Things That Help (Right Now)

Some days, I don’t need a breakthrough.
I don’t need clarity, closure, or a five-step plan toward healing.
I need things that help right now—small, imperfect anchors that keep me tethered to the present moment.

For a long time, though, I didn’t believe in small anchors. I was searching for a magic bullet—the one realization, diagnosis, treatment, or turning point that would finally fix everything. I kept waiting for the moment when it would all click into place and I’d be released from the ongoing work of surviving.

At the same time, I was dealing with a severe case of what I think of as terminal uniqueness. I was convinced that what I was carrying was too big, too layered, too bad to be helped by the things people kept suggesting over and over again. Tea. Rest. Writing. Grounding. Connection. Those things might work for other people, I thought—but not for this. Not for me.

So I dismissed them. Or I tried them half-heartedly, already sure they would fail. They felt cliché, inadequate, almost insulting in the face of the scale of what I was living with.

And then—less out of hope than exhaustion—I gave in. I said, fuck it. I stopped waiting for the perfect solution and started trying the small, ordinary things people kept naming.

And you know what?
Some of them helped.

Not all. Not consistently. Not in a way that fixed everything or made the pain disappear. But enough. Enough to soften the edges. Enough to get me through certain hours, certain days.

That’s when I realized I don’t actually need a cure in order to live. I need support. I need moments of relief. I need things that help a little. And a little, repeated over time, can be the difference between drowning and staying.

Right now, what helps is:

Warm drinks

Tea, usually. Something warm enough to remind my body it’s safe, even if my mind hasn’t caught up yet. I hold the mug longer than necessary, letting the heat sink into my palms. It’s a small ritual, but it tells my nervous system: we’re here.

Low-stakes comfort

A show I’ve already seen. A familiar book I don’t have to finish. Music that doesn’t demand my attention, only my presence. Comfort doesn’t have to be earned. It doesn’t have to be productive.

Letting the day be smaller

Not asking myself to carry the whole future. Just this hour. Just this breath. Sometimes I shrink my world down to the size of the room I’m in, and that makes it survivable.

Writing without intention

Not to process. Not to make meaning. Just to get things out of my head and onto the page. Messy lists. Half-formed sentences. Fragments that don’t resolve. I let myself write badly and call it care.

Sensory grounding

Soft clothes. Dim lighting. Feet on the floor. Naming what I can see, touch, hear. These are not glamorous practices, but they work. They bring me back into my body when my thoughts try to pull me away.

Permission to rest without explaining

Rest that doesn’t come with justification. Rest that isn’t framed as “recharging” for something else. Just rest. Because I’m tired. Because I exist.

One honest connection

A text that doesn’t require optimism. A friend who doesn’t rush me toward hope. Sometimes it’s enough to say, I’m still here, and have someone reply, I see you.

Remembering that this moment is not the whole story

Not in a “things will get better” way. Just in the sense that this feeling—however real—does not get to claim eternity.

These things don’t fix everything.
They don’t erase grief or trauma or exhaustion.
They don’t make me “better” in the way recovery narratives promise.

But they help me stay. And right now, staying is the work.

If you’re reading this and wondering what helps you right now: it doesn’t have to be impressive. It doesn’t have to be original. It doesn’t have to work every time. It just has to help a little.

And sometimes, a little is enough.