It's 5:56 AM on a Tuesday, and I'm staring at shattered glass.
Not metaphorically. Literally. My car—my 2024 Mazda that still smells new—has a broken window, a destroyed lock mechanism, and an empty interior where my MacBook used to live. This is the second time in a few months. Same car. Different perpetrators. Same sinking feeling in my stomach.
I should be calling insurance. Taking photos. Being practical.
Instead, I'm sitting on the curb with my phone in my shaking hands, and the only thought in my head is: I can't do this again.
Not the car. I mean... life. All of it.
This is a fox musing. Not a guide. Not a solution. Just... what it feels like when one more thing breaks, and you're already holding together so many broken pieces.
The Weight of "One More Thing"
Here's what the insurance company will see: A car break-in. Stolen property. Damage assessment. Claim number 2025-XXXXX.
Here's what they won't see:
This happened six months after losing my job. Four months after my small business didn't make it. Three months into building a new dream from scratch. Two weeks before I was supposed to feel like things were finally stabilizing.
One. More. Thing.
You know that feeling when you're carrying groceries, and you think "I can fit one more bag on this arm"—and that one more bag makes everything collapse? That's what this morning felt like.
The car break-in isn't just about the car. It's about every time I thought "it's getting better" and life said "not yet."
What Trauma Actually Looks Like
I need to tell you something the mental health infographics don't show: Trauma isn't always one big terrible thing. Sometimes it's a thousand paper cuts that bleed together until you can't tell which one hurts anymore.
Job loss. (Paper cut) Business failure. (Paper cut) First car break-in. (Paper cut) Months of building with no revenue. (Paper cut) Second car break-in. (Paper cut that makes you notice you're bleeding everywhere)
This morning, my hands started trembling. Not from cold. From the cumulative weight of "one more thing."
I noticed something, though. When I saw the broken window, my first thought wasn't about the car or the MacBook or the insurance claim.
My first thought was: I am so tired of trying.
That's the real damage. Not the stuff. The exhaustion of resilience.
The Breathing Exercise That Saved Me (Literally This Morning)
I'm going to get vulnerable here. This morning, after I called insurance and took all the photos and tried to hold it together, I had a full panic attack.
Chest tight. Nausea. Intrusive thoughts spiraling: "This is never going to work. You're never going to make it. Everything you build gets destroyed."
I couldn't call anyone (too early). Couldn't cry to my parents (they'd worry). Couldn't even think straight enough to know what to do next.
So I opened the breathing tool I built last month. The one with the circle animation. The one I literally coded while trying to heal from the first car break-in.
Box Breathing. 4-4-4-4.
Inhale for 4. Hold for 4. Exhale for 4. Hold for 4.
I watched the circle fill and empty. Listened to the voice guidance I'd just fixed yesterday (ironically, to help other people with panic attacks). And I sat there on my neighbor's lawn at 6 AM, breathing in sync with a tool I made for myself, for moments exactly like this.
It didn't fix the car. It didn't fix my life. It didn't make the overwhelm disappear.
But after five cycles—about 80 seconds—my hands stopped shaking. My chest loosened. The spiral slowed.
I could think again. Not clearly. But enough.
That's what healing tools actually do. They don't solve your problems. They give you 80 seconds of ground beneath your feet.
The Conversation I Had With Myself
After the breathing exercise, I did something my therapist taught me. I had a conversation with the part of me that wanted to give up.
Panic Brain: "This is too much. You can't do this. Everything you build gets destroyed."
Wise Brain: "That's not true. The car got broken into. Your websites are still online. Your code is still running. Your progress didn't disappear with the MacBook."
Panic Brain: "But it feels like it did! Months of work, and for what? To sit on a curb with broken glass?"
Wise Brain: "You're allowed to feel that way. This is too much. You don't have to be okay with this. But giving up isn't the same as grieving."
Panic Brain: "What's the difference?"
Wise Brain: "Grieving says: 'This is really hard and I'm so tired.' Giving up says: 'I'm done forever.' You're grieving. That's different."
I cried then. Not pretty crying. The kind where your face gets puffy and your nose runs and you don't care because no one's watching at 6 AM except a confused magpie.
The Thing About Cumulative Stress
The insurance agent is going to ask me about the incident. I'll give them the timeline: 4:45 AM to 5:56 AM. Two perpetrators. Dashcam footage. Itemized stolen property.
