It started with a rule: don’t step on the spiders—because if you did, they’d multiply. I didn’t know what that meant until someone did; they were suddenly everywhere. Crawling. Swarming. Growing.
And then came one the size of a horse.
We all had to freeze. One wrong move and it might turn on us. We didn’t speak. We barely breathed. We just stood there—stuck in place, praying that silence would save us.
When I woke up, I couldn’t shake it. And then it hit me:
The spider is my job.
I show up to work every day even though I hate it.
Not because I want to. Not because it brings me joy.
But because I have to—or at least that’s what my trauma tells me.
When I was a child, I lived in an abandoned building. No electricity. No heat. No food unless we found it. That kind of survival leaves a mark. And even now, as a grown woman with a husband, a home, and children—I can’t shake the fear that if I stop working, everything will collapse.
One of us had to make the sacrifice—and at first, I didn’t think it would be me.
It made more sense for my husband to be the stay-at-home parent, but when we started exploring daycare for our son, it sent me into a depression I can’t even fully explain. My soul couldn’t bear the thought of his young, vulnerable mind spending so much time with strangers—being shaped and filled with things I had no control over.
So I went to work.
And kept going.
Even when it started costing me parts of myself.
I’ve gone back in a different way—back into survival mode.
At work, I freeze.
I minimize how drained I am. I downplay how much I hate it. I smile. I nod. I perform. I try not to “step on the spider” because I’m afraid if I speak up if I stop if I demand more—things will get worse.
Just like the dream said: don’t squash the spider or it will multiply.
And so, I freeze. Because freezing feels safer than confronting it.
Because fleeing feels irresponsible.
Because fighting feels impossible.
But in the freezing, I disappear.
By the time I come home, I have nothing left.
Not for my toddler who wants to play.
Not for my husband who wants to connect.
Not even for the baby growing inside me—who deserves a mother who is rested, nurtured, and whole.
This isn’t just fatigue.
This is the slow erosion of my soul under the weight of responsibility.
This is me surviving instead of living.
The spider showed me what I hadn’t wanted to admit.
That this isn’t sustainable.
That I am doing too much.
That I am running on empty and calling it strength.
And maybe—just maybe—God is using my dreams to speak what I’ve been too afraid to say:
“You don’t live in that abandoned building anymore. You don’t have to keep carrying the fear like it’s your lifeline.”
Maybe the spider isn’t the enemy. Maybe it’s the messenger.
Maybe it’s showing me what I need to let go of.
What I need to face.
What I need to heal.
Because I don’t want to keep freezing my life out of fear.
I don’t want to keep giving the best of myself to survival.
I want my children to know a mother who is present, not just functional.
I want my husband to feel partnership, not just exhaustion.
I want this baby to grow inside a woman who believes she is safe enough to rest.
I’m still figuring out what that looks like.
It may mean letting go of what no longer serves me.
It may mean trusting that provision doesn’t have to come through suffering.
It may mean believing that I can be held by God, even if I loosen my grip.
But what I know for sure is this:
I’m done letting the fear of multiplication keep me from living.
I’m done freezing to survive.
Because the truth is—I’m already free.
✨ Reflection Prompt:
What are you not confronting because you’re afraid it will multiply?
What spider are you freezing in front of?
And what would it mean to believe you could survive—and thrive—without carrying it all alone?
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
— Matthew 11:28 (NIV)
🙏🏾 A Prayer for the One Still Carrying It All:
God,
You see the weight I’ve been carrying—
the fears I’ve buried,
the freeze I’ve been living in,
the exhaustion I’ve been masking with strength.
You know what I’ve survived.
You know what I’m afraid of.
But You also know who I am becoming.
Help me believe I’m allowed to rest.
Help me trust that I’m safe now.
Teach me to surrender survival and receive Your peace.
Unclench my grip.
Quiet my panic.
And remind me that freedom doesn’t come through pushing—it comes through presence.
Amen.