If sliving means slaying and living, then I’m currently flopping and existing.
What does sliving even mean? With all the Erewhon smoothie sipping, Alo Yoga strutting, 5AM hiking, adaptogen-chugging influencers flooding our feeds, we’re being sold the fantasy of peak human functioning. I doubt half of them even wake up before noon, let alone go on sunrise hikes.
What happened to normalizing wearing the same outfit for three days straight, eating instant ramen at midnight, and being too emotionally fried to answer texts for a week? Do we all have to be clean girls now? Because let me tell you, the ‘clean girl’ aesthetic isn’t just about a slicked-back bun and glowy skin anymore: it’s about being flawless in every way. Mentally, physically, emotionally. It’s giving Black Swan, not balance.
Here’s the truth: sometimes, we’re not sliving. We’re barely surviving.
And I’m not talking about the romantic kind of surviving. Not the softly-lit kind with affirmations taped to your mirror and a matcha in hand. I’m talking about the messy, non-aesthetic, can’t-remember-the-last-time-you-felt-like-a-human kind. Where time blurs, not because you’re busy, but because you’re numb. Tasks pile up like laundry in your brain. Stillness doesn’t bring peace, it brings the deafening echo of everything you’re avoiding.
I had a week recently — maybe a month, maybe more — where I felt like I was disappearing in real time. I’d wake up and already feel behind. I’d sit at my desk and just stare. I couldn’t read messages because even words felt too loud. I stopped checking my to-do lists because they felt like proof that I was failing at life. The guilt built up quietly, like dust in corners. And the worst part? No one knew. I still posted. I still smiled. I still ‘functioned.’ But inside, I was collapsing under the weight of my own expectations. There’s a specific kind of loneliness in knowing that you’re not okay, but you look ‘okay’ enough that no one asks.
It’s not even the big breakdowns that hurt the most — it’s the silent unraveling. The invisible heaviness. When you cancel plans not because you’re lazy, but because the idea of being perceived feels unbearable. When you walk past a mirror and don’t recognize yourself, not because you look different, but because you feel like a stranger in your own skin. It’s brushing your teeth while holding back tears, or standing in the shower longer than needed because it’s the only place you’re allowed to pause without explanation. That’s what surviving looks like. It’s not glamorous. It’s not poetic. But it’s real.
Some days, surviving means snoozing your alarm until it’s suddenly 6PM.
Some days, it’s mentally prepping for a ‘hot girl walk,’ then losing the argument with your legs for three hours straight.
Some nights, it’s rewatching your comfort show for the 18th time because it’s the only thing that asks nothing of you.
We don’t talk enough about the quiet, unphotogenic side of survival.
The side that doesn’t make it to Instagram stories.
The one where your biggest win of the day is replying to an email without spiraling, or remembering to charge your phone before it dies.
We’ve been force-fed this toxic productivity smoothie:
- Wake up at 5AM.
- Meditate.
- Journal.
- Drink something green.
- Walk 10K steps minimum.
- Build a dream career.
- Have glass skin.
- Keep a minimalist apartment.
- Answer every message.
- Be spiritually aligned and sexy.
All without breaking a sweat.
But life isn’t always a Pinterest board. Sometimes it’s just barely getting through the day with half-washed hair and a half-charged soul. And honestly? That counts.
Maybe we need a new kind of club — not a mastermind circle or a girlboss brunch, but a trauma dump therapy club, where we gather not to slive, but to survive. Together. No pressure. No filters. Just messy, exhausted, hilarious, deeply human survival.
Because while thriving may be trending, surviving is still valid. Still real. Still enough.
And some days, that’s all we can do. And that’s okay.
Sonya xx