What I won't tell them—because they can't put this in a claim form—is that this isn't just about the incident.
This is about how when you're already running on fumes, one more crisis doesn't just add to the pile. It makes you question whether the pile is worth carrying anymore.
Research calls it "allostatic load"—the cumulative wear and tear of chronic stress on your body and mind. I call it: the moment when you realize you've been strong for so long that you forgot what it feels like to not need to be strong.
I'm tired of being resilient.
There. I said it. The thing you're not supposed to say when you're building a mental health business. When you're supposed to be the fox who's figured it out. When your whole brand is healing.
I'm tired of resilience. I want a break. I want things to work out. I want to not have to breathe through panic attacks on my neighbor's lawn.
But here's what I learned this morning: Wanting rest doesn't mean you're failing. It means you're human.
What Actually Helped (Besides the Breathing Tool)
After I got myself somewhat together, I did a few things that made the morning survivable:
1. I Let Someone Know
I texted my accountability partner. Not to solve anything. Just to say: "Car got broken into again. I'm not okay but I'm managing."
She responded: "Fuck. I'm sorry. You don't have to be okay. I'm here when you're ready to talk."
That's it. No solutions. No toxic positivity. Just presence.
2. I Named What I Was Feeling
Out loud. Like a weird person. I sat in my car (the non-broken parts) and said:
"I feel overwhelmed. I feel scared. I feel like this is never going to work. I feel angry. I feel exhausted."
Naming it took some of the power away. Not all of it. Some.
3. I Did the One Next Thing
Not everything. Just one thing.
The one thing was: Take photos for insurance.
After that, the next one thing was: Write the incident timeline.
Then: Call insurance.
I couldn't think about "fixing everything." I could only think about the next ten minutes.
4. I Used My Own Tools
The breathing exercise. The grounding technique. The self-compassion scripts I'd written for other people.
Here's the weird part about building healing tools: When you're in crisis, you forget they exist. I almost didn't use my own breathing tool. I almost tried to just "push through."
But I remembered something I wrote in one of my posts: "You don't have to be okay to use the tools. The tools are for when you're not okay."
So I used them. Imperfectly. While crying. With a runny nose. But I used them.
5. I Let Myself Rest
After I handled the urgent stuff, I gave myself permission to stop.
I didn't force myself to work. I didn't "use this as content material" (until now, I guess). I didn't try to turn it into a lesson right away.
I just... stopped. Lay down. Let my brain process. Let my nervous system settle.
Rest isn't weakness. It's recovery.
The Plot Twist (Because Life Has Weird Timing)
Here's the part that made me laugh-cry: Right when I was at my lowest, my neighbor came over.
"Hey, I heard about your car. My car got broken into last night too."
Same street. Same night. Same perpetrators (probably).
And suddenly, my isolated tragedy became a neighborhood crime spree. Which is objectively worse—but somehow made me feel less alone. Less like "what's wrong with me that this keeps happening" and more like "what's wrong with this situation."
Context matters. Community matters. Even shitty context. Even a community built on "our cars both got wrecked."
What I'm Learning (In Real Time)
This post is different from my others. It's not polished. It's not a complete healing arc with a bow on top. It's real-time processing.
Here's what I'm learning right now, 14 hours after the break-in:
1. Healing tools work—but you have to remember to use them I built a breathing exercise. It helped me. But I almost didn't use it because panic brain doesn't think logically. Keep your tools accessible. Practice them when you're NOT in crisis so they're muscle memory when you are.
2. Cumulative stress is real, and it's okay to acknowledge it This isn't just about a car. It's about everything. And pretending it's "just a car" makes it worse. Name the accumulation. Validate the exhaustion.
3. You can be tired of resilience and still be resilient Those two things can coexist. You can be sick of being strong and still choose to take the next breath. That's not hypocrisy. That's honesty.
4. Rest isn't giving up Stopping to recover isn't the same as stopping forever. Your nervous system needs time to process. Give it that time.
5. Community helps (even weird community) Knowing my neighbor went through the same thing didn't fix my car. But it fixed some of my isolation. Don't underestimate the power of "you're not alone in this."
