Living on Autopilot

I’ve been running on autopilot.

Not just this week, but since last month—since 9/11, when my husband had surgery. The very next day, my grandson was hospitalized, and life hasn’t slowed down since. No pause. No chance to catch my breath. Just wave after wave.

That’s what autopilot feels like. You don’t think, you just go. You cook, you clean, you call, you check in, you fix, you show up. You don’t stop to notice how heavy it is because you can’t afford to. Someone you love needs you more than you need rest.

I saw it in my son’s fiancée, the mother of my grandson. When he was in the hospital, I texted her and asked how she was doing. She said, “Honestly, I don’t even know how I’m functioning.”

And I told her, “I do. You’re on autopilot.”

I know it well. I remember when my son was younger and in the hospital for pneumonia. I called his dad—he lived three hours away—just to let him know. His response was, “I’m really tired… do you need me to come?”

At the time, I couldn’t even process it because all my energy was on my son’s healing. But once we got home and life slowed just a little, it hit me. Tired? Do I need you? I was the one who hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten, hadn’t stopped. I was moving on autopilot, and only when the crisis was over did I realize the toll it had taken.

And women—we do this often. Not that men don’t, but there’s something about motherhood, about being a woman, that conditions us to carry it all. We run on fumes. We sacrifice ourselves in the name of love.

This season, it’s been nonstop:

• Helping my son and his fiancée carry the weight of my grandson’s fragile health. That’s looked like offering financial support for food and gas while they were hours away at the hospital. Driving there to sit with them so they wouldn’t feel so alone. And when they finally got back home, cooking meals for two days so they didn’t have to worry about what to eat—so they could rest and focus on their son.

• Making sure my husband is cared for after his hip replacement and getting him to therapy.

• Managing my busiest season of work and travel.

• Planning events and dealing with hotel contracts.

• Keeping up the house, cooking, cleaning, laundry.

• Caring for my nephew, who lives with us—making sure he has what he needs for school, taking him back and forth, and picking him up after basketball practice, which often ends at different times depending on the day.

• And still trying to honor the commitments I’ve made to others—and to myself.

If I’m honest, the part that weighs on me most isn’t the logistics or the deadlines—it’s my grandson. His health. His little body still fighting. Because I know grief, and I’ve felt it close. Just last year, I lost my granddaughter, who was stillborn. That pain sneaks up on me when I least expect it, like waves that crash even when the sea looks calm. So when I sit in the hospital or get another phone call about rushing him back, I can feel that ache rising again.

And yet, in those moments, I hear God whisper: “Keep your eyes on Me. Don’t focus on the storm raging around you.”That reminder steadies me when everything else feels like it’s falling apart.

It’s so much that little things slip. The other day, I turned on the wrong burner trying to make tea and didn’t realize it until I smelled something burning. My calendar looks like a puzzle I built without instructions. My brain feels scattered.

But there’s been one saving grace: the moments I carve out for myself. At the hotel, when it’s just me. And at the gym. Four days a week, I take one hour that belongs only to me. No caregiving. No emails. Just me moving my body, clearing my head, letting God remind me that he’s still in control. That hour doesn’t fix everything, but it resets me enough to keep going.

Maybe for you, autopilot looks like racing from meeting to meeting without eating lunch.
Maybe it’s sitting in traffic, crying quietly but still driving the kids to practice.
Maybe it’s scrolling late at night because your brain won’t let you shut down.
Whatever form it takes—we’ve all been there.

But here’s the truth: autopilot will keep you moving, but it won’t keep you whole.

Jesus said, “Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28) Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is put it in park, breathe, and let God carry what we can’t.

So if you’re living on autopilot—take it off. Reset. Rest. Find space to breathe again.

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Note to Self:

• Autopilot is survival, not living.

• Rest is not selfish.

• Resetting keeps me whole.

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