“Neuroscience research shows that the only way we can change the way we feel is by becoming aware of our inner experience and learning to befriend what is going inside ourselves.” ~Bessel A. van der Kolk

It’s early morning, and I wake with an intense sensation of foreboding. I say wake up, but really, it’s just coming fully into consciousness, as I’ve been semi-conscious all night. Fitfully tossing and turning, a deep anxiety gnawing at my chest.

My mind has been flipping back and forth—across different subjects, even different times, collecting insurmountable evidence that my life is going terribly, and I’ll always feel like I’m just about hanging on by a thread.

I drag myself out of bed, exhausted as usual, meeting the day with an intense feeling of disappointment in myself. Why am I always bouncing between anxiety and panic? Why can’t I control myself so that I stop being fed a constant stream of fearful, self-blaming, intrusive thoughts?

Why can’t these terrible emotions just give me a break once in a while so I could complete some of the things that I’m so anxious about? Why is my life so riddled with overwhelm, and how on earth do I escape this?

That early morning six years ago was a scenario that had played out on repeat for decades. Different worries plagued me at twenty than at forty. But the texture of my mornings, the texture of my days, was the same. Except that by forty I was more tired—my body exhausted from being in this perpetual state of different flavors of fear. I’d had more than enough. Enough was twenty-five years ago.

I’d tried lots of different things—did different types of talk therapy, changed my diet, exercised, went on retreats, completed four different types of meditation training, read endless books, removed stressful-feeling friendships, moved several times, left the country… And while so many things gave me some good ideas, took the edge off things for a while, and at times felt really good, I would always return to the same baseline.

When I missed a meditation, left the retreat, or walked out of the therapy office, I would feel just as alone, just as vulnerable to the forces of the world to take me down into pits of dread and despair. A baseline that was sinking from the weight of so much overwhelm and a life lived in a state of panic.

I didn’t want to feel like this anymore. This wasn’t a life. This was living in glue and trying to battle my way through my days.

Over time, I had made my life smaller and smaller so that there were fewer things to be stressed and anxious about. I’d see fewer people who I found difficult. I made my work and home life simpler. But my worries expanded to fit however small I made my life.

I felt so lost, so alone in my struggles, like I was the only one feeling like this. No one else looked like they would panic if things didn’t go how they needed them to go.

One day by chance, while researching something online for work, I randomly happened upon a coach and decided to give her a try. Over the next few months of working with her, I noticed a small but significant shift in how I was feeling.

I felt a lot calmer; I woke up without punishing dread. I started sleeping better and felt less like I needed to carefully manage my life in order to cope.

I was hooked.

What had happened?

My coach explained to me about the survival states of fight, flight, freeze, and fawn—how I’d been bouncing around between freeze and fawn my whole life, and that’s why I felt so terrible.

Survival is a mode our nervous system goes into when there’s an actual physical threat on the horizon or there’s too much emotional pressure that we don’t know how to deal with.

Like emotions are flooding us, and our nervous system says, “No! We need to protect against this emotional flood.” So survival mode gets turned on.

Unfortunately, survival mode doesn’t feel good! It doesn’t help us live in a state where we are thriving, feeling calm, hopeful, productive, and like life is full of possibility.

Living in survival mode feels awful because it’s a state that we aren’t meant to live in for long stretches of time.

It’s a state we’re meant to access when there’s an actual threat to our survival, but because of how much emotional pressure so many of us carry, many of us are living there a lot of the time.

All emotions are natural and valid; we aren’t meant to disconnect from or suppress them. But when we do, emotional pressure builds.

Emotional pressure can come from an array of sources.

1. When we had experiences as children that brought up a lot of emotions but were left alone to deal with them, and it was too much for our child selves.

Experiences like our parents’ divorce, financial struggles, health issues, and alcoholism. Maybe we had an accident or witnessed abuse or experienced bullying or neglect.

2. Any times when we had natural human emotions like fear, shame, guilt, sadness, and anger but received no emotional support to help us process these emotions as children.

When we have families that don’t know how to process their own emotions, then they can’t support us in learning how to process ours.

When we’re left alone to face terror, that terror is never processed, and the memories of it linger in our body, keeping us trapped in cycles of experiencing it without the opportunity for it to release.

3. Or when our parents and families didn’t allow or tolerate our natural human emotions, like fear, sadness, grief, or anger.

So we had to suppress our feelings, to numb against them, or release the pressure from them in unhealthy ways. Lashing out at others or engaging in destructive behaviors.

When we had to be hyper aware of our parents’ emotions more than our own—instead of our parents being aware of our emotions—as is the case with so many people.

These experiences disconnect us from ourselves, our emotions, and our needs. And when we don’t have the opportunity to process emotions and emotionally activating experiences throughout our lives, the emotional pressure builds over the years until, often late into adulthood, it starts to feel way too much. 