The Tools That Got Me Through Today
I'm including this because if you're reading this during your own crisis, you might need something practical right now:
🫁 Emergency Breathing Exercise
Box Breathing (4-4-4-4):
- Inhale for 4 seconds
- Hold for 4 seconds
- Exhale for 4 seconds
- Hold for 4 seconds
- Repeat 5 times minimum
Try our interactive breathing tool here →
🧠 The 5-4-3-2-1 Grounding Technique
When panic spirals, interrupt it:
- Name 5 things you can see
- Name 4 things you can touch
- Name 3 things you can hear
- Name 2 things you can smell
- Name 1 thing you can taste
This brings you back to your body, back to now.
💕 Self-Compassion Script
Place your hand on your heart and say:
- "This is really hard."
- "I'm not alone in struggling."
- "May I be kind to myself right now."
📝 The Brain Dump
When everything feels overwhelming, dump it all on paper:
- Set a timer for 10 minutes
- Write everything that's stressing you out
- Don't edit, don't solve, just release
- Close the notebook when the timer ends
🎯 The One Next Thing
Don't think about fixing everything. Just ask:
- "What's the one next manageable thing I can do right now?"
- Do that thing
- Then ask again
The Part Where I Don't Have Answers
I don't know if my startup is going to work. I don't know if these months of building will pay off. I don't know if I'll look back on this year and think "that was the turning point" or "that was the year I should have quit."
What I do know is: I'm still here. The car is broken, but I'm not. The MacBook is gone, but my code is in the cloud. My hands stopped shaking. My chest loosened. I made it through today.
Maybe that's enough for now.
To You (If You're in Your Own Crisis)
If you're reading this because you Googled "how to cope when everything feels like too much" at 3 AM—first of all, I see you. Second, here's what I want you to know:
You're allowed to be tired. Of trying. Of being strong. Of things not working out. That exhaustion doesn't make you weak. It makes you human.
You're allowed to use tools imperfectly. My breathing exercise didn't make the panic disappear instantly. It made it 20% more manageable. That's enough. Tools don't have to fix everything to be worth using.
You're allowed to rest. Not as a reward for productivity. Not when you've "earned it." Right now. Because you need it.
You're allowed to not be okay. And still keep going. Those aren't mutually exclusive. You can be not-okay and still take the next breath. That's not hypocrisy. That's survival.
One more thing—and this is important: If you're thinking about giving up, please tell someone. Not because I have the perfect answer, but because isolation makes everything worse. You deserve to not carry this alone.
Where I Am Now
It's 8:47 PM. The same Tuesday. The car is at the repair shop. The insurance claim is filed. The neighbor and I exchanged numbers. My parents don't know yet (I'll tell them when I have more answers).
I'm sitting at my desk, writing this, and my hands aren't shaking anymore.
I fixed the voice synchronization on the breathing tool today—ironically, while processing my own panic attack. I tested it. It works. It'll help someone else tomorrow, maybe someone on their own broken-glass morning.
That's the weird gift of building healing tools while you're still healing: You get to use them on yourself. You get to prove they work in real conditions, not just in theory.
I don't know what tomorrow looks like. But I know I made it through today. And sometimes, that's the whole healing journey—just one more day, one more breath, one more small tool that holds you together when everything else is breaking.
If you're in crisis right now:
🚨 Immediate Help:
- Australia: Lifeline 13 11 14 (24/7 crisis support)
- Beyond Blue: 1300 22 4636
- Kids Helpline: 1800 55 1800 (up to age 25)
- Emergency: 000
🫁 Quick Relief:
- Try our breathing exercises now (free, no signup)
- Download the Fox Emergency Pack (pay-what-you-can, includes grounding scripts)
💕 Longer Support:
- The Half-Year Companion (26 weeks of gentle healing practices for when everything feels like too much)
One More Thing
To the person who broke into my car: I hope you needed that MacBook more than I needed my peace of mind. I hope whatever desperation drove you to smash windows at 5 AM finds relief somehow.
I'm not there yet—I'm still angry. But I'm trying to remember that hurt people hurt people. And maybe you're having your own broken-glass morning, just in a different way.
To everyone else: Take care of your nervous systems. Use your tools. Rest when you need to. And remember—shattered glass doesn't shatter you.
We're tougher than we think. Softer than we pretend. And healing isn't linear, it's just... ongoing.
One breath at a time.
With you in the mess, Sisi 🦊💔✨
P.S. - If you want to support this work (and help me replace that MacBook), you can buy me a coffee or check out our healing tools. But more than that—if this helped you, share it. Someone else is having their broken-glass morning right now. Let them know they're not alone.