10 Things to Do When Life Feels Overwhelming
I know what it feels like when life piles up and the weight of it just… sits on your chest. When your to-do list looks like a battlefield and your emotions are ricocheting in every direction. When even the smallest task—returning a text, making dinner, taking a shower—feels like climbing a mountain.
Sometimes it’s not one big thing that tips the scale. It’s the little stuff, layered and relentless, until you’re holding your breath without even realizing it.
I’ve been there more times than I can count. I still go there, honestly. But over the years, I’ve learned a few ways to find my footing again. Not to “fix it” or make everything better overnight, but to give myself just enough room to breathe, just enough space to start climbing back.
Here are ten things I’ve learned to do when life feels like too much.
Pause. Breathe. And then breathe again.
I know—this sounds too simple to matter. But when your nervous system is in overdrive, breath is everything.
When I’m overwhelmed, I forget to breathe the way my body needs me to. My chest gets tight, my shoulders climb toward my ears, and I start reacting instead of responding.
Sometimes I’ll sit on the edge of the bed or lean against the kitchen counter, close my eyes, and do five slow breaths. In through the nose, hold for four seconds, out through the mouth like I’m blowing out birthday candles.
It doesn’t fix the situation. But it creates a crack of light. A small signal to my body that I’m not in danger, that I’m still here. Still in control of my next move.
2. Dump it all out onto the page.
There’s something sacred about putting words to what you’re holding.
When my brain feels like static, I open a notebook or a Google Doc and just start writing. No editing. No agenda. Just whatever’s on my mind, even if it makes no sense. Half the time it’s “I don’t know what I’m doing” repeated over and over. Sometimes it’s lists. Sometimes it’s memories. Sometimes it’s just tears hitting the keyboard.
But getting it out of my head and onto the page clears space. It’s like turning down the volume on the panic and giving myself permission to name what’s real.
And once it’s out, I can see it for what it is. Not an impossible mountain—just a bunch of smaller rocks.
3. Shrink the problem down. One inch at a time.
Overwhelm tells you everything has to be handled right now. All of it. Perfectly.
That’s a lie.
When I’m spiraling, I ask myself: what’s the next inch I can move? Not the whole mile—just the next inch.
If my house is messy, I pick up one room. If I’m behind on bills, I call just one provider. If my inbox is a disaster, I answer three emails. That’s it.
Momentum builds quietly. And the best part? I get to feel proud of myself for doing something instead of nothing.
4. Say no. Say it again if you have to.
I spent years being a people pleaser. Saying yes to things I didn’t have the capacity for because I didn’t want to disappoint anyone. Meanwhile, I was burning out silently.
Now, I know that boundaries are a kindness. To myself, and to the people I love. Because when I say yes out of guilt or fear, I show up halfway—resentful, exhausted, detached. That doesn’t serve anyone.
So now I ask: “Do I have the emotional energy for this?” Not “Will they be mad if I say no?” That shift has changed everything.
5. Talk to someone. Say it out loud.
There’s a version of me that tries to do it all alone. Keep the smile on. Be strong. Push through.
But I’ve learned that isolation is a trick. It feels safer, but it keeps me stuck.
When I’m spiraling, I call my mom. Or I text a friend and just say, “Hey. Today’s heavy.” Sometimes I don’t even need a response—I just need someone to know I’m not okay.
You don’t have to give people the whole story. Just let someone in. Even a crack. Even a sentence.
6. Move your body. Gently. Kindly.
I’m not talking about going full Peloton. Just… move.
Sometimes that looks like a slow walk around the block. Sometimes I dance barefoot in the kitchen while I’m microwaving leftovers. Sometimes I do some half-hearted stretches on the living room floor with my son rolling his eyes at me.
The movement isn’t about changing your body—it’s about waking it up. Reminding yourself that you live here. That you’re not just a head full of stress.
7. Step away from the noise.
When I’m overwhelmed, I doom-scroll. I check my email five times in a row. I consume things that confirm my anxiety instead of soothing it.
So I’ve started asking: What do I need less of right now? Not more advice. Not more productivity hacks. Usually, it’s less input.
Put the phone down. Turn off the news. Give your brain a minute to just… be.
The world will still be there when you come back. But you’ll be able to face it more clearly.
8. Find five minutes of quiet.
Even if you live in a noisy house. Even if your brain never stops talking. Even if quiet feels scary.
Sit in the car. Go in the bathroom and lock the door. Sit outside and watch the wind move through the trees.
You don’t need a meditation app or incense or a spiritual epiphany. Just give yourself five minutes to exist without having to perform, explain, or do.
I call it my “reset minute.” Sometimes it stretches to ten. Sometimes it’s just one breath. But it helps.
9. Get some sleep, or at least rest.
I’ve stayed up scrolling until 2 am, thinking I’m “unwinding,” when really I’m just prolonging my exhaustion.
Sleep is foundational. But if real sleep is hard to come by (and sometimes it is), even rest counts. Lie down and close your eyes. Let your body be still, even if your mind isn’t.
Fatigue makes everything feel heavier than it is. When I’m rested, problems shrink. Or at least I’m strong enough to hold them.
10. Ask for help. Real, honest help.
Not the kind where you apologize 47 times before asking. Not the kind where you pretend it’s “no big deal.” I mean real help, the kind that feels vulnerable to ask for.
Sometimes that means calling a friend and saying, “Can you come over and sit with me?”
Sometimes it means reaching out to a therapist.
Sometimes it’s asking your partner to handle bedtime so you can cry in peace.
Asking doesn’t make you weak. It makes you brave. It makes you honest. It makes you human.
Final Thoughts
You don’t have to do all of these things today. You don’t even have to do most of them.
Pick one. Start there.
If all you did today was breathe, that’s something. If all you did was cry in the shower and then put on clean clothes, that’s something.
There’s no prize for pushing through pain in silence. But there is healing in noticing, in naming, in gently choosing yourself, again and again and again.
Life will feel overwhelming sometimes. That’s not failure. That’s just part of being alive.
But so is hope.
So is healing.
So is tomorrow.
You’re not alone.