What I needed—and what so many of us need—was to release the emotional pressure. To allow the emotions that had been building up to slowly and gently release through my body. And to feel safe to do so.

To show my nervous system how to move out of a state of needing to be in survival mode and into a state of safety.

To be able to feel emotions like fear, anger, sadness, and grief in a way that felt safe so that I wasn’t being pushed into a survival mode every time fear showed up. Or anger, sadness, or even joy.

So where do we start if we want to stop living in survival mode?

Know that it’s not who we are—it’s survival mode. 

For decades I felt, as many of my clients do when they first come to me—that my reactions of panic and overwhelm, of struggling with dread and resentment, of feeling so often on edge, were somehow something to do with my personality.

Oh, I am just a panicky person. 

I am just someone who is very safety conscious and anxious.

I am just someone who struggles to slow down and not be busy.

I am a control freak—it’s just who I am.

None of these things are personality traits. They are merely a reflection of a nervous system that has lived under too much emotional pressure for too long. It has survival mode on speed dial.

Understanding this can give us some space between us and the reaction or behavior we exhibit in survival mode, which can help us support ourselves more effectively.

Attune to ourselves and offer compassion.

When we’ve been encouraged to disconnect from our emotions, or we’ve had too many experiences in our lives that created significant emotional impact that have been dismissed or ignored, one of the first, most powerful steps is to start attuning to our own emotions and needs.

To know that every emotional reaction and survival response we have has a reason.

Many situations, people, and experiences created this emotional pressure that we’re still carrying. And if there is emotional pressure and pain still within us, it means there hasn’t been enough emotional healing.

Period.

The body does not lie.

Our emotions do not lie.

Our feelings of unease, unsafety, and sensitivity do not lie.

When we judge our reactions and our emotions, it feels like putting a stopper on the jar. It blocks our emotional healing.

Instead, when we can turn toward ourselves with kindness, understanding, compassion, and curiosity about why we feel how we do, this is an incredibly powerful first step in healing.

Coming out of long-term survival mode takes time. 

In my experience, there isn’t a quick fix for living through decades of survival in a body that’s been dysregulated by unhealed emotional pain from trauma. Taking a slow, gentle, but consistent approach is what has created the most profound, permanent, and expansive change for me and for my clients.

The nervous system loves baby steps. And when we think in terms of how long we have lived in this state, taking time to unravel and rewire our reactions over months or years—that’s as long as it took to create these responses, right?

Our nervous system has been pushing us into a protective state for a long time, so we want to acknowledge this push into survival and be gentle with ourselves as we emerge from it.

Survival mode is a protective response—it doesn’t feel good, but your nervous system thinks you need to be in this mode because of the emotional pressures from the past.

So we’re taking the long game here. The nervous system loves slow, gentle change.

I love what the teacher Deb Dana says, “We want to stretch our nervous system, not stress it.”

We can start by offering regular cues of safety to our nervous system. 

We can’t generally talk our way out of survival mode; we need to create the conditions for our nervous system to move out of it.

What the nervous system needs is to feel safe. That there isn’t an emergency or a threat to our survival on the horizon.

By regularly doing things that turn on the parasympathetic part of our nervous system, which is the ‘rest and digest’ part, we can start to feel calmer and more grounded. This is the first step in healing. It means that we aren’t always stuck in this urgent state.

Here are some simple ways we can start sending cues of safety to our nervous system so that we can turn down the dial of survival—that intense stress-overwhelm-hypervigilant state.

Physiological sigh

One of the simplest ways we can come out of survival or intense overwhelm is with this breath. Take a short, full inhale through the nose and then an extra inhale on top. And then a long, slow exhale. Often, doing this once or twice is enough, but you can do this for a couple of minutes to get to a deeper state of regulation and relaxation.

Orienting to safety 

When we are in survival mode, we get tunnel vision, and our minds loop on one subject. When we notice this tunnel vision or fixations, we can bring a cue of safety to our nervous system by expanding our vision.

We can start, very slowly, letting our eyes drift around our space, turning our necks and looking above us, below us, and behind us. Take a few minutes to take in all of the space we are in. Going very slowly (slowness is also a cue of safety for the nervous system). Looking out of the window, especially if we can see a horizon line. The nervous system finds the horizon very soothing, and looking toward our exit too.

This shows our nervous system there are no threats nearby.

Reconnecting to our body with a body scan

When we are in survival mode, we disconnect from our bodies. We may not realize this because we feel flooded with challenging, sometimes painful sensations. But when we ask ourselves, “Can I feel my feet? My fingers?” We see that we have disconnected from our body.

Survival can feel like a very ‘head’ only experience, as we get locked into the terrible/terrifying/looping intrusive thoughts that survival mode creates.

