Women in Survival Mode

It’s 7:42 a.m. and she’s already on her third cup of coffee. One hand is spreading peanut butter on toast, the other is texting the school nurse. The toddler is melting down because her socks feel “wrong.” The oldest can’t find his homework. The dog just threw up in the hallway. Her chest tightens, her pulse picks up. There’s no room for gentleness—this is pure survival mode.

And here’s the thing: she’s not “difficult.” She’s not “cold.” Her body is just doing what bodies do under stress. When cortisol is running the show, everything else shuts down—empathy, softness, sexiness, warmth, patience. Not because she doesn’t care, but because her system is screaming: survive first, feel later.

You’ve probably felt it too. The shallow breathing. The racing heart. The clenched jaw. The restless sleep that never feels like real rest. Maybe you’ve been told, “You’re just tired—moms are always tired.” But deep down you know it’s more than that. It’s like you’ve lost contact with yourself. Like your brain is stuck in “danger mode,” bracing for the next hit.

And in that state? There’s no bandwidth for closeness. No extra energy for vulnerability. Certainly no extra reserves for your kids’ emotions. You can only give what you have, and until you feel like you are not climbing up Mount Everest every day, the tank is empty.

Dena, age 34, three kids under 6

She spends the whole day with the kids—endless snacks, tantrums, spilled juice, the constant hum of “Mom, Mom, Mom.” When her husband comes home, he wants a warm smile, a ready dinner, maybe some affection. But she’s been touched all day—climbed on, pulled at, needed in every possible way. Her body is buzzing with overstimulation. What she craves most isn’t intimacy. It’s just twenty minutes alone in silence where nobody needs anything.

Jennifer, age 41, two kids under 10

At 5:12 p.m., she’s wrapping up a video call where she was polished, sharp, respected. At 6:32 p.m., she’s standing in her kitchen with two hungry kids asking for snacks, a dog scratching at the door, homework questions flying at her, and dinner burning on the stove. The whiplash between “competent professional” and “frazzled mom” is enough to snap anyone in half. Her partner walks in, phone in hand, and asks, “What’s for dinner?” She wants to cry, but there’s no time. There’s never time.

Even intimacy becomes impossible. Maybe he reaches for her in bed, but her body feels like stone. She wants to want him, but exhaustion has stolen her desire. Instead of warmth, there’s irritability. Instead of pleasure, there’s a silent wish for it to be over quickly. To him, it looks like rejection. To her, it’s survival.

Here’s where partners matter more than they know. It’s not the Hallmark card, or the “Don’t worry, babe” or “Hang on, kitty” texts. It’s the atmosphere they create. If he’s always scrolling on his phone while you’re drowning in stress, your nervous system won’t believe you’re safe—even if he insists he’s “there for you.” Safety is felt, not said. It is intentionally created through work. It shows up when you don’t have to fight or defend alone.

And when the cortisol finally comes down? When your body stops bracing? That’s when softness comes back. That’s when you feel like you again. But until then, distance and control are all others can sense.

The scariest part is the numbness. Not anger, not hatred—just a flatness that takes over when you haven’t been listened to, cared for, or gently held. It’s your body shutting down, not out of spite, but because it’s out of reserves. And that’s when your partner faces a choice: will he be the one to turn your light back on—or the one who snuffs it out completely?

A moment of hope

One night, instead of disappearing into his phone, he notices her shoulders slump as she unloads the dishwasher. Quietly, he takes the dish towel from her hand and says, “Sit. I’ve got the rest.” She wants to argue—there’s always so much to do—but he insists, gently. He turns on the kettle, makes her tea, and sits beside her on the couch without asking for anything. No agenda. No pressure. Just presence.

And something shifts. It’s small, but real. Her body loosens a little. Her chest feels less tight. For the first time that day, she exhales all the way. That one act doesn’t erase the exhaustion, but it reminds her she’s not alone. And that reminder is where healing begins.

Reader Reflection:

• Do you feel stuck in survival mode most days?
• When your kid tries to tell you about their day, are you really listening—or just nodding while stirring the pasta pot?
• When your partner walks in the door, do you feel relief—or do your shoulders tighten because you’re still carrying it all and he adds to the load?
• In those three frantic hours between work and bedtime, are you two moving like a team or like competitors racing the clock?

Here’s what I want you to know: the light in you isn’t gone. It’s just hidden right now under exhaustion and stress. And it’s waiting—for safety, for presence, for moments when your nervous system can finally exhale. You don’t need grand gestures. You need steadiness. Patience. Real care.

A man sets the tone in a relationship and a woman responds in kind to what he gives.  If he is steady, supportive, intentional, and deeply committed through actions, not words, you feel safe, cherished, truly connected, and thrive in love and partnership, not in uncertainty. 

And when that comes? Your warmth, your softness, your joy—they’ll come too. Not forced. Not performed. Just your natural self, finally free to surface again.