how i parent myself when things get overwhelming

i don’t remember the exact moment i became the adult in the room. but somewhere between pushing myself through deadlines with a pounding chest and telling my inner child she doesn’t need to cry so loud just to be heard, i learned something peculiar: that parenting yourself isn’t about bubble baths and gentle affirmations. it’s about showing up especially when the version of you that’s showing up feels like a crumpled napkin under someone’s coffee mug. it’s about noticing the early signs of collapse before the world can. because by the time it’s visible to others, you’ve likely already drowned in it twice.

for years, i mistook performance for progress. if i was crossing things off a to-do list while spiraling internally, it meant i was functioning. if i looked composed in public but was shutting down emotionally at night, it meant i was strong. and when i inevitably crashed, whether by disappearing into silence, crying in my kitchen for no obvious reason, or irrationally snapping at someone i love… i called it burnout. but really, it was abandonment. i had abandoned myself by assuming that showing up for life and showing up for myself were the same thing.

no one teaches you how to re-parent your nervous system. no one tells you that emotional regulation isn’t instinctive when you weren’t raised in an environment that modeled it. so you grow up and start calling your meltdowns "overreactions,” your sensitivity "weakness," and your dissociation "just being tired." it’s only when things get really quiet, when you’re staring at a wall, watching time pass like it’s none of your business, that you realize something else has to take over. something that isn’t performance. something more maternal. more curious. more patient.

so when i feel myself spiraling, when my brain is no longer a thinking organ but a web of urgent, nonsensical tabs… this is how i parent myself back.

1. i start by identifying the child in the room.

the hardest part of overwhelm is that it doesn’t feel like you. it feels like all your past selves talking over each other at once. the girl who was scared of getting things wrong. the teenager who thought approval was survival. the twenty-something who overbooked herself to avoid sitting still. and parenting, in this case, isn’t silencing them. it’s deciding whose panic belongs to the moment and whose panic is trying to time-travel. it's pausing mid spiral and saying: i know you’re trying to protect me. but i’ve got this now.

2. i use language that de-escalates.

instead of “i’m so behind,” i say “i’m not in danger.” instead of “i’ve ruined everything,” i say “this is hard, and i’m learning.” the language doesn’t have to be poetic. it just has to be stabilizing. psychologists call this affect labeling: naming your emotions reduces their intensity. but i think it’s more than that. it’s building a vocabulary of inner parenting. like how a kind adult would never say “you’re lazy” to a crying child. they’d say, “you’re tired. let’s rest first.” and so that’s what i tell myself now, out loud, in the mirror, like a weirdo. because weird is better than unwell.

3. i change my inputs.

the moment i feel like i’m losing myself, i know i have to break the loop. and for me, that loop is digital. i stop consuming other people’s lives like they’re my homework. i log off instagram. i stop watching advice videos i’ll never follow. i silence the noise that tells me who to be. and instead, i return to something uncurated. a piano instrumental. a printed book. a long shower where i just narrate my thoughts like a character in a film. the goal isn’t to escape. the goal is to re-enter my own interiority: to remember that i am not a reflection of the internet. i am a person with inner weather.

4. i organize what i can.

this one is counterintuitive. because when you’re overwhelmed, the last thing you want is to tidy a drawer. but when my mind feels chaotic, i don’t seek clarity, i create it. i pick one micro-space (a bag, a shelf, a document) and give it structure. it’s symbolic, really. because the part of me that feels helpless needs to see proof that i can restore order not by controlling life, but by being responsive to it. and it works. even if i just clean the notes app and delete screenshots from 2018, i feel slightly more adult. slightly more in charge. and sometimes, that’s enough.

5. i ask: what would a parent do?

not my actual parent but the parent i need in this very moment. the one who would put their hand on my forehead and say “you don’t need to do anything today.” the one who’d pack snacks for the anxiety spiral. the one who’d know when to cancel plans, cook something warm, and sit next to me while i cried without fixing a thing. when i ask this, i don’t just parent myself in the abstract. i become the parent who sees through my performance. and slowly, my body responds. the pressure in my chest softens. the ache behind my eyes loosens. i feel held… by me.

6. i ritualize my comeback.

i used to think recovery was a return to productivity. now i think it’s a return to permission. permission to care again. to feel again. to try again. so i have rituals. simple, private, often nonsensical ones. sometimes i light the same candle i lit during a better week. sometimes i walk the same route i used to take when i felt clear-headed. these aren’t habits. they’re breadcrumbs. they remind me who i was before the fog rolled in and offer a way back, not to that version of me, but to the belief that she still exists.

7. i stop chasing coherence.

there are days when nothing adds up. when my emotions contradict each other. when i feel grateful and resentful in the same breath. and instead of fixing it, i sit with the mess. because real parenting doesn’t demand consistency, it allows for complexity. it says, “you’re allowed to feel lost and still trust yourself.” it says, “you don’t need to have the words. you just need to stay.” so that’s what i do. i stay. even when i want to run. especially when i want to run.

8. i plan only what i can carry.

when everything is too much, i don’t make a masterplan. i make a morning. one good morning. one where the coffee is the event. one where the clothes are soft. one where my calendar doesn’t punish me for being human. and if i can manage that, i plan a second one. that’s it. no vision board. no five-year forecast. just two back-to-back mornings where i’m not bullying myself for not being someone else. it sounds simple. but it’s the hardest parenting work i do.

9. i pause the narrative.

sometimes, the story in my head gets loud. and cruel. and overly conclusive. “you’re failing.” “you’re behind.” “you’ve disappointed everyone.” i now know these aren’t facts. they’re defense mechanisms. a scared brain trying to feel in control by creating closure even if that closure is unkind. so now, i interrupt the narration. i say, “this is just a story.” and then i breathe. and then i wait. and eventually, a different story begins. one that’s less about who i should be and more about what i need.

10. i forgive myself preemptively.

this might sound strange but before the breakdown even happens, i forgive myself for it. because i know myself. i know that high performance without high support leads to a crash. i know that unresolved grief dresses up as irritability. i know that being overwhelmed is not a glitch in my system, it’s my system asking for repair. and so i no longer wait for the aftermath. i meet myself at the edge. and i say: it’s okay. let’s walk back together.

there is no perfect way to parent yourself. and god knows i get it wrong often. sometimes i disappear when i should stay. sometimes i self-soothe with sugar and tiktok instead of actual rest. sometimes i spiral and say “i’m fine” through clenched teeth. but other times, on the good days… i pause, soften, and say the thing i wish someone had said to me long ago: “you don’t need to get it right. you just need to come back.” and every time i do, i come back with more compassion. more nuance. more bandwidth. because when you parent yourself like someone worth caring for, eventually, slowly… you start to believe it.