A simple body scan can help bring us into connection with our body and therefore into a sensation of safety. Gently going through our bodies, noticing each limb or section, wiggling or flexing the area if it feels numb, brings a strong cue of safety to the nervous system so that it can ‘turn off’ from survival mode.

These simple exercises can be a powerful beginning, creating a gentle shift, one step at a time, toward creating a safe anchor within our body in which to land.

Validating our emotions 

This is also an incredibly useful step in this work of healing our survival mode reactions. When we understand that, in fact, all emotions are valid, all emotions are natural, and all emotions are looking to express needs, we can start to change our perceptions of our emotional experiences.

Of course, we don’t want to throw our emotions at other people—shouting in anger or terrifying our kids because we feel scared. We want to take responsibility for our emotions—always.

But we need to know that what emotions are yearning for is to be seen, felt, and heard. They want space, and they want to be acknowledged.

Can we validate our emotions, offering them some compassion and understanding, instead of trying to push them away, suppress them, or argue with them?

It’s in this brave and courageous act of turning toward and accepting our emotions that we get the chance to allow them enough space to release through our bodies—so we stop keeping them suppressed inside.

Change—and rewiring our nervous system responses—is always possible.

What has been the most hopeful and encouraging thing on my journey to release myself from punishing anxiety and persistent survival mode is recognizing that it’s possible for us to reconnect to our natural state of self-healing.

Our nervous system is built to naturally release stress, overwhelm, and trauma. When we can bring safety to our bodies and start to powerfully attune to ourselves and our emotions, offering ourselves compassion and support, it’s possible to start reconnecting to that natural state. To rewire our patterns of overwhelm—from feeling on edge so often, quick to panic or anxiety to feeling calmer, grounded, and confident in ourselves.

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“The place of true healing is a fierce place. It’s a giant place. It’s a place of monstrous beauty and endless dark and glimmering light. And you have to work really, really, really hard to get there, but you can do it.” ~Cheryl Strayed

My memories of my sister are much hazier than they used to be—somehow less crisp and colorful than before. But time has a way of doing that. Images of her that used to show up in bold, bright colors in my mind’s eye have slowly faded to black and white, with various shades of gray and silver popping in from time to time, almost as if to keep me on my toes and keep her memory alive.

I can still remember her last days, the light slowly dimming from her eyes as she lay bound to her bed, no longer able to move or eat on her own, with feeding tubes in her nose and various devices surrounding her for those inevitable—and fear-gripped moments when she needed help breathing.

Like the rest of my family, I would take my turn staying in her room, checking on her to make sure she was still breathing. It was always the same routine. With anxiety creeping into my chest, I would place one hand on her belly to make sure it was still rising and falling while leaning in close to her nose, listening for the soft sound of her breath. A sigh of relief would pass through me every time I heard her gentle exhale.

The night she passed, I had just finished performing that very ritual, rising to leave only once I felt the repeated slow, steady rise and fall of her belly and the soft whisper of her strained breath on my face. I can still remember walking back into the family room and gratefully announcing, ”She’s okay.”

Maybe it was mother’s instinct, but only moments later my mother rushed back into my sister’s room. Her sense of urgency took me by surprise since I had just left the room and everything had been fine. I assumed she didn’t think I could be trusted and needed to see for herself.

It wasn’t long before I heard the sound of my mother’s screams through the thin walls of our small duplex. I knew right away what it meant—my sister had stopped breathing.

For a long time afterward, I blamed myself for not having been in the room when she took her last breath, and for leaving her alone in those last few seconds. If I had just stayed another minute, I could have been with her. Instead, I had left the room right as she had been getting ready to leave the world.

The months that followed were a blur of pain, confusion, and disbelief as I tried to make sense of a world without her in it. At ten years old, I was too young to understand how much my parents were hurting or how deeply my sister’s death affected them. I mistakenly thought their withdrawal and anger were because of something I had done. Maybe I was the one who had messed up—missed the signs that could have saved her night. Or maybe I was the one who they wished had died instead.

Those thoughts became the foundation for years of self-punishment after my sister’s death. I found myself struggling with feelings of self-hatred and inadequacy, which often showed up as eating disorders, self-harm, and feelings of unworthiness.

Survivor’s guilt and the belief that I was the “bad” daughter who didn’t deserve to live only added more shame and self-doubt that I couldn’t shake off. But as I got older, I learned to shut the pain—and the memories—out.

Soon, I stopped thinking about that night altogether. I convinced myself that I had moved past it, telling myself that time really does “heal all wounds.” I couldn’t have been more wrong.

It would take me decades to understand that time hadn’t actually healed anything. I had just pushed the memories so far down that they became buried under layers of guilt, shame, and unresolved grief, waiting to resurface when I was ready to face them.

