Almost Advice: How to Take Care of Yourself

"Self-care" has become a buzzword, repackaged and sold to us as $8 green juices, expensive meditation apps, and Instagrammable bath bombs. But let’s be real—none of that actually fixes the feeling of barely holding it together. So what does real self-care look like, especially when your brain is actively working against you? In this episode, we’re cutting through the BS and talking about what actually helps.

First, we get into the fundamentals—sleep, nutrition, movement, and why your brain hates doing things that are good for it. Then, we tackle the mental health industrial complex—why some advice is solid, some is useless, and some is just another way to make you feel like you’re failing at life. Finally, we talk about survival strategies that actually work—how to trick your brain into cooperating, why humor is an underrated coping skill, and why sometimes, the best self-care is just getting through the day in one piece.

Whether you’re dealing with burnout, depression, or just trying to function in a world that demands way too much, this episode is for you. No toxic positivity, no impossible standards—just real talk about how to keep going, one ridiculous day at a time.

All music found on Pixabay 

Transcript

Welcome to Beneath the Noise.

If you're here, you're probably familiar with the chaos of life—especially when you're living with mental illness. It’s the constant tension between control and surrender, between trying to keep it together and watching everything unravel. Today, we’re talking about what it really means to manage that mess. Not just the stuff people tell you to do—exercise, eat well, go to therapy. We’re going beyond the basics and diving into the real, gritty tools I’ve learned to survive in the chaos. From learning to laugh at the absurdity of my own brain to understanding the fine line between manic energy and self-destruction, I’ll talk about what works (and what doesn't) in this ongoing battle to stay grounded.

Managing mental illness, especially bipolar disorder, is messy. Some days, it's about fighting the chaos. Other days, it’s about accepting it. And here’s the kicker—it’s not always about feeling "better," but about navigating the mess with whatever tools you can find, whether that's humor, routine, or just sheer force of will. And sometimes, just getting through it is enough.

I’ve always been drawn to stories that challenge the very fabric of reality—not in the philosophical “what’s the meaning of life?” sense, but in the far more gripping “what on earth is happening?” way. Chuck Palahniuk’s books epitomize this for me. As discussed heavily in my episode about his and David Fincher’s works, His works are drenched in dark humor, absurdity, and a raw exploration of the extremes of human behavior. In Fight Club, Choke, and Invisible Monsters, Palahniuk delves into the chaotic and often unsettling ways people try to cope with a world that makes little sense. His narratives are riddled with darkness, but there’s always a thread of humor that runs through it. And for me, it’s that juxtaposition—humor amidst chaos—that resonates so deeply. It’s how I’ve learned to navigate the world. Life rarely follows any neat, logical order, but if you can find the absurdity in it, you can’t help but laugh. Because, in the end, that laugh—it’s what keeps you from being consumed by the madness.

For me, that absurdity is also reflected in 30 Rock. Tina Fey, as the brilliant mind behind it, brings chaos and absurdity to life in a way that feels completely relatable. Liz Lemon, despite her neuroses and constant battle to keep it together, finds humor in the madness around her. Honestly, I sometimes feel like I’m living in my own version of a 30 Rock episode, trying to hold it together with pizza in hand and an internal breakdown waiting to happen. It’s funny because it’s real. Life doesn’t just go smoothly. There’s chaos, confusion, and moments of complete absurdity. And in those moments, the only thing you can do is laugh at it all.

I’ve always gravitated toward these kinds of stories because they remind me of how I see the world. In moments of darkness, I’ve learned to find humor in the absurdity of it all. Sure, it doesn’t make the mess go away, but it gives you something to hold onto. A way to move through the chaos, if only for a moment. The chaos in these stories doesn’t stop because you laugh at it, but it lightens it. It gives you the courage to keep moving..

