How I Found Work & Life Balance

What happens when the version of you that shows up to work can’t survive at home? I used to think I was just tired. But what I was really doing was disappearing—piece by piece, role by role—until all that was left was the mask. I didn’t break until I lost everything. And when I finally saw the pain in my family’s eyes, I made a choice. Not to bounce back. Just to stay. This essay is about that staying. About presence. About rebuilding from the wreckage. About how hope doesn’t always shout—it sometimes just waits with you in the dark.

For a long time, I didn’t balance anything. I endured. I moved through my life in pieces—work mode, home mode—believing that switching between the two was a kind of stability. But there was no balance. Just exhaustion. Just survival. And survival has a cost.

At work, I was sharp. I stocked shelves, led teams, handled the chaos of retail with a kind of practiced fire. I was reliable. High-functioning. No one saw what it took to hold that mask in place. And at home? I had nothing left. My kids and their mom got the scraps. The leftover energy. The shutdown version of me. And even then—I thought I was doing okay.

But I wasn’t living two lives. I was disappearing in both. And what I didn’t know then was that CPTSD was silently driving the whole system. My mind had found a way to survive, but it had numbed me in the process. I couldn’t feel the disconnection. I couldn’t feel much at all.

I had to lose everything before I saw the damage. Before I saw them—my family—hurting. Even in my CPTSD cycles, even when I was trapped in the fog, I could see the pain in their eyes. I couldn’t feel it, not fully, but I saw it. That haunted look. That waiting. And when I finally woke up—when the numbness cracked—it ripped me open. Their pain became real in my body. It wasn’t quiet anymore.

That’s when I made the decision that changed everything. Not to fix it. Not to rise up or bounce back. Just to wait. To stay. To hold on to what was left of me so I could give them something real. Something whole. That was the beginning of everything.

I don’t balance work and life now. I belong to both. I don’t perform anymore—I show up. There is no mode-switching. Whether I’m with my kids, rebuilding Oddthentics, handling the house, resting, or doing paid work—there’s just me. The same breath. The same self. Present.

I keep my priorities clear: my children first. Then the work that heals and expresses me. Then the home. Then solitude. Then income. Each one matters. Each one gets something living from me. Not the mask. Not the role. Me.

And no, it’s not perfect. Presence isn’t some polished finish. It’s raw. It’s slow. But it’s mine now. The shadows still walk with me—but they don’t run the show. They remind me where I’ve been. They sharpen the light.

Hope didn’t come in like a sunrise. It came in like a breath. A pause. The first moment I stayed when I wanted to leave. The first time I looked into my kids’ eyes and said—without words—I’m still here. And I’m not leaving.

This isn’t balance. This is becoming. And I’m becoming someone I can stand to be—with shadow in tow, and light breaking through.