The truth is, time doesn’t heal all wounds unless we do the work to heal them ourselves.

My own healing came in an unexpected way after years of trying to prove my worthiness through constant people-pleasing, overworking, over-committing, and deliberately taking on more challenging projects and activities, both personally and professionally, just to prove that I mattered and was deserving of my life. I still hadn’t forgiven myself for being the one that lived when a soul as beautiful, bright, and loving as my sister hadn’t.

I finally realize now that it wasn’t even the rest of the world I was trying to prove my worth to—it was myself. And if it hadn’t been for my dog Taz, I’m not sure if I would have ever come to that realization.

When I first rescued him, I was unknowingly bringing Taz into my life as yet another way of trying to prove I mattered. Having been severely abused and fresh off a major back surgery, he could barely walk when I first took him in.

His (understandable) anxiety had created severely destructive—and, at least initially—fear- and pain-based behavior that made him particularly challenging. I can still remember countless friends saying to me, “You know you can’t do this. What are you trying to prove? He’s too much for you.” But my self-punishment game was strong, and their words only pushed me to try harder.

For his entire first year with me, I would carry him around in his special harness like a suitcase, setting him down for short spurts so he could get the feeling of putting weight on his legs and paws and build enough strength to start walking.

In the beginning, he couldn’t understand that he had to lift his paws and set them down again to walk, so he would drag them instead, scraping his paws until they were raw and bloody within seconds and prompting me to pick him right back up and carry him again. (I can only imagine what others thought when they saw my 5’2 frame carrying a seventy-pound pitbull around like a duffel bag!)

That drill went on for months. Inside the house, I would bring him into the carpeted rooms and teach him how to place his paws—down on all fours and crawling along the floor with him as my other dog, Hope, did her part and pranced around showing him how she did it. Slowly, he started to understand. And even more slowly, he started to walk.

A year later, he was running, which turned into sprinting a few months after that. Another three years after that, he was (cautiously) able to go up and down stairs. And seven years after he came to me, just when it seemed that he was at his strongest yet, he was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer.

“He has hemangiosarcoma. The tumor is on his heart, and every pump is spreading it throughout his body. There’s nothing we can do. He has about ten days before his heart will stop pumping.”

What had started as an emergency visit for his stomach issues had turned into a death knell for Taz.

The thought of this being the end of his story, when he had already been through so much and finally made it to the other side, seemed unfathomable. In some ways, it was the biggest challenge I had faced yet, and I was determined to save him.

I didn’t sleep the night of his diagnosis. Or most of the nights after that. Instead, I found myself waking up almost every hour, gazing at him sleeping by my side, tears gathering in my eyes, and wondering how I could save him—and what else I needed to sacrifice to keep him by my side.

I initially failed to grasp that his illness was the beginning of my healing. And the darkness that would ensue was actually the beginning of the light that would start pouring into my childhood wounds.

As the pain eclipsed me in those dark, late-night moments, I didn’t even realize what I was doing at first. What started as just trying to soak in every moment with him had triggered the very ritual I had performed for so long as a child. Only this time, it wasn’t my sister I was watching over—it was Taz.

Every time I woke up and gazed at him throughout the night, I would place my hand on his belly to make sure it was still rising and falling and lean in close to see if I could hear him breathing.

Just like that, I had brought myself right back into the unresolved trauma loop that I had buried and ignored so long ago. When the realization hit me, I immediately felt transported back to that night decades ago—to that last moment with her, the last time my hand had been on her belly.

I understood then that I had never truly healed—I had only learned to suppress it. I also realized that the shame, blame, and guilt I had carried for so long had never really left me and were still huge parts of who I was and had been for decades after she died.

All the unshed tears, anger, and grief that I had never processed came pouring out. I wept for hours. And every time I thought I was out of tears, a new stream would surface.

That ritual lasted every night for thirty-four days. Courageous as ever, Taz had outlived the ten days he was given, and on the thirty-fourth day, my Tazzie Bear left me. Only this time I was in the room.

Somehow, we both knew the time had come, and as he lay his head in my lap one last time, gazing lovingly one more time into my eyes and proceeded to take his last breath, I felt his soul leave his body. And somehow, an unexpected sense of peace seemed to have entered mine.

That beautiful, amazing soul of his had taken my pain with him, and in the process, he had somehow broken the trauma loop I had unknowingly been caught in all those years.

His death had helped me heal years of pain I didn’t even know I was carrying. As I sat there, holding him in his final moments, I realized that his presence had been the biggest gift I had ever received.

For animal lovers, this next sentence will make perfect sense: Taz had been far more than my pet; he had come to me as a lifeline, guiding me into my next chapter of healing and self-discovery.

