You’ve been sharing daily wisdom in your Instagram stories, giving people permission to feel and just be. In one post you say, “Today it is OK to be limited.” Tell us about that.

You mean when I’m lightly crying and sitting in my pajamas?

Especially when you’ve drunk too deeply from the wells of invincibility, you get in a time like this, and I think we feel confused. Like it’s 8 a.m., why am I still tired?

There was a rhythm I got into with cancer that has served me well right now. Every day sort of has an arc to it. There’s a limited amount that you’re going to be able to face as you stare into the abyss. Being able over the course of the day to track your own resources will help you know how to spend them.

There’s just a minute where you know, OK, I’m starting to hit the wall. Time to turn the boat around. There’s only so much we can do, and in the face of unlimited need we have to not just wildly oscillate between sort of intense action and then narcolepsy.

How do we now feel the day and allow ourselves to be human inside of it? I think that’s really tricky work.

You’ve said people who live with a lot of fear have taught you to have two routines: daytime and nighttime. What are they?

Daytime: My eyes open. There is a 6-year-old boy in pajamas. I feed him cereal, then we snuggle. Then I decide there’s only a couple things I can do in the day. Then I launch myself toward them. Then I get overwhelmed midway through the afternoon. You just take a minute. You see who’s left to care about. Then at some point you’ll realize that you’re about to hit the wall.

Nighttime: What’s most important, at least in my little routine, is you pick a time and then you call it. So like 7 p.m., no more new information. No more starting sentences with, “Did you hear about the … ” And then start this sort of gentleness. I have positive music and cheese ball movies and more snuggles, and then go to bed earlier than it seems socially acceptable. Because if you violate that rule, then you’ll break the next day.