There are days when routines feel like a luxury meant for someone else. Days when brushing your teeth feels like a negotiation and the thought of making breakfast is loud enough to make you want to crawl back into bed. When you live with depression, anxiety, trauma, or any mental illness that makes daily functioning unpredictable, you quickly learn that routines built for “high-functioning” people don’t fit a body and mind that wake up already exhausted. Everyone loves to talk about optimizing performance, building discipline, and staying consistent. But what about the days when you’re simply trying to stay alive?
Traditional routines assume capacity. Mine fluctuates. Maybe yours does too. So I designed something different — a Bare Minimum Routine that is flexible, forgiving, and built for survival. Bare minimum does not mean you’re lazy or unmotivated. It means you choose the smallest actions that keep your body fed, hydrated, and as comfortable as possible — the core maintenance required to keep going. On my hardest mornings, my bare minimum is to drink water, take my medication, brush my teeth if I can, feed myself something simple, and change into clean-ish clothes. That is enough. Because my goal isn’t to impress anyone — my goal is to remain here.
Over time, I’ve learned to think of routines as a three-level system that adjusts based on how I feel each day. On no-capacity days, the bare minimum is all I do — and I rest without apology. On low-capacity days, I may add a tiny supportive action, like wiping one counter or stepping outside for a moment of air. And on high-capacity days, I’ll use the energy while it’s present, maybe by cooking a meal or cleaning more of the space around me — but I don’t expect that version of myself to show up again tomorrow. This is how I avoid the trap of all-or-nothing thinking. If the bare minimum is all I can manage, that’s still success. That’s still care.
Routines, especially for those of us living with mental illness, should never feel like punishment or pressure. They should feel like support — a soft hand on the back instead of a shove. A routine is not proof of worth or wellness. It’s simply scaffolding that helps you remain upright. We’re not trying to be perfect. We’re trying to stay. And staying takes strength that deserves recognition.
Sometimes, after doing my bare minimum, I find I have just a little more to give. Not more productivity — just more care. On those days, I ask myself, “What is one tiny thing I can do that will make tomorrow gentler?” Maybe it’s setting out my outfit, clearing a small surface, loading a few dishes, or taking the trash partway to where it needs to go. These tiny acts are not about doing more; they’re about lightening the weight on my future self. Small things have a way of making life feel less sharp.
If you’re reading this and feeling the familiar heaviness, I want you to know that you don’t have to justify your exhaustion. You don’t have to earn the right to rest. Healing is slow. It is repetitive. It is often invisible. You are allowed to care for yourself imperfectly. You are allowed to take breaks. You are allowed to exist without constantly proving you deserve to.
🎬 Want to try this with me?
Choose your own bare minimum routine for tomorrow morning. Just three tiny things that help you stay rooted in your body and in this world. When you’ve done them — even if they’re as small as drinking water or changing your shirt — come back and tell me: “I did my bare minimum.” I will celebrate you for it. Because showing up for yourself, even just a little, is resistance. It is growth. It is proof you are still here.
One breath, one moment, one small act of care at a time — that’s how we build a life that can hold us.
Growing Beyond Limits 
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