Because of him, I had officially started a new chapter of my life. One that was free from the debilitating shame, guilt, and pain I had carried for so long. And in that quiet moment, I understood that healing isn’t linear—it’s a journey, often led by the most unexpected teachers.

And I will forever be grateful that I was lucky enough to have him as one of my teachers.

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“Owning our story can be hard but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running from it.” ~Brené Brown

What is the exact point when you realize you are in a toxic relationship? For me, it was a process that took almost a year. I thought I was mindful and “awake.” I did have an internal dialogue with myself, but I had a thick layer of deception around me. Today, I call it a fog because I’m on the other side, and I see much more clearly.

Looking back, I see that my inner voice was guiding me, but I saw it as self-sabotage then because a part of me wanted to prove that I was right, that I was worthy, that I was a good and kind person who only wanted love and family. Unfortunately, the more I looked to get love from the outside world, the further I was from the source.

Today, I can confidently say that I can sense the difference between my intuition and the distracting voice of my ego, who wants to be right. Now I can finally hear what my inner guide is telling me. But it wasn’t always this way.

As a result of the separation from the toxic relationship, I lost everything. I had to give up my old lifestyle to save my soul. I had to let go of my home and all my belongings, escaping with just one bag of clothes and my laptop.

I lost money in a property settlement and had no car or place to live. I found a refuge in a women’s shelter with my eight-month-old baby and started my new life from a humble place. But I found something through all this—a connection to my inner voice, a connection that gave me the strength to accept the loss, own my story, and say goodbye to the old version of myself. And I’d like to share with you the process.

September 2021

Me: Wow, this is beautiful! I’ve always wanted to try new things. I can get used to this kind of life. I feel this thrill in my tummy. It’s fun, it’s exciting, it’s new! What is this? Love?

My inner self (very quietly): This is a carousel.

Me: Well, I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is fun. He already said he loves me. I told him it’s too early to say that; we barely know each other. So, I asked him why he’s in love with me. And do you know what he said? “Because you are you.” He gets me; finally, someone who loves me for who I truly am. No doubt, no proving. I’m so lucky.

My inner self (very quietly): Watch out—it’s too good to be true.

Me: I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m finally alive again. This is it. I think I’m in love with him too. He already wants to move in together and have a child. He chose me, and I’m so excited. So please stop being so negative and let me lead.

Six months quiet

Me: He’s what I wanted. He’s spiritual and he meditates. He looks after himself, and he’s so assertive and ambitious. He listens to me when I talk. But then when I ask for something, he says, “I think you should check your energy before you speak to me.” It’s really confusing. There are ups and downs, but I guess every relationship is like this… (very quietly): Isn’t it?

My inner self (very quietly): No.

Me: What do you know? You haven’t even had a healthy relationship before, so how would you know?

My inner self (lovingly): Neither have you, sweetheart.

Me: Well, to be honest, I feel like I can’t get a word in sometimes. It’s never a good time to mention things that are important to me, or he just dismisses the topic quickly, and I don’t know how to introduce it again.

I guess I just have to get better at communicating. Let’s do some courses for that. I always get this feeling in my stomach—massive pain, like a black hole, when I sense I’m losing him, and I fear that I’ll die not having him in my life. I can only calm down when I know things are good between us and when he hugs me again.

I’ll just lean in with more love and kindness, and I’ll figure it out. He’ll see how much I love him even though he’s stressed and doesn’t have time for me anymore. He’ll see that I’m here for him through good and bad, and then he’ll be here for me when I need it. I’m sure we just hit a rough patch, and all will be good again soon.

Actually, stop being so negative. I have everything I’ve always wanted. Now, with the baby on the way, we’ll make such a wonderful family, and I’ll see what a great father he’ll be and how much fun we’ll have.

Six months later

Me: It’s still kind of up and down, isn’t it? Some days things go well and we’re happy, but then comes a big fall. One day he says that I’m the best partner he’s ever had because all his exes are crazy. Other days, he comments really hurtfully on what I say or who my friends are. And it goes round and round.

My inner self (very quietly): Like on that wheel?

Me: What wheel? The Power and Control Wheel I saw? Nah, not like that. I wouldn’t do that to myself. I was already in an emotionally abusive relationship, and I wouldn’t be so stupid as to repeat it.

Things are fine. I just need to be nicer to him. It’s kind of my fault. It must be my hormones. It will pass after the birth. He’ll be with us at home, and we’ll restore the peace and calm. Easy. I feel so much love for him. I won’t ruin this relationship by being too sensitive. I’ve got this. I’ll do more visualizations and affirmations.

Three months later

Me: Hello, are you there? I’m so confused. I think I’m losing my mind.

My inner self (very quietly): I know, honey.

