How Trauma Makes Your Productivity Come in BURSTS

"Productivity crash" is a phrase I coined to describe a recurring pattern I witness frequently: people who survived childhood trauma can achieve extraordinary feats—performing almost superhumanly, finishing something huge, or stepping in during a crisis—and then afterward feel completely drained, as if their power source has been pulled. I’m revisiting one of my most-watched videos to explain why productivity surges and then collapses for trauma survivors, and what you can do to get off that up-and-down ride so you can function steadily day to day. If you carry childhood trauma, you probably experience periods when getting things done or following through on projects feels difficult. Even while you’re actively treating PTSD from the past, trauma-driven patterns can surface unexpectedly, making you vulnerable and fragile. One day you feel focused, energized, driven—you’re productive and motivated—then suddenly you decide to stretch yourself, to take on something new or expose yourself in a different way, and—boom—you crash. This ebb-and-flow is very common among trauma survivors; it’s cyclical, like riding waves. Have you noticed yourself riding high for a while, then withdrawing? This isn’t the same as clinical depression; it’s more like retreating into a shell. It can be damaging, even sabotaging, to your chances of success. People rarely talk about it, but I’ve seen it repeatedly and lived it myself. The good news is it’s treatable. Here’s how a crash typically presents: complex PTSD often brings nervous-system dysregulation that can flare when you’re stressed or even for no clear reason. When you’re dysregulated, concentration becomes difficult, time slips away, and you feel hypersensitive—sometimes overreacting to criticism or exclusion. Those subtle shifts in neurological functioning occur many times across your day, which makes a conventional eight-hour workday feel unnatural, like trying to force a square peg into a round hole. I’ve observed that many people with traumatic histories work in irregular bursts: intense sprints followed by long quiet stretches. When you’re in a flow state you might sustain focus for hours or even days, a deeply satisfying state I’ll call “humming along.” But often, after a big achievement that gave you a confidence boost, you’ll collapse. Crashes aren’t always dramatic, but they’re powerful: an internal force seems to pull you back to a place that feels “safe,” even if the outcome is self-sabotage. You might land a promotion and then feel undeserving, or lose weight then regain it, or get a windfall and squander it—CPTSD can feel unbearable when you rise to a new level. Crashes may simply look like sleepiness, mental fog, irritability, resistance, or a sudden lack of desire to be productive. In the moment it can feel like a conscious choice: “I really don’t want to do anything right now.” Often you’ll still show up to routine obligations—work, meetings—but you’re hiding your retreat. It’s much easier to conceal inertia when you’re not trying to create something big. If you are attempting major projects and you crash, progress stalls: projects drag on longer than expected, fail to gain momentum, or never actually get started. Everyone recognizes that experience—the lift-off never happens. Because this pattern repeats, months or years later, after a period of forward motion, you may try again and trigger the same crash. Both dramatic and subtle crashes can destroy the things that are meaningful and real in your life. I experienced this myself after my first book and my first film. Both did surprisingly well for a first attempt; I received encouragement to continue in writing and filmmaking. But both involved hard work, vulnerability, public exposure, and some criticism. After the film premiered—everyone involved and their families attended, we had a celebration, it even won an award—I felt elated. I had made that film on the side while working a full-time job as an administrative assistant at a hospital. Yet a woman friend who had appeared as an extra said something unexpectedly cruel: she claimed everyone had a terrible time because of me, called me awful, and I absorbed her words as truth. I felt humiliated and ashamed. That night I phoned every person who’d participated; they reassured me it had been fun and that they enjoyed it, but the damage was done. I retreated. Instead of building on what I learned and making another film, I retreated to my admin job and defaulted to watching TV for years. The same thing happened with my book: it was well received and brought speaking invitations, radio appearances, and requests to write columns. But a boss at my day job said the head of the organization had deemed my writing a conflict of interest and warned I would be fired if I continued. My boss hinted that, if it were up to him, he’d support me, but the boss’s boss allegedly forbade it. I stopped writing. Two years later, at a conference, I approached the president of the national organization who supposedly had said I must stop writing. She had been supportive; when I asked about it she looked baffled and said she would never have said such a thing—that they loved my book and encouraged my work. For a moment I couldn’t process it: someone I trusted had effectively sabotaged me. Did I confront that boss? Did I demand an explanation? No. I said nothing and maintained the status quo. I crashed. I stayed in that job and didn’t write again for 18 years, until I finally began the Crappy Childhood Fairy blog. Looking back, I regret tolerating that sabotage. Working under him for ten years was