first time, what a real friendship actually is. It’s a two-way street, and I grew tired of one-sided relationships. I’m done.

My healing journey has led me down a path of self-acceptance and a newfound confidence. I’m forever grateful that I no longer fear confrontation. I tell someone how I feel, and if they don’t accept it… goodbye.

Sometimes the hardest part isn’t what happened—it’s what we didn’t say. But growth is realizing we don’t have to stay that version of ourselves.

Where in your life are you ready to take action instead of staying silent?

“Courage starts with showing up and letting ourselves be seen.” — Brené Brown

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #ADHD #ADHDInGirls #Autism #Autism #Anxiety #MightyTogether

Comfort feels safe.
Predictable.
Controlled.

But comfort can also be a quiet thief.
It doesn’t kick down doors or demand attention. It whispers. It convinces. It keeps people right where they are—stuck in patterns that feel familiar but are slowly eroding growth, healing, and purpose.

The real question isn’t whether comfort feels good.

It’s what it’s costing.

The Illusion of Safety

The human brain is wired for survival, not transformation. The amygdala scans for threats and pushes toward what feels known—even if that “known” includes dysfunction, addiction, or emotional pain.

This is why people stay:

*In toxic relationships

*In cycles of addiction

*In silence about their mental health

*In roles shaped by trauma and social conditioning

Because familiar pain can feel safer than unfamiliar healing.

From a neurobiological perspective, repeated behaviors—healthy or not—become reinforced through neuroplasticity. The brain literally wires itself to prefer what it practices (Doidge, 2007).

So when someone says, “Why don’t they just leave?” or “Why don’t I just stop?”—they’re missing the point.

Comfort isn’t passive.
It’s conditioned.

Comfort vs. Growth: You Can’t Fully Have Both

Growth requires discomfort. There’s no clinical workaround for that.

In fact, avoidance of discomfort is strongly linked to mental health struggles. Experiential avoidance—a concept rooted in Acceptance and Commitment Therapy—refers to the attempt to escape or suppress difficult thoughts and emotions. Research shows this avoidance actually intensifies distress over time (Hayes et al., 2006).

In addiction, this is even more pronounced.

Substances and maladaptive coping strategies become tools to:

*Numb emotional pain

*Regulate overwhelming states

*Maintain a false sense of control

But the cost?

*Loss of identity

*Damaged relationships

*Chronic shame

*Physical and psychological deterioration

Comfort, in this context, becomes a trauma response—not a solution.

The Cost of Staying the Same

Remaining in comfort doesn’t mean staying still. It means accumulating consequences slowly enough that they become normalized.

Research in behavioral psychology highlights the concept of reinforcement loops—where short-term relief strengthens long-term dysfunction (Skinner, 1953).

That looks like:

Avoiding hard conversations → temporary peace → long-term resentment

Using substances → temporary relief → worsening dependency

Isolating → temporary safety → deepening loneliness

Over time, what once felt like protection becomes a prison.

Social Conditioning Keeps You Comfortable—And Stuck

Comfort isn’t just internal—it’s systemic

From early childhood, people are shaped by social conditioning:

*“Don’t talk about your problems.”

*“Keep the family together at all costs.”

*“Be strong. Don’t feel.”

In child welfare, mental health, and addiction systems, this shows up as:

*Stigma around seeking help

*Fear of judgment or consequences

*Internalized beliefs about worth and capability

In Canada, stigma remains a significant barrier to accessing care, particularly in marginalized communities (Mental Health Commission of Canada, 2019).

So people stay comfortable—not because they want to—but because they’ve been taught to.

Discomfort Is Where Healing Begins

Healing is not comfortable.

It looks like:

*Sitting with emotions instead of numbing them

*Setting boundaries that risk rejection

*Confronting trauma that was buried for survival

*Rebuilding identity from the ground up

From a trauma-informed lens, this process must be paced and supported. Pushing too fast can retraumatize, but avoiding entirely keeps people stuck in cycles of dysregulation (SAMHSA, 2014).

The goal isn’t chaos.

It’s intentional discomfort—the kind that leads somewhere.

So… What Is Your Comfort Costing You?

Ask yourself honestly:

*What am I avoiding right now?

*What patterns feel safe but are harming me?

*Where am I choosing familiarity over growth?

*What would change if I tolerated discomfort instead of escaping it?

Because comfort has a price.

And at some point, the cost of staying the same becomes greater than the cost of change.

Call to Action – Rise Above Your Norm

Comfort will keep you alive.
But it won’t help you evolve.

Rising above your norm means questioning the patterns that feel easiest. It means recognizing that what feels safe may actually be what’s holding you back.

Start small:

*One honest conversation

*One boundary

*One moment of choosing awareness over avoidance

You don’t need to leap.
But you do need to move.

Because growth doesn’t happen where you feel comfortable.

It happens where you’re willing to be challenged.

BigmommaJ
#MentalHealth #comfortzone

Hi, Mighties!

This week our self-care challenge topic is all about cleaning. Yup, that recurring responsibility we know all too well. 😬

When it comes to tidying and de-griming, we may find that our health conditions impact how and when we approach and tackle certain tasks — which is totally normal by the way, no judgment here!

For example, disabilities can make it hard to dust certain shelves, chronic fatigue can make untangling the vacuum an Olympic sport, or depression can turn us apathetic and numb to our surroundings.

What’s your relationship to cleaning and health?

