The First 72 Hours

Standing on the ledge. This is the part nobody glamorizes. The first three days after something breaks and your old system stops working.

I’m writing this like a tutorial, but I’m not writing it like a textbook. I’m writing it the way it actually happens: messy, loud, and full of moments where your brain is trying to declare permanent verdicts while you’re just trying to stay upright.

Here’s the rule I live by in this window:

“Inventory before identity. Evidence before vibes. Small fires instead of grand rebuilds.”

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Hour 0: The floor drops out

When it hits, my mind wants to sprint straight into meaning-making. It wants to decide what this means about me. It wants to send the dramatic message, torch the bridge, rewrite the whole story in one night.

But I’ve learned something the hard way: Stop > Breath > Center yourself first

“Identity is a conclusion you earn later. Inventory is what you do first.”

So Phase 1 isn’t “fix my life.” Phase 1 is: stop the bleed.

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0–6 hours: Stop the bleeding (a.k.a. don’t make it worse)

This is where I do the boring stuff first, because the boring stuff keeps me alive and functional.

“In the first hours, your job is not ‘solve your life.’ Your job is: prevent new damage.”

What I do (in this exact order):

1) Body first (I treat basics like infrastructure)

• I drink water. Right now.
• I eat something real. Doesn’t have to be perfect. It has to exist.
• I take meds if they’re due.
• I get warm (shower, hoodie, blanket, hot drink).
• I set a sleep opportunity. Even messy sleep counts.

If you’re reading this while you’re in it: do the smallest version. One glass of water. One bite. One layer. That still counts.

2) I contain the blast radius

I cancel what’s non-essential. I pause optional spending. I stop inventing new projects to avoid the feeling.

I ask one question: What will cascade if I ignore it? (Housing, heat, utilities, transportation, meds, food, payroll issues if applicable.)

3) I write a one-sentence incident log

Not the whole story. Just the facts.

Template:

• What happened: __________________________
• When it changed: ________________________
• What got unstable: _______________________

4) I pick one “anchor ritual” so the day has a spine

Coffee + shower. Walk + music. Dishes + podcast. Something repeatable that tells my nervous system: “We’re still in the game.”

5) I enforce the 72-hour rule (no irreversible decisions)

No scorched-earth emails. No identity verdicts. No “burn it all down” moves.

I literally tell myself: Not deciding is a decision—for now.

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6–24 hours: Convert fog into facts (smoke alarm → clipboard)

This is where I stop arguing with my feelings and start collecting reality.

1) I do a minimum viable “Money Triage” scan

I write down what must stay alive first:

• housing / rent / mortgage
• heat / hydro
• food
• transportation access
• critical payments (the ones that create penalties or cascading damage)

Not the whole financial plan. Just: what cannot be allowed to fail first.

2) I start the Evidence Ledger (10 minutes)

Here’s the shift that changed everything for me:

“The Evidence Ledger is my practice of replacing vague self-condemnation with measurable facts.”

I set a timer for 10 minutes and list receipts. Not feelings. Receipts.

• calls I made
• bills I handled
• tasks I completed
• boundaries I held
• repairs I made

When I’m tempted to dismiss small wins, I use this line to shut that down:

“Ten minutes counts. One task counts. One application counts.”

3) I build an Asset Map (Inventory Before Identity)

I stop trying to define myself in abstract terms and I ask the question that actually helps:

“What do I still have that can carry weight?”

I write three lists:

• What’s left: skills I can demonstrate, proof-of-work, tools/access, documents/templates, routines that still function
• What’s missing: the gaps (reachability, updated resume/portfolio, structured support)
• What I rebuild first: one credibility artifact + one proof bundle + one small network repair action

This is where my brain starts coming back online, because it finally has something solid to hold.

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24–48 hours: Contact beats dread

This is the part I want to avoid, because uncertainty feels safer than the phone call that might confirm bad news.

But dread is expensive. So I do it anyway—contained, scripted, and clean.

1) I make the “must-contact” calls

• landlord/lender if relevant
• utilities if behind
• key suppliers if applicable
• anything time-sensitive that creates penalties or cascading harm

My rule: one topic, one question, one next step. No rambling. No emotional bleeding-out.

2) I send two “network repair” messages (short, no apology tour)

This is not me dumping the whole collapse story into someone’s lap. This is me reopening reachability.

Template:

“Hey — quick check-in. I’ve had a rough stretch and I’m rebuilding. No big story right now. Just wanted to reconnect and say hi.”

3) If I need help, I ask for it without chaos

I learned this the hard way: vague asks create guessing games, and guessing games create shame and resentment.

So I keep it contained:

“Every stable request I make now has five parts.”

• the specific task
• the time box
• the constraints (what I do not want)
• yes/no safety (permission to refuse)
• a clean close

Copy/paste ask:

“Could you help me with [specific thing] for [time]? I’m not looking for [what I don’t want]. Totally okay to say no.”

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48–72 hours: Build a runway (tiny, real, repeatable)

By day three, I’m not rebuilding the cathedral. I’m building the scaffolding.

1) I choose “winter rules” for the week

Less performance. More basics. More rest. One honest step forward.

2) I pick three priorities for the next 7 days

• one income move (application, outreach, portfolio update)
• one stability move (numbers, paperwork, appointment, maintenance)
• one body move (sleep, walk, food, meds)

3) I keep the Evidence Ledger running

Not because I’m trying to be inspirational. Because shame will rewrite reality if I let it.

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If I go numb: how I exit shutdown safely

Sometimes the first 72 hours don’t look like panic. Sometimes they look like nothing. Flat. Hollow. Disconnected.

“Numb isn’t the absence of feeling. It’s a state. A shutdown. A circuit breaker.”

When that happens, I stop treating it like a character flaw and I treat it like a capacity issue.

“Shutdown is a signal: ‘capacity is low.’ Not a prophecy: ‘nothing matters.’”

My shutdown exit (small, safe, body-first):

• Water + food + warmth (yes, again)
• 5–4–3–2–1 grounding (name what I see/feel/hear/etc.)
• One micro-move (shoes on, step outside, ten minutes walking, or one small chore)
• One “small fire” with a clean edge (one email, one form, one bill, one drawer)

The win condition is not “feel amazing.” The win condition is: I did one small thing and I’m back in motion.

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Quick Phase 1 checklist (print this in your brain)

• Safety + essentials: water, food, meds, heat, sleep opportunity
• Freeze the biggest fires: protect what will cascade
• No-big-decisions rule: nothing irreversible while escalated
• Inventory before identity: Asset Map (left / missing / rebuild first)
• Evidence Ledger: 5 receipts beats shame
• One contact + one contained ask: help without chaos
• If numb: body-first re-entry + one small fire

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Close

I’ll end the way I usually do:

One receipt: ____________________________

One next step: __________________________

One boundary sentence: ___________________

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Still on the ledge. Still watching. Still working the rubble.

Godspeed.

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Sources (for readers who want the deeper dives)

• The First 72 Hours After Collapse: What to Do and What Not to Do
• Inventory Before Identity: A Guide to Rebuilding Confidence
• Transforming Shame: The Evidence Ledger Approach
• Mastering the Art of Asking for Help Without Chaos
• Numb Isn’t Nothing: The Shutdown Phase, and How to Exit It Safely