Me: What’s going on? My life is a mess. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know why I’m ruining everything all the time. I used to be fun, happy, and confident… Now all I feel is disoriented and dizzy.

My inner self: A bit like on a carousel?

Me: No, I’m not. I told you—he’s helping me. He’s the best. I want him. I don’t have anyone else. And I love him so much I can’t imagine my life without him. It’s impossible. He’s got all the money, he’s signed on the lease, the car is under his name, and I’m not even employed…

My inner self (patiently): Alright, honey. Go again. I’ll be here when you need me.

Two months later

Me: I don’t recognize my life or myself anymore. Everything is kind of fuzzy. I’ve had this headache for the last week or so. I can’t feel or think clearly; I can’t feel my body. I’m unwell.

My inner self: I know, my dear.

Me: What’s going on? Please help me, someone.

My inner self (very quietly): You are on a carousel.

Me: Why do you keep repeating that? I told you he’s helping. Well, sometimes. He’s just a bit stressed, but it’s also my fault because I’m not as much fun as I used to be. I don’t know why I feel so numb or why I can’t just laugh anymore.

He’s the only person left. I don’t see anyone else anymore. I’m scared to speak to anyone; no one would believe me anyway. My life is so extreme compared to last year, with court cases and police and debts and signing documents I don’t understand. What am I doing wrong? Why is this happening to me?

My inner self (barely loud enough to hear): Have you noticed the same things happening over and over?

Me: Yes. But I’d die not having him. Stop telling me he’s the problem when I know I’m the problem.

One month later

Me: Are you there?

My inner self: Of course.

Me: The same things are happening over and over again. I thought he was helping and that I was crying every night because I’m depressed and I have so much drama in my life, but I don’t bring up any of that. He always talks and talks until I feel like the worst person in the world.

The other day he came to me with an idea to have children with other women because he wants more kids than I can give him since I’m turning forty this year. He claims it’s because more women should have children with such fantastic genetic material. This is too much for me, and it’s not getting better but harder and faster. But how do I get out? Please help!

My inner self: Are you ready?

Me: I think so.

My inner self: Then jump.

Me: Where?

My inner self: Off the carousel, sweetie.

Me: Can you slow it down, please!? This is going to hurt.

My inner self (most lovingly): It will, honey, but you are not alone. I’m here. I will guide you and help you heal.

And so I did.

Four Takeaways from Those Conversations with My Intuition

First: Intuition is usually quiet, gentle, and subtle. I recommend going back in your memory and noticing when you heard your intuition. What was the quality and the tone? What else can you notice and learn about it?

Second: Intuition doesn’t argue. It often disappears when you disbelieve or argue back. It’s very sensitive to criticism and attitude, meaning what seems to be right or more logical or more convenient. If you want to be guided by intuition, you have to let go of thinking that you ‘know.’

Third: It grows stronger if you connect with it like your life depends on it. If you surrender and quiet your overthinking, you will be surprised by how quickly your intuition can guide you to where you need to go.

Fourth: Your relationship with your intuition is like any other relationship; it needs time, care, and attention to build it solid. But once you do, you’ll have an invaluable asset for life.

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“Almost everything will work again if you unplug it for a few minutes, including you.” ~Anne Lamott

I used to believe that success meant always being available. Always saying yes. Always responding immediately to emails, Slack pings, texts, whatever was thrown my way. Because if I stopped—even for a second—I might fall behind. And if I wasn’t working harder than everyone else, was I even working hard enough?

For years, that mindset worked. Or so I thought. Every win, every promotion, every new milestone felt like adding fuel to the fire. The more I ‘succeeded’ by society’s standards—the title, the career, the financial stability—the more I pushed myself to do more, to be more.

My perfectionism kicked in, too. I didn’t just want to succeed; I wanted to be perfect at everything—career, leadership, motherhood, marriage, friendships. And I never removed anything from my plate—I just kept stacking it higher.

I climbed the corporate ladder, became the first female VP in a 300-person marketing org at a Fortune 500 company, and checked every success box that should have made me feel accomplished. But instead of feeling fulfilled, I felt… empty. Exhausted. Like I was running on fumes but too scared to stop.

And then one day, my body gave me no choice but to stop. It wasn’t a slow fade or a warning sign I could ignore—it was like someone pulled the plug. I went from a high-functioning overachiever to someone who couldn’t even form a sentence without feeling mentally drained.

Not just stress. Not just exhaustion. A full-body, full-brain shutdown. Emails didn’t make sense. Conversations felt like static. I couldn’t process thoughts.

My brain hit the off switch, and I didn’t know how to turn it back on. I sat at my desk, staring at my screen, and for the first time in my life, I physically couldn’t push through.

That moment scared me more than anything.