And I guess that’s how I came to understand my own mental illness. It’s not about pretending it’s not messy. It’s not about ignoring the chaos. It’s about navigating it—finding ways to laugh at the absurdity of it, even when it feels completely overwhelming. Because if I’ve learned anything about living with bipolar disorder, it’s that the chaos doesn’t just disappear, but you learn to live with it, even trick it into cooperation when you can.

When it comes to hypomania, though, it's like operating on a different plane entirely. It’s that high where everything feels a little too alive—my thoughts race at lightning speed, I’m overflowing with ideas, and the world feels like it’s at my fingertips. It’s as though I’ve been granted some kind of backstage pass to life, where every moment is tinged with brilliance, every word I speak is a potential epiphany. And I buy into it. Hard. The ideas? Genius. The plans? Foolproof. But the reality? Oh, it’s a hell of a ride to the inevitable crash.

In these moments, I find myself fully invested in this manic energy—writing like a madwoman, getting into projects I’ll never finish, chasing creativity with reckless abandon. But there’s a cost to that high. I don’t sleep enough, I don’t eat properly, and I forget how to ground myself in reality. I feel invincible. But my body—well, it doesn’t play along. It gets tired, it gets drained, and then there’s that moment where everything just shuts down. The crash. The silence after all the noise. The confusion when my mind suddenly goes from 100 to zero in an instant. And when the crash comes, it's like falling off a cliff. It’s not just the physical exhaustion; it’s the emotional toll. The depression that follows isn’t just a mental hangover; it’s the gut-punch reality that all that energy has to go somewhere—and the emptiness is almost suffocating.

The thing is, the shift from hypomania to depression is almost as abrupt as the highs and lows I experience. It's like being tossed from a golden mountain top, where everything was possible, into a valley where the air is thick and every breath is a laborious task. In the aftermath of hypomania, I often feel like I've been running on fumes, and the exhaustion is so deep that I can barely summon the strength to get out of bed. It’s not even about motivation—it’s about surviving in that space where getting dressed feels monumental and a shower feels like an impossible task. When everything feels so heavy that it’s hard to tell if you’re sinking or just standing still.

The most frustrating part about this is how difficult it is to predict. I might wake up feeling like I can conquer the world, but by the afternoon, I’m wondering how I’ll get through the day. The high moments are like a rollercoaster, while the lows feel like I’m trudging through thick mud with every step. And no matter how much I’ve prepared, no matter how many grounding techniques I’ve tried, sometimes it’s just about riding it out. Sometimes it’s just about doing it anyway—even though I can’t muster the energy to enjoy it.

I’ve found that, in those moments, I can trick myself into action. It’s not about willpower—it’s about small hacks I’ve learned to create some semblance of routine, even when I don’t want to. I’ve learned to do the simplest things first—putting on clothes, brushing my teeth, getting out of bed, or even sitting up. Sometimes, that’s the most I can do, but it’s a start. It’s not about perfection, it’s about survival, even if that survival means crawling through the day.

That’s the thing about the cycle—the up followed by the down. You learn to navigate it, but it doesn’t make it easier. You just figure out how to manage it in a way that doesn’t destroy you. And there’s a certain amount of peace in accepting that this is just how it works. It’s messy. It’s exhausting. And I know there are moments where I want to burn it all down and walk away from it. But in those chaotic, painful, confusing moments, the only thing that keeps me going is knowing that it’s not forever. That it will pass. And that, even in the worst of it, I’m still here, still surviving, and that somehow, in some odd way, that counts for something.

I used to think hypomania was my secret superpower—like I was getting a glimpse of what it would be like to run on all cylinders. But then I started realizing how unsustainable it was. There’s only so much energy I can burn through before I hit the wall. Sleep, food, social interaction—all the basics—fall by the wayside as I chase that high. Eventually, my body starts sending signals that it needs rest, and it doesn’t matter how much I want to keep going. It’s the paradox of hypomania: you feel like you could conquer the world, but your body is begging you to slow down.

