Have you heard Jelly Roll’s new album Beautifully Broken? All I can say is WOW! His words are stunningly real. I can’t stop listening. Seriously, I’m obsessed. I’ve listened to his Joe Rogan podcast, played the album on repeat, and then discovered he’s headlining the Tortuga Festival in Fort Lauderdale alongside Keith Urban and Luke Combs. Naturally, I bought tickets immediately. Having something to look forward to has definitely helped my “I’m not okay” mindset.

His current hit, “I Am Not Okay,” goes like this:

I am not okay  

I’m barely getting by  

I’m losing track of days  

And losing sleep at night  

I am not okay  

I’m hanging on the rails  

So if I say I’m fine  

Just know I learned to hide it well  

I know, I can’t be the only one  

Who’s holding on for dear life  

But God knows, I know  

When it’s all said and done  

I’m not okay  

But it’s all gonna be alright  

It’s not okay  

But we’re all gonna be alright

~Jelly Roll

Lately, I’ve been living these lyrics. I am not okay. It’s been months, and I’m barely hanging on. Steve’s widowmaker heart attack threw us into a whirlwind, and my nervous system has been in full-on trauma mode ever since. PTSD is no joke, and it feels like everything I’ve spent decades working through in therapy has come crashing down on me all at once. Panic attacks, insomnia, overwhelming despair—life’s joy feels like it’s on the other side of a fog I can’t quite break through. I’ve been stuck in the muck.

The thing is, I’ve earned “expert” status in therapy after 20+ years of deep work, so I know how to get myself out of this pit. But for the first time, I’ve chosen to stay here. I’ve lit candles, made it clear where I am, and let my loved ones know I’m not going anywhere. I’ve granted myself permission to be sad, angry, and distraught over the hurdles that keep showing up in my life. This is the most grace I’ve ever given myself. Normally, I’m the type to fall down, dust myself off, and pretend everything is fine. But this time, I’m just too exhausted to get back up. My nervous system refuses to cooperate.

Then there’s the job situation. The company recently announced that starting in January, everyone has to return to the office, and the hoops I need to jump through to qualify for a waiver feel never-ending. My oncology appointments were due while Steve was in the hospital on life support, and I still haven’t rescheduled them. Now, I have to see my psychiatrist just to fill out disability forms proving my PTSD. 

Recently, I learned that a dear friend is also struggling, feeling overwhelmed by life’s challenges and health issues. As I thought about the words I wanted to share with her, I realized that what I want to say could be helpful to anyone going through their own version of life’s blows. So here’s my message to her—and to all of us who are trying to figure out what to do next:

My dear Lovey,

I know you’re suffering. I see your heartache, and I feel the pain you’re carrying. You are not okay—and that is okay. Set yourself up in a cozy little pit, maybe grab a snuggly blanket and some dark chocolate. Can I light a candle for you? Would you like me to climb down and sit with you? No? Not yet. That’s okay. I’ll be right here, and when you’re ready, I’ll climb down. We can just sit together. Cry together. I’ll give you the biggest hug. Maybe we can even move into adjoining pits—or upgrade to the pit suite (I hear it comes with unlimited pizza, Dr. Pepper, and Cookies n’ Cream ice cream). 

In those moments when you feel brave, open the door. Step outside. You don’t have to go far—just take off your shoes, feel the earth beneath your feet, and breathe. Scream at the heavens for all the injustice life has thrown your way. 

It’s okay to not be okay. Give yourself permission to wallow. Throw yourself an epic pity party. And know this: those of us living in Pitville will be celebrating your heartache right alongside you. Your true people won’t tell you to “just get over it” or “rub some dirt in it.” The bootstraps? They’ve long since snapped. Choose you. Choose healing. And give yourself the grace to recover from the invisible trauma that haunts your mind and body.

Once you’ve allowed yourself to honor the suffering; love, joy, and freedom will find their way back to you. It will be slow, and it will be painful, but it will be glorious. You’ll have to do the work—the kind that’s unique to you, tailored to your journey. Some days, you’ll be too exhausted to do anything but hide under the covers. Grace. Shower yourself in it. The sun will rise, and tomorrow will bring a new opportunity. People may struggle to understand why you can’t just bounce back. They may be disappointed. But when they ask, you simply point out: the safest way to survive a plane crash is to put on your own oxygen mask first.

My dear friend, we are promised nothing more than this moment. Honor what you need to survive it. And always remember Jelly Roll’s words:

When it’s all said and done, I’m not okay,  

But it’s all gonna be alright.  

It’s not okay,  

But we’re all gonna be alright.

I see you. I’m here. Rest, my love. I believe in you, and I know you’ll find your way.

All my love,  

Tracy Jo