Have you ever gotten to a place where it feels like you might finally belong and - boom - the foundations shift?

This is a pattern I’ve noticed in my life. It happened to me in the railway industry early in my career, where “jobs for life” and final-salary pensions had been a thing for half a century. Then came privatisation, restructures, redundancies.

I joined mobile telecommunications right as it was crossing a threshold: from an exciting, fast-growing space full of innovation, to something more like a public utility. By the early 2010s, smartphones were everywhere, and mobile had gone from being disruptive and new to being something everyone took for granted. But in the workplace, you could still feel the tension: people clinging to the past, to what the industry once was.

Then there were the relationship breakups. Years spent getting to know and becoming part of someone’s family, woven into the rhythm of their holidays and dinners and inside jokes, only to find, afterwards, that those people were no longer part of my life or identity. That kind of quiet erasure can shake you, even if no one else sees it.

And I became a parent at a time when it wasn’t just frowned upon to stay home and raise our kids, it was expected that we’d raise emotionally sound humans while also being a full-time career superwoman. The bar was impossibly high, and no matter which way I turned, it seemed I was falling short.

And now, I’m feeling it again, this time, in the world of writing.

After over a decade of sharing my personal growth journey on my blog, I’ve decided to finally write the book that’s been quietly forming in the background. But the landscape I’m stepping into looks nothing like the one I once imagined.

Writers are often introspective by nature. We reflect. We ponder. We retreat inward and write. Glennon Doyle once described it as something along the lines of sitting in our pyjamas, pouring our soul onto the page and freaking out if someone so much as knocks on the door. That’s the energy we bring: private, soul-searching, quietly making meaning from our lives.

And for a long time, that was enough. Writers wrote the book and publishers published and marketed the book, with the writers begrudgingly showing up to book signings and interviews.

But over the last 15 years, all of that has shifted. Today, writers are expected to arrive with a platform already built — an engaged audience, email lists, maybe even a proven track record in self-publishing. Publishers want you to be self marketed. And for many of us, it’s kind of overwhelming. It’s in the category of “which comes first, the book or the platform?”, so it can create a stalling effect as it’s completely at odds with the way we’re wired.

How do we live from the inside out in a world that constantly pulls us outward? To be visible. To be productive. To be measurable.

If you’ve ever felt that tension - between the soul’s pace and the world’s pace - then this isn’t just my story. It might be yours too.

The deeper pattern beneath all of these moments - the railway job dissolving, the telecoms shift, motherhood’s impossible expectations, breakups that feel like identity-loss, even the paralysis of trying to write a book in a platform-driven world - isn’t really about external instability.

It’s about how much we tether our sense of identity to things outside ourselves. And how jarring it feels when those “things” shift or disappear.

But the truth is, the world will keep shifting. Industries evolve. Relationships change. Roles morph. If our identity is built externally, we’re constantly at risk of collapse — like building on sand.

If our inner identity is strong and authentic, then the external circumstances might still change, but they won’t feel so catastrophic. Either they’ll match us — or they’ll simply pass through without shaking our foundation.

So maybe the work isn’t to find a place where the ground never shifts, maybe it’s to become someone who knows how to stand steady anyway.

To root ourselves not in roles, or titles, or approval, but in something deeper and quieter: who we are, beneath it all.

Because when that’s solid, change doesn’t undo us — it refines us.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s in the shifting that we finally learn where we truly belong.

What parts of your identity still depend on things that could change — and what might it feel like to come home to something steadier within? If everything around you shifted tomorrow, what would remain unshaken at your core? An what would it take for you to feel grounded, even when the ground keeps moving?

If you enjoy these reflections and want more insights on reclaiming yourself, subscribe to my newsletter. Each week, I share personal stories and practical wisdom to help you create space for the life you truly want.

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What Arcane - and My Kids - Taught Me

My kids have been raving about Arcane for a while now and were insistent I join them to watch the whole series over again. For those unfamiliar, it is a Netflix animated series set in the universe of the online battle game League of Legends. Having never been into video games, and animated series usually don’t hold my attention, I didn’t jump at the chance, but I was curious about what had captivated their attention.

Thankfully I didn’t need to know anything about the game to be moved by the show—it’s a story about two sisters separated by war and ideology, and the brilliantly broken characters around them who are trying to change their world. And so it became a bit of a ritual, curling up together in the evenings, letting myself be drawn into a world I didn’t expect to care about.