The trick became finding a way to handle it, to trick my brain into doing things it doesn’t want to do. Hypomania doesn’t always let you control your impulses or energy, but I’ve learned to create boundaries within it. I started making deals with myself, like “I’ll keep this manic energy productive, but I’ll sleep at least four hours tonight. No more 3 a.m. creative bursts.” Or “Okay, I can stay up late, but tomorrow I’m committing to a quiet day of rest, even if I hate the idea.”It’s like walking a tightrope—staying active enough to feel like I’m in control, but not so much that I spiral into exhaustion.

It’s about embracing the mess of it all and understanding that, while hypomania can be overwhelming, it doesn’t need to be the enemy. It’s just another part of the chaos—and when you laugh at the absurdity of it, you might just find the strength to keep going.

This is about more than just me. It’s about all of us—living in a world that doesn’t care about the mess we’re living in. A world that expects us to keep it together, even when everything is falling apart. I don’t know about you, but I’ve been there. Laughing through the chaos, trying to keep my head above water, all while the world spins a ridiculous, absurd story around me. The more we talk about it, the more we embrace the absurdity, the more we realize we don’t have to fit into a neat little box. We don’t have to have it all together. We just have to keep moving, keep laughing, and keep surviving.

So, what do we do when we’re navigating this mess? How do we keep from being swallowed whole by the chaos?

Let’s talk about something that might sound almost too basic to be true, but when it comes to coping with life’s mess, sometimes the simplest methods work best. I’m talking about exercise, sleep, nutrition, and therapy. You’ve heard it before, I’m sure, and I’ll be the first to admit—these might not sound like revolutionary, mind-blowing strategies. But there’s a reason they’re repeated over and over again, and it’s because, at the end of the day, they really do work.

Exercise, for instance. I’m not going to pretend it’s some miracle solution, but there’s something about moving your body—however small or simple the movement—that makes the chaos in your mind feel a little less heavy. I used to roll my eyes at people who said, “Just go for a walk. It’ll clear your head.” But the reality is, when you commit to even the smallest amount of physical activity, your body releases something that lets your brain take a breath. It doesn’t fix everything, but it creates a moment of calm. A moment where you can reconnect with your body instead of being lost in your thoughts. Whether it’s a walk, a stretch, or even just walking around your apartment for a few minutes, it’s a small reset that can change how your brain handles stress. You might not feel like you’ve conquered the world, but the feeling of being present in your body—not trapped in your head—can make a huge difference.

The thing is, the world doesn’t stop spinning. We can’t always control everything going on around us, but we can make choices that give us some agency over how we react. Exercise doesn’t have to be this huge, complicated workout plan. It’s just about doing something—whatever feels right in the moment—to get out of our heads and into our bodies. Because when we’re stuck in that spiral of chaotic thoughts, moving our bodies breaks that cycle, if only for a while.

Okay, let’s be honest: I own a Peloton—well, I used to use it, but now it just sits there, collecting dust and quietly judging me. I’ve been on it maybe once in the last three months, and honestly, I don’t think it’s even upset anymore. The whole “motivational instructor yelling at you to go faster” thing never really clicked for me. More often than not, the bike just feels like an expensive clothes rack, but hey, at least I can claim I own one, right? That's basically the same as being fit... in a very abstract sense.

What I actually do for sanity—and let’s be real, for a lot of us, it’s more about survival than fitness—is ride public transport to the Central West End and take what I call my “therapy walk” across the Barnes-Jewish Hospital campus. No Peloton, no pressure, just the simple act of walking—something that, for whatever reason, clears my head more than any machine ever could.

And since I work on this massive campus, that walk isn’t just for reflection—it’s how I get to my desk every day. The best part? The endless skywalks. If you’ve never been, Barnes-Jewish is huge—the largest hospital campus in Missouri—and it’s all connected by these long, glass skybridges. I move through them like a ghost in a medical drama, suspended above the rush of doctors, patients, and families navigating their own chaos below.

