When You Feel Like You Can’t Breathe

There’s a moment many of us know too well.

You’re already carrying so much, balancing responsibilities, navigating emotions, supporting a loved one’s recovery, and trying to keep the everyday demands of life in order. The calendar is full. The phone won’t stop ringing. Your mind is pulled in every direction. Then, just when you think you’ve got it handled, something else drops. Unexpected. Heavy. One more thing.

And suddenly, you feel like you can’t breathe.

Not physically, but as if the weight of everything presses down on your chest like a heavy blanket you can’t push off. You catch yourself holding your breath, your heart races, and your mind scrambles to figure out how you’ll manage this new burden. For a moment, it feels like there’s no air left to take in. No space to think or feel.

I remember one of those moments clearly.

I was on one of those long drives to treatment, the kind of drive you never imagine you’ll be taking when you’re young and planning your future. In the days before, I was busy handling everything that needed to be done. Making calls, coordinating care, managing logistics, all while doing my best to keep my emotions locked away. Feeling too much wasn’t an option. There was too much to be done, and I had to keep moving.

But then, in the quiet hum of the car, I overheard a conversation beside me. My loved one was calmly explaining the situation to someone on the phone, matter-of-factly, almost casually. And something about hearing it out loud, so differently from how it felt inside me, triggered something I hadn’t expected. My chest tightened. My breath caught. In that moment, I truly felt like I couldn’t breathe.

It wasn’t just that one phone call or sentence. It was everything surrounding it. The constant managing. The emotions held back so tightly I could keep going. The pressure quietly building until it spilled over.

Now, when I hit those moments, I try to take a moment to pause. To simply say to myself: This is a lot. And it’s okay to feel it.

Sometimes, if my husband is nearby when the pressure spills over, I snap. Not because of anything he’s done, but because the weight has to release somewhere. The frustration and overwhelm find their way out, often in a sharp word or tone I don’t mean. Almost immediately afterward, guilt sets in. The guilt deepens the pressure, the fatigue, the fear. I apologize quickly, knowing he’s carrying so much too. We both are. We both understand we’re doing our best in an impossible situation nobody prepared us for.

That guilt is a tough part of this cycle, the way it circles back and makes everything heavier. But I’m learning to be kinder to myself in those moments. To see that snapping isn’t failure, but a sign I’m stretched too thin. And the apology is my way of reconnecting and trying again.

If you find yourself in that space, holding everything together until you suddenly feel like you can’t breathe, know this: you are not failing. You are human. You are loving. You show up every day, doing your best through things you never thought you’d face.

I don’t have all the answers. Some days are harder than others. But here’s what I’m learning: when the weight feels too heavy, feeling overwhelmed isn’t a character flaw. It’s proof you care deeply. Take a few deep breaths, even when they feel shallow. Remind yourself that tomorrow might be lighter. And hold onto this truth: as long as we keep breathing and keep showing up, we’re finding our way through it together.