How We Show Up When Everything Feels Like Too Much

Sitting in a ceremony with the earth and fire -- praying for love. 

I don’t have this neatly figured out. What I do know is that right now, a lot hurts.

There is so much suffering moving through the world. So much injustice. So much confusion. And honestly, so much anger. I feel it in my body. I feel it when I wake up. I feel it when I try to focus on my own life and realize how impossible it feels to separate “my world” from what’s happening everywhere else.

Some days I don’t know how we are expected to hold all of this and still function.

We’re watching pain unfold in real time. We’re scrolling past devastation and then expected to answer emails, make dinner, show up for people we love, stay regulated, stay kind, stay productive. It’s a lot. It’s too much. And pretending it’s not doesn’t help.

And yes, I’m angry.

I’m angry because so much of what’s happening is unfair. Because people are hurting. Because harm keeps repeating itself. Because it feels like we’re being asked to absorb an endless stream of suffering with no real place to put it.

And I think we need to talk about that.

Not the kind of talking that turns into fighting or blaming or tearing each other apart. But the kind that tells the truth. The kind that says, this is not okay, and it’s affecting me, and I don’t know what to do with it all.

I don’t think anger is the problem. I think unacknowledged anger is.

When anger has nowhere to go, it turns inward. We numb out. We collapse. We shame ourselves for not doing enough. Or it turns outward and becomes sharp, reactive, cruel. None of that feels good. None of that actually helps.

What I’m noticing is how overwhelmed our systems are.

We were not built to take in this much information, this much pain, this much intensity all at once.

Our nervous systems are saturated. And when that happens, people respond differently. Some get loud. Some shut down. Some freeze. Some go numb. Some oscillate between caring deeply and wanting to disappear.

None of that means something is wrong with you.

It means your system is trying to survive.

For me, the hardest part is figuring out how to show up for others without completely abandoning myself.

Because there’s this quiet pressure that says, if you care, you should be able to handle more. You should keep reading. Keep watching. Keep engaging. Keep speaking. Keep doing something.

But my body doesn’t always agree.

Some days, showing up for myself looks like stepping away. Closing the app. Letting myself cry. Letting myself be angry without immediately trying to spiritualize it or make it productive.

Some days it looks like admitting, I don’t know how to help right now, and that breaks my heart.

I’m learning that showing up doesn’t always look like action. Sometimes it looks like presence. Sometimes it looks like listening without fixing. Sometimes it looks like saying, this is unbearable, and I’m still here.

And sometimes it looks like resting so I don’t harden.

So I’m trying, imperfectly, to slow down enough to feel what’s actually here. To notice when I’m overwhelmed. To not outsource my nervous system onto other people. To pause before speaking from pure reactivity.

Not because my anger isn’t valid. It is. But because I don’t want it to own me.

I want my anger to inform me, not consume me. I want it to sharpen my clarity without closing my heart.

I don’t think showing up right now means having the right words or the right stance. I think it means staying human. Staying honest. Staying connected to the body you live in.

Some days that looks like speaking up.

 Some days it looks like sitting quietly with grief.

 Some days it looks like making soup, touching the earth, holding someone’s hand, or being held.

And some days it looks like doing less, because doing less is the only way to keep going.

If there’s anything I know for sure, it’s this.

You are allowed to care deeply and still have limits.

You are allowed to be angry and still choose integrity.

You are allowed to step back without abandoning what matters to you.

We’re not meant to carry this alone. And we’re not meant to be perfect in how we respond.

Showing up, right now, is messy. It’s tender. It’s inconsistent. And it’s still real.

And maybe that’s enough for today.

A Gentle Call to Action

If this resonates, don’t rush to fix anything.

Pause for a moment. Put one hand on your body. Notice what you’re actually feeling underneath the noise. Anger, grief, fear, exhaustion, numbness, tenderness. Whatever is there is allowed.

Today, your work might be very small and very real.

Check in with yourself before checking the news.

Reach out to one person you trust and speak honestly.

Offer presence instead of opinions.

Rest without justifying it.

And if you feel called to act, let that action come from regulation, not panic. From clarity, not collapse. From care, not pressure.

Move at your own pace.

Stay connected to yourself. That, too, matters.