There’s something oddly soothing about it—walking through these sterile, fluorescent-lit hallways, watching the city move beneath me. It’s like being in a liminal space, hovering between the urgency of a hospital and the quiet of my own mind. It gives me structure without pressure, movement without expectation. I’m not power-walking for fitness, I’m not setting some goal—I’m just getting to work. And somehow, in the process, I get back into my body, back into the present.

Here’s the deal: the commute gives me this weird sense of peace. The  train ride itself is a mix of people, noise, and the occasional person trying to squeeze on even though the car is packed to the brim. But once I step off and walk through the hospital campus, something magical happens. It’s like my brain and body get in sync for the first time that day. There’s no rush, no high expectations—I just get to put one foot in front of the other, wander past those hospital buildings,  and let the slow rhythm of the walk calm me. It’s not about working out or pushing my limits. It’s about slowing down when the world is always demanding more.

And honestly? I don’t need a fancy bike or a gym membership for that. I’m just getting my steps in, breathing in the city’s chaos, and somehow finding peace in it. Sometimes I’m reflecting on a messy conversation, other times I’m just zoning out, letting the surroundings remind me that life is a series of moments, not a race. If anything, I’m just trying to not get hit by any distracted walkers or running late doctors, which, let’s be honest, is a workout in itself. And somehow, that’s more grounding than any forced workout routine.

Next up: sleep—or rather, the lack of it, which many of us are far too familiar with. I used to pride myself on running on minimal rest, thinking I could just power through. It’s easy to romanticize the idea of being “always on,” but here’s the truth: it doesn’t work. Not in the long run. Sleep is non-negotiable for your mental health. When you’re well-rested, everything feels a little clearer, a little less overwhelming. The fog in your brain starts to lift, and that’s where the magic happens. Sure, sleep hygiene can sound like something out of a wellness influencer’s Instagram feed, but when I started prioritizing it, I realized something profound: I was no longer trying to hold the weight of the world on my shoulders while running on fumes. Good sleep gives you the mental space to face what’s in front of you with a little more clarity—and yes, a little more grace. It’s like a reset button for your entire system, and when you don’t get it, you feel like you’re running on empty all the time.

Bipolar disorder isn’t just a mood swing here or there. It’s about those wild, unpredictable shifts from high-energy mania to crushing depression. And mania? It’s like everything is turned up to 11—except the part of my brain responsible for reasoning and moderation. During mania, I feel invincible, unstoppable, but also dangerously disconnected from reality. It’s like I’m running a marathon and sprinting at the same time, fueled by something that feels like limitless energy. But what often gets overlooked? It starts with sleep deprivation. When I don’t get enough sleep, it’s like I’m setting myself up for a mental avalanche. A single sleepless night can snowball into days of unmanageable thoughts, impulsive decisions, and a sense of detachment from what’s actually happening around me.

The reality of living with bipolar disorder and navigating my sleep schedule is both exhausting and terrifying at times. I have to be vigilant. The little things that people take for granted—like staying up a bit too late or ignoring my body’s need for rest—can be dangerous territory. If I get too little sleep, I start crossing that line. It becomes harder to tell if the ideas I’m having are brilliant or reckless. If I’m feeling “invincible” or just irrational. When that happens, I find myself battling an internal force that’s a lot more unpredictable than any of the chaos I face day-to-day.

That’s why sleep is a cornerstone for me. If I get a solid night’s sleep? The fog clears, and I can make decisions based on clarity instead of impulses. If I wake up rested, I can feel more grounded in my reality. If I don’t? Well, then I have to deal with the effects for days—slower recovery, more struggles with self-regulation, and an even higher risk of sliding into mania.

So, you’ll hear me talk a lot about sleep hygiene. It might sound like some wellness buzzword, but it’s more like a life raft for me. Creating a safe space for sleep—shutting down my mind at the right time, avoiding caffeine too late, establishing a routine to signal to my body that it’s time to rest—these things aren’t just helpful. They’re essential. And no, it’s not always glamorous. It’s not about self-care Instagram aesthetics. But when you’ve seen what happens when your sleep cycle gets messed up, you realize just how much of your mental well-being is wrapped up in those eight hours of rest.

