Most people think survival mode looks like chaos.  

Panic attacks. Screaming. Obvious distress.  

But that’s not how it usually shows up, at least not for me.

Survival mode is quiet.  

It’s calculated.  

It’s the tension in my jaw on the drive over.  

It’s the rehearsed “safe” phrases looping in my head.  

It’s the sweaty palms.  

The way I avoid eye contact.  

The way I don’t say anything too real.

Today was one of those days.

I went to a party for someone I love endlessly and showed up with a smile for him.  

But I also had to navigate a room where betrayal still breathes.

The kind of betrayal I still feel in my body.

The kind that came from people who took pieces of my life and handed them to someone who used them to manipulate, control, and abuse me.  

People who enable my abuser with a smile.  

People who are not there to support me; but to observe, report, and play nice.

So, I spent the day holding my breath behind my teeth.  

I didn’t talk about what’s really going on in my life; not even the exciting parts.  

Not because I’m private… but because I’ve learned the hard way:  

Not all ears are safe.  

And sometimes, the people closest to you; the ones you believe are allies; aren’t.  

Insert: trust issues.

Even my child knows this.

He asked me not to share something exciting happening in his life because he already knows it will be relayed back to someone who no longer has the privilege of knowing him.  

He’s twelve.  

And instead of celebrating victories with people close to him, he’s already learned how to survive.

Let that sink in.

Twelve.  

Already filtering joy for safety.  

Already understanding that trust isn’t automatic.  

That “family” doesn’t always mean safe.

I didn’t look like anything was wrong.  

I smiled. I was polite.  

But under the surface, my nervous system was screaming:  

“Avoid people. Don’t stop moving. Stay busy. Don’t share too much. Don’t get too comfortable.”

That’s what survival mode is.  

It’s filtering joy.  

It’s scanning every interaction for hidden motives.  

It’s carrying invisible armor no one else can see.

While the adults sipped wine and mingled, you could find me on the floor, surrounded by dolls, Hot Wheels, or whatever the kids were into that day.

I was at the kiddie table.

Not because I wasn’t invited to the adult conversations.  

Not because I can’t make small talk.  

But because survival mode rewired my instincts.

In rooms full of adults, my nervous system scans for threats:  

Microexpressions. Subtle tone shifts. Body language changes.  

It’s exhausting.

Adults taught me that silence can be dangerous.  

That one wrong word can shift the entire atmosphere.  

That someone can look you in the eye and smile while secretly taking notes to use against you.

But kids?  

Kids are safe.  

They don’t wear masks.  

They don’t speak in passive-aggressive code.  

They aren’t pretending to be on your side while silently judging.  

They just are.

They’re honest. Loud. Messy. Direct. Comforting.

If they don’t like your shirt, they’ll just say it.  

If they love you, they show it with no strings attached.  

And that kind of transparency?  

That’s peace.

I find solace in the honesty.  

I can trust them.  

And more importantly, I can trust myself around them.

That’s the thing about survival mode, it doesn’t leave when the danger ends.  

It lingers.  

It hums under your skin.  

It teaches your body how to respond before your brain even catches up.

And even years later, healing in hand, I still find myself seeking shelter in the innocent chaos of children; no matter what the social setting.

Survival mode taught me to stay small.  

Healing is teaching me to stay soft, but strong enough to choose where I feel safe.

Here’s the beauty in all of it:

I’ve spent enough of my life managing other people’s moods, shrinking myself to make others comfortable.  

So yeah, I’ll take a juice box over a cocktail any day.

Because at the kiddie table, there’s no performance.  

No pressure.  

Just presence.

If you’ve ever walked into a room smiling while silently bracing for impact;

You’re not alone.  

You’re not paranoid.  

You’re in survival mode.

And your body?  

It’s just doing what it had to learn to do:  

Protect you.

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