Five years before my full breakdown, I had already been on a collision course. In that short span of time, I became a mother, got promoted to director, took on more teams and responsibilities, lost my sister and grandmother, and moved into a new house—which promptly caught fire.

But I still kept pushing, still kept performing, because slowing down wasn’t an option. Until my body made it one.

I remember sitting in my car after work, gripping the steering wheel, staring blankly ahead. I had nothing left.

It wasn’t just exhaustion; it was something deeper, something that made me feel like I had lost control over my own mind and body. I had built my entire identity on being productive, on being the go-to person, the one who always delivered.

But now I had nothing left to give. And I had no idea how to fix it.

What I Learned from My Breaking Point

But how did I get to that point?

How did I go from thriving on the hustle to completely shutting down?

Looking back, the signs were all there—I just ignored them.

The late nights, the skipped meals, the creeping exhaustion I kept brushing off as ‘just part of the job.’ My body had been warning me for years, and I didn’t listen. Until I had no choice.

That breaking point forced me to ask myself something I had spent my whole life avoiding:

What am I chasing, and at what cost?

Here’s what finally made me realize I couldn’t keep going like this (and what I wish I had figured out before I hit rock bottom):

1. Rest isn’t a reward. It’s a requirement.

For the longest time, I thought sleeping more would fix everything. I watched a MasterClass with Dr. Matt Walker (a sleep expert) and learned all about chronotypes—morning larks vs. night owls. I knew I was a morning lark, so I figured, Great, I’ll just get to bed earlier, and that should do it!

Except, it didn’t.

I’d lie there at night, my body still, but my brain running marathons.

• Did I give my kiddo his medication?
• Did someone feed the dog?
• Is my team member feeling better after being out sick?
• Crap, I forgot to move the laundry. Now I have two choices: leave it and deal with the stink tomorrow, or drag myself out of bed to fix it.

That’s when I realized that rest isn’t just about sleep. It’s about giving your mind and body a real reset.

I found that when I spent time in my garden, I had more patience with others.

I picked up crocheting for the first time in twenty-five years, making beanies like my life depended on it. They were adorable—and it brought me a peace I hadn’t felt in years.

I started playing board games with my kids, laughing around the table instead of rushing them to bed just so I could jump back online and “get ahead.”

For years, I treated parenting like a responsibility (which, to be fair, it is), but I never just let time be. Everything had been a task to complete, a schedule to follow. But slowing down, being present, laughing with my family—THAT felt like true rest.

Rest isn’t just about stopping. It’s about resetting in a way that actually fuels you.

2. Ambition and balance can co-exist.

Let’s be real—I’m still a work in progress when it comes to boundaries. But one of the biggest shifts I made was realizing that everything in life is a season.

I used to overthink every decision. Saying no felt heavy, like I was closing a door forever. But once I started thinking in seasons, everything changed.

• Instead of “no,” I started saying “not right now.” This made boundaries feel lighter and easier to stick to.
• I got clear on my non-negotiables. If something filled my cup, it got priority time. If something drained me? It was time to let it go.

For years, I was the kind of leader who said things like “I support your decision” when someone needed time off—but the undertone was always “but we really need you here.” The unspoken pressure to overwork was real.

Now, I build my life around people who encourage me to invest in myself—not just support it, but push me to do it. And that makes all the difference.

3. If stopping feels scary, that’s a sign you need to stop.

I was terrified to slow down. I had built my entire reputation on:

Always being available (Praised!)
Always performing at the top (Praised!)
Living every aspect of hustle culture (Praised!).

It was my identity. So, if I stopped… who even was I?

What if I had worked my butt off for nothing?
What if people stopped seeing me as “successful”—would they think I was a failure?

I’m still in this transition, and honestly, it’s still scary. But leaning into the unknown is part of redefining success. That’s what makes it feel less terrifying.

I used to believe success = status, power, money.
Now, I see success as something bigger—health, joy, presence.

And while I won’t pretend it’s easy, I can tell you this: it’s worth it.

What This Means for You

If you’re reading this, wondering why—despite all your effort—you still feel exhausted, stuck, or empty… I get it. I’ve sat in that same place, running on fumes, convinced that pushing harder was the answer. But it’s not. It never was.

You don’t have to break before you start making changes. Small shifts—pausing, setting boundaries, rethinking what success actually means—can save you from ever reaching that breaking point.

Take the break now. Reclaim your energy now. Redefine success now. Because the life you want isn’t waiting on your next achievement—it’s waiting on you to stop running long enough to actually live it.

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“Confidence comes not from always being right but from not fearing to be wrong.” ~Peter T. McIntyre

I used to think of confidence as something external, something that people exuded in their body language, in the way they spoke, or in the certainty of their decisions.