Some nights, I’ve had to make deals with myself. I'll say, "Okay, just get through tonight, and tomorrow we can deal with everything else." In these moments, sleep becomes more than just an action; it becomes a lifeline—a moment where I get to reset, recalibrate, and fight back against the impulses that threaten to spiral into mania. It’s no magic cure, but it’s a key factor in maintaining a balance I desperately need.

Then there’s nutrition—again, not the glamorous, Instagram-perfect advice, but if you put real food in your body, your brain starts to do its job a little better. I’m not talking about turning your life into an Instagram health account, but there is a profound difference in how I feel after eating something nourishing versus eating, say, a giant bag of chips. When your body isn’t running on empty, it feels less like you’re fighting your own mind. You’re not always in survival mode, trying to get through the next wave of discomfort. When I prioritize balanced meals—full of the things my body actually needs—I feel more like I can take on the day instead of just dragging myself through it. Nutrition isn’t going to fix your entire mental state, but it plays a huge part in giving you the energy to cope with what life throws at you. And when you're not running on empty, you’re more likely to make choices that help you move forward, not just survive.

So, we’ve established that nutrition matters—blah blah blah, eat your vegetables, we’ve all heard it before. And while I could sit here and say, “Just eat a balanced diet and your brain will work better,” we both know it’s not that simple. Because for a lot of us, food isn’t just fuel—it’s a battlefield.

Let’s talk about eating disorders. Because for many people, myself included, nutrition isn’t just about knowing what’s “healthy.” It’s about unlearning years of toxic messaging around food, control, and what our bodies should look like. It’s about undoing the damage of diet culture, of childhood food rules, of the idea that your worth is somehow tied to how much space you take up.

For me, food has been everything from a coping mechanism to a form of self-punishment. There have been times when I treated eating like an afterthought, and other times when I micromanaged every bite like I was training for an imaginary Olympic event called “Winning at Willpower.” Spoiler: there is no medal for deprivation, just a growing list of regrets and some really questionable food rules that take years to unpack.

And here’s the kicker—mental illness and eating disorders? They love to hang out together. Anxiety, depression, ADHD, bipolar disorder—none of them exactly make maintaining a stable relationship with food easy. ADHD alone is a rollercoaster: one day you forget to eat until 6 PM, the next you’re hyper-fixating on the exact right texture of a specific snack like your life depends on it. Bipolar? You might go from barely eating during a depressive episode to suddenly feeling like food is the most exciting thing in the world during hypomania. The inconsistency is exhausting.

So when people say, “Just eat healthy,” I want to laugh—or throw something. Because for so many of us, eating isn’t just about nutrition—it’s about rewiring how we see food in the first place. It’s about breaking free from old habits, dismantling shame, and learning to nourish ourselves in a way that isn’t rooted in punishment or control. And some days? That means eating a damn slice of pizza without assigning it moral value.

The bottom line? Nutrition matters, but so does how we approach it. Eating isn’t supposed to be another thing to feel guilty about—it’s supposed to keep us alive. And maybe, just maybe, we deserve to eat in a way that doesn’t feel like a war with ourselves.

And finally Therapy. As much as it’s become a buzzword, has been one of my most vital survival tools. It’s not just some optional add-on for me; it’s the real deal. I’ve been in therapy for 8 years straight—yes, you heard that right. Eight. Years. No breaks, no intermissions, just continuous grinding through the mental muck. And I’m honestly kind of proud of that.

It’s easy to assume that therapy is this magic bullet that fixes everything, but it’s actually more like a never-ending series of small victories. And trust me, some days, it’s hard to see the progress. You walk in thinking, “Am I really doing any better? Is this just a really expensive way to complain for an hour?” But then, you look back and realize—holy crap, you’ve come a long way.