a dead end; I wish I had left sooner. But I froze, internalized the shame, and life events like having children and other obligations kept me from returning to writing. That fear—seemingly small but profound—can suppress your potential so thoroughly that you never step into the person you were meant to be. Once I launched Crappy Childhood Fairy, things changed. At first writing was clumsy and infrequent—maybe a post a month; sometimes three months would pass. I was rusty and struggled to get words down, doing it alongside another job. But movement matters: once you start, momentum builds and something inside loosens. Over the years I’ve used daily practice to excavate the authentic self from underneath the fearful and resentful thoughts that had kept me stuck, including the belief that I had to obey someone who told me, “If you write, you’ll lose your job.” I followed my calling; I recommend you do the same, because that’s where real happiness lies—doing what you’re designed to do. But fear and resentment, whether born of external circumstances or internal voices, block sustained effort. A crash is simply the inability to sustain the trajectory toward your true path. Until you make your pursuit sustainable—until you can consistently show up—you’ll experience frustration and low-level depression whenever you think about what you’re not doing. You’ll face the indignity of being judged for following a job or path that wasn’t right for you. Often you accept that wrong path because you’re so accustomed to crashing that you cannot imagine risking the one you truly want. So how do you get back onto your path and make it sustainable? I learned to modulate my crashes—to make them smaller and less destructive. If you experience intermittent drops in functioning to a degree that diminishes your life quality, freedom, and confidence, you can change that pattern. Crashing shares features with many CPTSD phenomena: it resembles neurobiological dysregulation; it can be triggered subtly; it distorts perception, making you vulnerable to discouragement and criticism; it often produces a physical state—restlessness or lethargy; and it typically includes a harsh internal attack on yourself. When you fail to recognize that the crash is a brain state, self-blame exacerbates it. Sometimes it will feel like someone else ruined your focus—“so-and-so upset me and now I can’t concentrate”—but notice that even apologies from others don’t fix a crash. The crash is already underway because it’s generated inside: it’s about the brain state you’re carrying. This dysregulation is common, especially after childhood trauma: while everyone can get dysregulated, trauma makes recovery from those dips harder and longer. Once activated, the crash colors your thoughts: efforts seem pointless, your talent feels worthless, and catastrophic judgments flood your mind—nobody will read your book, watch your film, like your meal, or want to be with you. When you recognize that you are in such a brain state—a normal reaction to stress, criticism, or challenge—you can stop torturing yourself. Self-reproach only deepens the slump. Treat the crash as a condition to be tended and get to work supporting your brain: change course briefly, shore up your reserves, and rebuild your capacity to return to work. Practical steps help. Our brains crave routines; they soothe us, especially when trauma has made life feel chaotic. Sticking to routines can be tough, but persistence matters. Consistency matters because extreme emotional volatility or irregular schedules drain your energy and increase crash risk. Do you go long stretches without proper food? Do you stay up all night then sleep all day? Those irregularities invite crashes. Temper outbursts, people-pleasing, rushed relationships, or chaotic schedules all disrupt the gentle rhythms your nervous system prefers, setting you up for collapse. You don’t need to be bland or live like a puritan—novel experiences are healthy—but overall keep life within boundaries that don’t deplete you. When you are emotionally or physically exhausted, the mind plays tricks and pushes you toward self-sabotage. If a new challenge arrives while your reserves are full, you’re able to face it; if you’re already drained, you’ll seek an excuse to withdrawal—you’ll call in sick, sink into resentment, feel hopeless, lash out, or disappear. Avoid enormous swings; aim for a steady path. Think of CPTSD like a chronic condition such as diabetes: you have it, yes, but with consistent care and a lifestyle that supports you, you can manage it and sometimes reverse its worst effects. Diabetics take insulin; similarly, you might need habits and tools that maintain balance and resilience so you can tolerate risks, criticism, small embarrassments, and periods of intense effort. Keep yourself regulated with solid sleep, nutritious food, and the support of friends—don’t try to do it alone; isolation rarely helps. You can learn to calm the triggers that spark crashes by becoming aware of and discharging the fear and resentment that cloud your thought processes during a slump. If that negative, endlessly circling self-talk shows up, I strongly recommend trying the daily practice techniques I teach. There’s a free course linked in the description under my videos, on the free tools page among other resources; that course is the standout resource—a real gem and, in my experience, the single most useful thing in my program. It’s a practical way to cultivate inner calm and steadiness that help keep your brain and emotions a little more even and attentive each day. You’ll find that support there. See you very soon. [Music]