The Space Between Survival and Living

There was a long time when I thought survival was living.

If I was breathing, if I was functioning, if I was getting through the day without falling apart—then I told myself I was fine. Strong, even. Capable. Resilient. I wore those words like armor.

For a long time, I didn’t recognize the space between survival and living. I believed endurance was proof of strength, and that making it through the day meant I was okay.

But survival has a posture to it. It’s tight. Alert. Always listening for the next impact.

Living, I’m learning, feels different in the body.

Survival kept me moving forward at all costs. Living asks me to pause—sometimes in ways that feel unfamiliar or even unsafe. Survival says don’t stop. Living whispers, you’re allowed to rest here.

The space between survival and living is uncomfortable. It’s quiet in a way that can feel exposed. When you’ve spent years bracing, the absence of tension doesn’t automatically feel like relief—it can feel like something is missing. Like you’re forgetting an essential step.

I didn’t cross from survival into living in one moment. There was no clear threshold. No announcement. Just small shifts I almost dismissed: noticing sunlight through a window. Realizing I was hungry, instead of just eating on autopilot. Catching myself laughing—and not immediately scanning for the reason, I’d regret it later.

Living didn’t arrive as joy. It arrived as a presence.

And presence is vulnerable.

Because when you’re present, you feel disappointment instead of numbing it. You feel grief instead of outrunning it. You feel longing—and that can be terrifying when you’ve trained yourself not to want too much.

Some days, survival still steps in. Especially when I’m tired. Especially when something old gets stirred up. I don’t shame that part of myself anymore. It kept me alive. It did its job.

But I’m learning how to let it rest.

Living doesn’t demand perfection or happiness. It asks for honesty. It asks me to notice when I’m holding my breath and to see if—just for a moment—I can let it go.

I’m not fully on one side or the other. Most days, I move between them. But now I can tell the difference. And knowing that difference has changed everything.

CTA: If these reflections resonate, Unbroken: Life Outside the Lines goes deeper into the lived reality of survival—and the slow, uneven return to self that follows. You can find the book at every major book retailer beginning March 17, 2026.