And you know what? That’s the trick: therapy isn’t about “fixing” you, it’s about learning how to be—to accept the mess and maybe even laugh at how absurd it is. So, after 8 years, I’m not just surviving therapy—I’m thriving in it. And that’s a weirdly satisfying thing to realize. Every breakthrough, every session, every “Aha!” moment that feels like a glimpse of sanity? It’s worth it. Yeah, sometimes it’s hard. Sometimes I want to call it quits and just binge-watch something on Netflix. But therapy isn’t just something I do—it’s something that’s become part of me.

And that’s not something to ignore. It’s easy to roll your eyes at the wellness industry’s obsession with “self-care” and therapy being the golden ticket, but I’ve learned that it works. Not perfectly. Not always with fireworks and confetti—but in its own quiet, reliable way. So yeah, 8 years in, and I’m still here, still showing up.

So, we’ve talked about therapy, exercise, sleep, and all the other totally reasonable ways to take care of yourself. And let’s be clear—they work. They’re science-backed, therapist-approved, and genuinely helpful. 

But sometimes? You can do everything right and still feel like garbage.

You can wake up at 7 a.m., hydrate like a Victorian orphan finally getting a sip of clean water, meditate, go to therapy, eat a balanced meal, and get eight full hours of sleep… and somehow, by noon, you’re still staring at the ceiling wondering if existence is just a really long prank.

That’s the thing about mental health: it’s not a math equation. There’s no guarantee that if you follow all the “right” steps, you’ll suddenly unlock the "fully functioning human being” achievement.

And honestly? That realization used to send me spiraling. Because if I was doing everything I was supposed to do and still felt like I was dragging myself through life by my fingernails… then what was the point?

That’s where I had to step back and rethink my approach. Because maybe the problem wasn’t that I was failing at self-care—maybe the problem was that I was expecting life to make sense in the first place.

That’s when I discovered a weirdly comforting truth: nothing matters.

And instead of that thought terrifying me… it kind of set me free.

Most people hear “nihilism” and immediately assume it’s about despair—like staring into the abyss and giving up because nothing matters. But that’s just half the picture. The other half—the part no one talks about—is how freeing it can be.

The realization that nothing matters can be terrifying… or it can be an opportunity. Because if nothing really matters, then maybe the small joys do. Maybe you don’t have to live for some grand, noble purpose. Maybe you can just exist, and that’s enough.

And here’s where this really clicks: perfectionism dies in nihilism.

Perfectionism is this impossible mind prison that so many of us live in. Society pushes the idea that we have to be flawless at all times—flawless in our work, in our relationships, in our self-care. You have to be productive but also rested. You have to be ambitious but also humble. You have to take care of yourself, but if you try too hard, well, now you’re cringe. It’s exhausting.

And if you have mental illness, this pressure is even worse. You’re expected to "overcome" it in a way that’s palatable to other people. You’re supposed to struggle in a way that’s inspirational, not inconvenient. You’re supposed to “heal” into some idealized version of yourself, rather than just existing as a person who sometimes has bad days and isn’t a productivity machine.

But here’s where nihilism becomes a lifeline: if nothing matters, then perfection doesn’t matter either.

The expectations society places on you? Arbitrary.
The idea that you need to be "better" all the time? Completely made up.
The shame you feel for not being where you "should" be? A construct.

When you fully embrace that perfection is an illusion, you start to realize that being "good enough" is actually… enough.

I remember having this moment during one of my worst depressive spirals. I was beating myself up for not doing enough, for not being better, for not fixing myself fast enough. And then I thought… Who exactly am I performing for?

Like, who was I trying to impress? Some imaginary panel of judges that exists in my head? People on the internet? Some vague cultural expectation that I should have my life together by now?

It hit me that the only person actually punishing me was me.

That’s when I started using nihilism as a tool to destroy perfectionism. Because when you take a step back and realize that nothing has inherent meaning unless you give it meaning, you can start to rewrite the rules.

