I Didn't Realize I Was Living in Survival Mode

When I wrote my last blog post back in January about leaving real estate, I honestly thought that was the big story.

At the time, even I was surprised by how suddenly I walked away from something that had been such a huge part of my identity for so many years. Looking back now, though, I can see that retiring from that career wasn’t actually the ending of a chapter. It was the beginning of one.

I had no idea how much my life was about to change, because since then, almost everything has.

I sold or gave away most of what I owned. I mailed a few boxes to myself, then packed what little was left into my car and drove across Canada alone to start over on Vancouver Island. Even writing those words still feels a little surreal.

People in my life are used to me making big changes when life calls for them. I’ve moved more than most people probably would, but I’ve never been afraid to start over if something deep inside me felt certain it was time - or necessary - for one reason or another. But this time felt different.

This wasn’t just another move. This felt like finally listening to something inside myself that had been trying to get my attention for a very long time.

The truth is, I think I had been living in survival mode for longer than I realized.

You know how sometimes you keep functioning because you have to? You keep showing up, keep working, keep handling responsibilities, and from the outside, your life probably looks perfectly fine. Maybe even successful. But underneath it all, something feels… off.

You’re tired in a way that sleep doesn’t fix.

You feel disconnected from yourself.

You keep thinking, Is this really how I want to live the rest of my life?

That quiet feeling had been growing in me for years.

Writing my first book started bringing a lot of things to the surface. It forced me to slow down and really look at my life honestly. And once you start becoming more honest with yourself, it becomes very difficult to keep pretending certain things still fit when they no longer do.

Writing that book not only changed my perspective on life, it helped me finally, truly, and fully love and accept myself - the light and dark parts alike. And that, my friend, was the biggest gift (and surprise) of them all.

Through all the upheavals of the last few months, one of the biggest twists in all of this has been how little I miss the things I thought I needed - all the “stuff” we accumulate over the decades.

When I decided to move across the country, I sold or gave away around 95% of my belongings. And believe me, plenty of people warned me I would regret it.

“You’re going to miss your things.” “You’re throwing away your whole life.” “What if you change your mind?”

What threw me most was that the hardest part wasn’t after I left. It was the final few days before I did.

Those last days were far more emotional than I expected them to be. I was either in tears or trying not to be most of the time. Part of it was the reality finally hitting me, but part of it was realizing I had badly overestimated how much I could actually fit into my car. In the end, I had to give away more than I wanted to.

That part still stings once in a while, if I’m honest. There are certain things I wish I’d kept. Certain things I would have planned differently if I’d thought it through better.

And yet, even with all of that, I still didn’t experience the kind of loss I thought I would.

What I felt most was lighter.

That doesn’t mean it wasn’t emotional. Some things carried memories. Some represented old versions of myself. Some were difficult to let go of because they symbolized years of building a life. But somewhere along the way, I realized that so much of what we hold onto has very little to do with need and everything to do with fear.

Fear of change.

Fear of uncertainty.

Fear of letting go of identities we’ve outgrown.

And strangely, once most of it was gone, I didn’t feel emptier. I felt freer.

And then came the drive across Canada. If you’ve ever spent days alone in a car driving through changing landscapes with nothing but your thoughts for company, you’ll understand when I say that it becomes more than a road trip. It becomes reflective in a way that’s difficult to explain.

Ontario slowly gave way to the prairies. Then Alberta. Then the mountains.

And somewhere in all those long stretches of highway, I found myself thinking not only about where I was going, but about who I had become.

There were moments I cried.

Moments I questioned myself.

Moments I felt incredibly brave.

And moments I felt very, very small.

But there was also something incredibly peaceful about it all.

For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t rushing.

I wasn’t performing.

I wasn’t trying to force myself into a life that no longer felt aligned.

I was simply moving forward. One mile (or kilometre) at a time.

What’s interesting is that after I arrived here on Vancouver Island, something unexpected happened. I got tired.

Not the normal kind of tired. A deeper kind.

At first I thought something was wrong with me. But the more I sat with it, the more I realized I don’t think my body had truly relaxed in years. It was as if my nervous system finally realized it no longer had to stay on high alert all the time. And once it felt safe enough… Everything in me just exhaled.

I’ve started spending more time in nature here. I’m a two-minute stroll from the shore. I’ve been taking quiet walks, soaking in the mountain views, hiking with my daughter and grandchildren, and sitting in stillness more than I used to allow myself to.

And I’ll be honest — there’s both peace and grief in starting over.

I think people sometimes assume that choosing change means you’re fearless or completely certain. Not true.

Sometimes growth feels exciting and lonely at the exact same time.

Sometimes healing changes your relationships.

Sometimes becoming more authentic means other people no longer fully understand you.

And sometimes the life that finally feels right is the one that makes the least sense to everyone else.

But I’ve also learned something important: Peace feels very different than adrenaline.

When you’ve spent years surviving, chaos can start to feel normal. So when life becomes quieter, healthier, softer… it can actually feel unfamiliar at first. I think I’m still adjusting to that.

One thing I definitely didn’t expect through all of this was how many people online would relate to my story.

I started sharing more honestly on YouTube without any real plan other than wanting to speak openly about what I was experiencing. And the response has genuinely touched me.

So many people are carrying quiet exhaustion.

So many people feel stuck.

So many people want change but are terrified to disappoint others, start over, or trust themselves.

And maybe that’s one of the biggest lessons in all of this: We are far less alone than we think we are.

I still don’t have everything figured out. My life is still evolving. There are still moments where I wonder what exactly this next chapter is going to look like. But for the first time in a very long time, I feel like I’m actually listening to myself.

Not fear.

Not expectations.

Not who I thought I was supposed to be. Myself.

And maybe that’s what starting over really is. Not becoming someone completely different. But slowly returning to who you were underneath all the survival, pressure, expectations, and noise.

If you’re going through any sort of change yourself right now - whether it’s a relationship ending, a career shift, a move, a loss, or simply a quiet feeling that your life no longer fits the person you’re becoming - I hope you know this:

It’s okay to outgrow things.

It’s okay to choose peace.

It’s okay to start over.

Even now.

Especially now.

And sometimes the life waiting for you on the other side of all that fear ends up feeling more like home than the life you spent years trying to hold together.

Follow the fireflies 💫

Ella