To me, a confident person had a poker face and a strong, grounded posture. I thought confidence was something you cultivated through endless practice—training yourself to speak with assertiveness and decisiveness, to project certainty even when you didn’t feel it inside.

But I’ve come to understand that true self-confidence is something that comes from within, and I fully embrace Stephen Batchelor’s definition: “Self-confidence is trust in our capacity to awaken. It is both the courage to face whatever life throws at us without losing our sense of calm and the humility to treat every situation we encounter as one from which we can learn.”

It is not arrogance or blind faith in one’s abilities; it is a quiet trust in our inner wisdom, an unwavering belief that we can navigate whatever life presents, even when the path ahead is unclear.

I did not arrive at this understanding easily. It took one of the most difficult periods of my life to uncover the strength that had always been within me, hidden beneath layers of conditioning, fear, and uncertainty.

In the midst of heartbreak, loss, and what felt like complete falling apart, I learned to sit with my emotions, to hold space for them, and to trust that they were not my enemy but my guide.

When Everything Falls Apart

There was a time when everything I thought was certain suddenly crumbled. The foundation I had built my life upon—the plans, the expectations, the identity I had crafted—was gone. I found myself with nothing solid to hold onto except my own ability to endure. And even that felt fragile at times.

During those days, self-confidence was not something I actively sought. In truth, I was just trying to get through each moment. I took things hour by hour, day by day. I sought support in those around me, who held space for me with compassion. I turned inward, searching for any glimmer of light in the darkness. Sometimes I found it. Other times, it felt like I was shoveling more soil over it, burying it deeper.

It wasn’t a linear process. Healing never is. Some days, I felt strong and capable; others, I was overwhelmed by grief, sadness, and doubt. But slowly, without realizing it at first, I was building something. I was learning to trust myself. I was learning that even in the most painful moments, I could survive them. And not just survive; I could learn from them, grow through them, and emerge stronger on the other side.

Sitting with Discomfort: The Pathway to Confidence

I had been meditating, reading, and reflecting for years, but during this time, my practice took on a different meaning. It was no longer about finding peace, clarity, or becoming a better person; it was about learning to sit with discomfort without trying to fix it. There were times (most!) when my meditation felt anything but calming. Instead of feeling still or at ease, I felt restless, agitated, even more lost.

But what I didn’t realize then was that I was doing the work. Meditation wasn’t about achieving a state of bliss—it was about cultivating the capacity to be with whatever arose, without running from it or pushing it away. The more I practiced this, the more I realized that the self-confidence I sought wasn’t about having all the answers. It was about trusting that I could handle the unknown.

I came to understand that uncertainty is the only certainty in life. As Susan Jeffers wrote in Embracing Uncertainty, “The only way to get rid of the fear of doing something is to go out and do it.” What I needed was not certainty about the future, but trust in my ability to meet it with openness and resilience.

The Confidence That Emerges After Pain

With time, I realized that confidence isn’t about knowing exactly what will happen next. It’s about knowing that whatever happens, we have the strength and inner resources to face it. And more than that—we have the ability to thrive through it.

For me, true self-confidence came from understanding impermanence, from recognizing that everything changes, and from knowing that I, too, have the ability to adapt and respond. It came from experiencing suffering and emerging on the other side with greater compassion—for myself and for others. It came from realizing that I didn’t need to have everything figured out to trust myself completely.

This kind of confidence isn’t loud or showy. It doesn’t seek validation or prove itself to others. It is quiet, deep, and unshakable. It is the trust that we have our own backs, that we can meet life with open arms, and that even in uncertainty, we are always enough.

Your Inner Light Is Always There

If you are in the midst of struggle right now, feeling like the ground beneath you is shifting, I want you to know this: There is a powerful light within you. It may feel dim at times (maybe most of the time!), but it is there. It carries the wisdom, strength, and love you need—not only to survive but to live fully, with depth and meaning.

Concepts like confidence or inner strength may sound foreign now, yet they form, accumulate, and grow in the quiet, unseen ways you keep going, in the small moments you show up for yourself, in the hidden effort you make every day, in the part of you that still hopes.

True self-confidence is not about never feeling fear or doubt. If anything, these emotions are an essential part of being human. It is only because of fear and doubt that we can truly recognize freedom and inner strength—for what is darkness but the absence of light? By sitting with these emotions, allowing them, and creating space for them as best as you can, you begin to embrace your humanity.

Self-confidence is about walking forward, holding space for it all, and trusting that your human nature has what it takes to navigate whatever comes, even if you’ve struggled with this in the past. It is about knowing, deep in your bones, that no matter what life brings, there is a light within you that is always lit—you simply need to allow it to shine through.

And that is how your quiet, inner confidence carries you forward. Every experience is a gift—an opportunity to expand your wisdom, to grow in ways you may not always notice, but that always carry you forward.

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