• You don’t have to be productive every day. Some days, existing is enough.
• You don’t have to be the best at everything. Being “okay” at something is perfectly fine.
• You don’t have to meet anyone else’s expectations. Not your family’s, not society’s, not even past versions of yourself.

Because who made those rules in the first place?

Once you let go of the myth of perfection, you start to see the beauty in the messiness of being human. You stop punishing yourself for not living up to some invisible standard. You stop chasing a finish line that doesn’t exist.

And you start to realize that joy exists in imperfection.

It’s in laughing at yourself when you mess up.
It’s in failing at something and realizing… it doesn’t actually matter that much.
It’s in doing things badly but having fun anyway.

And that’s the point. You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to be extraordinary. You just have to be.

So yeah—nihilism gets a bad rap. But if you wield it correctly? It’s not about despair. It’s about freedom.

Freedom from perfectionism.
Freedom from societal expectations.
Freedom from the pressure to justify your existence with productivity, success, or some grand purpose.

But here’s the thing: just because nothing matters in a cosmic sense, doesn’t mean nothing matters at all.

Because when you strip away all the noise—the expectations, the pressure, the existential dread—the only thing that really, actually matters is how we take care of each other.

At the end of the day, we’re all just a bunch of fragile, weird little creatures trying to survive on a floating rock in space. And the only thing that makes this whole absurd experience bearable? Other people. The way we love, support, and show up for each other.

That’s where mutual aid comes in. That’s where community—the kind built on real, tangible care—becomes the only thing that truly holds weight.

Because if nothing matters, then we get to decide what matters. And I’d rather build a life where what matters is love, compassion, and making sure we all get through this mess together.

Some days, getting out of bed feels impossible. You know the feeling—when the weight of your own body seems too much, when the mental energy required to simply exist is already spent before you even open your eyes. And I hate the whole “just push through” mentality, as if willpower alone can override an entire brain chemistry situation. But here’s the thing: sometimes, you do have to do it anyway. Not because it’s easy. Not because you suddenly feel inspired. But because, at some point, you learn that moving forward—even badly—is still moving.

And sometimes, the only way to do that is to turn your own life into a bit. I mean, if everything is already spiraling, you might as well commit to the joke, right? That’s where humor comes in. Not as a way to dismiss the hard stuff, but as a way to survive it.

Which is probably why I’ve always gravitated toward Arrested Development. The Bluth family is in a constant state of denial, making disastrous decisions, acting like they’re in control, and then looking genuinely shocked when it all goes wrong. It’s chaos. It’s absurd. It’s, frankly, way too relatable. Because, let’s be honest, who among us hasn’t had a Gob Bluth moment, standing in the wreckage of our own choices, whispering, I’ve made a huge mistake?

That’s the thing—humor doesn’t erase the struggle, but it gives you just enough distance to keep going. To stand in the middle of the mess and, instead of collapsing under it, laugh at how completely unhinged it all is. And some days, that’s the best coping strategy I’ve got.

So yeah, some days are hard. Some days, you just do it anyway. And if that means narrating your own life in Ron Howard’s voice to get through it? Then, honestly, you’re already doing something right.

I don’t like the idea of forcing yourself to do something when every inch of your being is telling you to stop. But I do think there’s a middle ground between toxic positivity and complete avoidance. It’s the quiet defiance—the moment when you say to yourself, “I’m going to move through this, even if I don’t have the energy or enthusiasm for it.” And that’s often the secret to surviving the really heavy days. Sometimes it’s not about thriving—it’s just about existing, about doing the bare minimum and keeping your head above water.

I’ll admit, I don’t always succeed. Some days, I don’t get out of bed. But there are days—when the pull to stay under the blankets is too strong, when everything in me wants to just disappear—when I force myself to do something, anything. Make coffee. Feed the cats. Take a shower. It doesn’t feel like much in the moment, but it’s the act of showing up for yourself in small ways. And sometimes that’s the best you can do. And that’s enough.