#52SmallThings #CheckInWithMe #Selfcare #MentalHealth #Disability #ChronicIllness #ChronicPain #RareDisease #Anxiety #Depression
#Autism #Parenting #PTSD #BorderlinePersonalityDisorder #BipolarDisorder #Fibromyalgia #Lupus #MultipleSclerosis #Migraine #Spoonie

What do you do when someone takes advantage of your kind heart? It’s a question that has been circling in my mind lately. I didn’t realize I was experiencing emotional abuse in a friendship until I began to notice a pattern: after every interaction, I was left feeling confused, dismissed, and unsure of myself.

I recently went through an experience where I was lied to, manipulated, gaslit, emotionally neglected, and undermined. For someone like me, that kind of dynamic is deeply destabilizing. It feels like standing under a harsh light with nowhere to turn—visible in all the wrong ways, exposed to judgment, and left to absorb rejection as if it is proof of something wrong within you.

I’ve been here before.

In relationships, in friendships, even in passing connections with people who never stayed long enough to truly know me. I used to tolerate what I now recognize as emotional abuse because leaving felt heavier than staying. I accepted distortion, silence, ego, and manipulation because it seemed safer than the emptiness I imagined would follow if I walked away. And I told myself, quietly, that having people like that was still better than having no one at all.

But emotional abuse rarely announces itself clearly.

It doesn’t always arrive as cruelty you can point to. More often, it is erosion. Subtle invalidation. Conversations that leave you confused rather than understood. Feelings dismissed until you begin to second-guess whether you are allowed to have them at all. Words that are bent just enough to make you doubt your own memory. Silence that replaces accountability.

And over time, that confusion settles into something heavier.

You stop trusting your reactions. You start rehearsing your words before you speak. And you begin to measure yourself against someone else’s shifting emotional landscape. And without realizing it, you begin to disappear from your own life.

Over time, that pattern doesn’t just hurt—it becomes emotional abuse. It reshapes your sense of reality and makes you question your own inner world.

For me, friendship has always been where I try to anchor myself. My close friends mean everything to me because they see me without requiring performance. They allow me to exist as I am. But there is one friendship I’ve carried my entire life that never felt safe in the same way.

Even with years between us, I never fully felt at ease in her presence. She is someone who fills space easily, who speaks over silence rather than sitting with it. I learned early to stay small around her, to keep my thoughts folded inward. And for a long time, I mistook that adaptation for peace.

Until I couldn’t anymore.

When I finally reached out to her, I did so hoping for understanding. Instead, I was met with absence. Hours passed. Then silence became explanation: she had fallen asleep. But I had already done what was hardest for me—I had been honest. I had opened a door I don’t often open.

When I tried again, explaining that the silence was painful, the dynamic shifted. My words were returned to me altered, reframed, turned into evidence against me. Suddenly I was no longer expressing hurt—I was causing it. There was no accountability. No recognition. Only reversal.

And I remember thinking: how does a conversation become a defense?

What began as an attempt at clarity became something else entirely. A rupture. And in that rupture, the language turned sharp. The same places she had always known in me—the places I try to protect—became the points of impact. I was insulted, reduced, and spoken to in ways that did not feel like disagreement, but dismissal.

I was left with something that felt less like conflict and more like damage.

In that exchange, I was called delusional. I was called stupid. I was told I was the problem.

And what hurt most was not only what was said, but how easily it was said—how quickly care dissolved into contempt.

She told me my understanding was invalid because I do not hold a psychology degree. She dismissed my writing, the one space where I try to make sense of my inner world, and called it fraudulent. But my blog has never been an authority. It has only ever been a record of lived experience—a place where I try to translate what I have survived into something understandable, at least to myself.

To have that space ridiculed felt like something quietly breaking.

Because emotional abuse often works like that. It doesn’t only attack what is said—it undermines the legitimacy of the person speaking.

I’m aware that I’m sensitive. I feel things deeply and sometimes struggle to hold them lightly. And when that sensitivity is met not with care, but with distortion, it doesn’t just hurt in the moment—it lingers. It settles into self-perception.

She is neurodivergent too, and I have always tried to communicate my rejection sensitivity openly, in the hope that it would create understanding rather than harm. But understanding was not what I was met with.

There is a difference between disagreement and harm. Between misunderstanding and erosion. And I am learning to no longer confuse the two.

I don’t take that kind of dynamic with me anymore.

Something in me has shifted—quietly, but permanently. I speak now when something feels wrong. I no longer stay silent to preserve comfort at the cost of myself. And if that means some connections do not survive my boundaries, then so be it.

Because a relationship that requires me to abandon myself in order to maintain it is not a safe one.

I am learning that effort is not the same as reciprocity. That kindness is not a contract for endurance. And that being deeply feeling does not mean I am meant to be deeply tolerated without care.

I am tired of emotional abuse—not only naming it, but living inside of it.

So I am choosing differently now. Even when it feels heavy. Even when it is unresolved. And even when part of me still looks back.

Healing, I am learning, is not certainty. It is return. A slow, repeated coming back to oneself after being pulled away.

And I keep returning to one question: Why do I feel so small in a place where I was supposed to feel safe?

Maybe the answer is not something I need to justify anymore. Maybe it is something I already know.

After interacting with this person, do I feel more like myself—or less like myself?

“No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” — Eleanor Roosevelt

#MentalHealth #Neurodiversity #Loneliness #ADHD #EmotionalAbuse #AutismSpectrumDisorder #Anxiety