I hate the idea of “bootstraps” because it assumes that everyone has the same ability to pull themselves up. But what it doesn’t account for is that sometimes the best thing you can do is keep moving, even when it feels like nothing is worth the effort. You just have to keep moving, even if you’re barely crawling. Because at least crawling means you’re still in the race.

So yeah, love matters, community matters, getting out of bed even when it sucks matters, showing up for each other matters.

But you know what else matters? Committing to the bit.

Because here’s the thing: mental health isn’t just about grand epiphanies and emotional breakthroughs. It’s not always about therapy sessions where you suddenly unlock the key to your past trauma, nor is it about perfectly curated self-care routines. Sometimes, it’s just about doing weird little things that keep you moving forward—no matter how absurd they seem.

The brain is not logical. It thrives on pattern recognition, dopamine, and occasionally just being tricked into cooperating. And when reality feels unbearable, sometimes the best solution is to tilt the camera angle, throw on a soundtrack, and convince yourself you’re living inside a film directed by someone unhinged but stylish.

This is what I call romanticizing your own life. Not in the Instagram, “soft girl aesthetic” way, where you have to move to Paris and wear exclusively linen. But in the “let’s treat my own existence as something that at least deserves a decent narrative arc” kind of way.

And trust me, this works.

I’ve had days where I feel like I’m one mildly inconvenient email away from losing my grip on reality. Days where my brain is doing its best impression of Gob Bluth falling apart in slow motion, whispering ‘I’ve made a huge mistake.’ And on those days, the only thing that stops me from spiraling further is actively choosing to frame my own life like it’s something worth watching.

Yes, this entire concept is ridiculous. But here’s the thing: so is life.

We are all just weird little creatures running on electricity and impulse, overthinking everything, and looking for meaning in a world that is largely indifferent to our existence.

And if romanticizing your own life makes the bad days feel a little less empty and the good days feel a little more cinematic—then why not do it?

We’ve talked about some of the unconventional tools I’ve used to navigate this mess: humor, exercise, nutrition, therapy, and more. These things have kept me grounded and moving forward, even when everything else is falling apart. But here’s the thing: this isn’t a one-size-fits-all situation. What works for me might not resonate with you, and that’s totally okay. Mental illness and coping with life’s chaos look different for everyone, and sometimes the tools that work for one person feel completely useless to someone else. That’s part of the mess.

You might be the type of person who thrives in a rigid routine, or maybe the thought of a “routine” feels like a jail sentence. Maybe therapy has been a game-changer for you, or maybe it’s something you’ve tried and just doesn’t fit. And that’s fine. This is about figuring out what works for you. There’s no shame in trying different things until something clicks.

So, as we talk about these coping mechanisms—whether it’s moving your body, eating something nourishing, or just finding a way to laugh through the madness—remember that there’s no right way to do any of this. These are just some of the tools that have helped me, and maybe they’ll work for you. Or maybe not. But the key is finding your own version of this mess, and navigating it in whatever way helps you survive today.

At the end of all this, you might be thinking: Okay, but what now? Because, sure, we’ve talked about all the mess, the humor, the tricks, and the chaos. But how do you actually take it from the abstract and do something with it?

Well, here’s the deal: doing life anyway means finding your own way to keep moving—even if it’s at a crawl. It’s not about being perfect or having it all figured out. It’s about figuring out your version of the absurdity and owning it. Maybe that means throwing on your favorite show and letting it help you reframe the mess, or maybe it means giving yourself permission to just exist for a while and not fix everything.

Start with something simple. Find the one thing you can do today—maybe it’s getting out of bed and brushing your teeth, maybe it’s going for that “therapy walk” (without any pressure to make it a workout), or maybe it’s calling up a friend and laughing at how ridiculous everything is.

So, if nothing else, find your version of a bad chicken impression, commit to the bit, and let that carry you through today. Whether it’s a small act of survival or a big, ridiculous mental hack, just keep moving. It doesn’t have to be graceful. It doesn’t have to make sense. You just have to keep moving, even if you’re barely crawling.