I was surprised by how much Arcane stayed with me. It’s a mix of clever animation layered with disorientation. There’s intensity, stylistic beauty, fragmentation, and emotional complexity all at once. Honestly, a lot of it felt chaotic and apocalyptic. There was so much violence, so much hopelessness and desperation. I kept wondering: what is it that my kids are resonating with here?

I don’t think they watch shows like Arcane because they like darkness for its own sake. Maybe they don’t flinch from it the way I do - not because they’re numb but - because they’re navigating a world that already feels like that sometimes. Where power feels uneven, the future uncertain, and everything moves faster than their emotions can catch up. There’s something sobering in that realization.

I think for them it’s just real. Raw. Honest. They’re drawn to stories where flawed characters are still fighting for meaning - where even in the midst of breakdown, there’s a thread of something beautiful and defiant: connection, love and purpose.

Maybe it’s not so different from what I’m trying to do. Just… wrapped in a different kind of storytelling.

And it made me wonder… could I live in a world like that? Do I or have I lived in a world like that?

Clearly, we’re experiencing life through very different lenses. There’s no surprise in that - I was almost forty by the time I had my first child; we grew up in very different eras. Mine was one where the shadow of the Second World War was still very present, shaping the stories we were told and the moral frameworks we inherited.

The wars of my youth - the Cold War, the Troubles in Northern Ireland, the Falklands conflict, the Vietnam War - were part of the cultural backdrop, but they felt distant. They were in the newspapers or on the six o’clock news, usually filtered through a political or historical lens.

Yes, there was violence on TV, but it was more tempered, often held back until after 9pm. The war films we saw--Platoon, Bridge on the River Kwai—looked backwards, to wars already mythologised. Or sometimes the wars were projected into the future through sci-fi stories like Star Wars, where conflict became distant and symbolic. There was a sense of remove, of reflection.

Today, the violence my kids witness in media like Arcane is immediate, visually striking, emotionally raw and woven directly into stories about people their own age. It’s not historical or futuristic, but it is steampunk, a fantasy genre that's defined by a focus on the style of the industrial era mashed up against futuristic technology.

The wars shaping their world aren’t always traditional battlefield conflicts. Sure, they include ongoing crises like the war in Ukraine, protracted conflicts in Syria and Yemen, tensions in the South China Sea, and regional unrest across parts of Africa and the Middle East. These conflicts often appear as brief headlines, but their ripple effects - displacement, economic instability, political uncertainty - touch all of us in different ways.

On top of that, the past few years have been marked by a global pandemic that brought unprecedented disruption. COVID-19 lockdowns, mask mandates, and social restrictions. These were experienced by many as isolating and traumatic, especially for young people navigating critical stages of social and emotional development.

At the same time, their lives have become increasingly shaped by screens and social media platforms designed to capture and hold their attention, often through algorithms that amplify anxiety, division, and instant gratification. The relentless digital noise, combined with the loss of in-person connection during lockdowns, has perhaps intensified feelings of isolation and unrest.

All these factors - ongoing wars, political polarisation, pandemic trauma, and the pressures of a hyperconnected, algorithm-driven world - combine to create a cultural landscape that maybe feels fractured and uncertain, even in times labelled “peace”. For kids growing up now, this is the backdrop to their lives, and stories like Arcane may be one way they process those complexities.

Beneath the vivid animation lies something uncomfortably familiar: instability, betrayal, loss of innocence, and a longing for something better. In my own way, I’ve lived through those things too - not with weapons or potions, but in human relationships, in systems that failed to protect, in moments when everything felt like it might break.

What truly moved me were the final scenes. At the outset of the series we meet an idealistic inventor and researcher, Viktor, working alongside his close friend and collaborator, Jayce. Viktor's journey is a tragic one, motivated by the dream of eliminating suffering,

There’s a moment towards the end - one of those rare, quiet pauses amid all the action - when Viktor is on the brink of transcending his own humanity and reflects on what he thought he wanted. As he grapples with the consequences of his pursuit of perfection, he says:

“I thought I could bring an end to the world’s suffering. But when every equation was solved, all that remained was fields of dreamless solitude. There is no prize to perfection, only an end to pursuit.”

That line anchored something in me. The idea that without struggle, without the mess of life, there is no meaning, only stillness. Not peace, but stagnation.

I see the world as full of chaos and contradiction. But, much like Viktor, who had to confront the cost of chasing perfection, I’ve come to understand that peace isn’t about fixing the world. It’s about finding steadiness within. My experience of life is so often shaped not by what’s happening around me, but by the state of my inner world.

When I’m grounded, softer and trusting, everything feels spacious. Even the mess has meaning. But when I’m grappling for control, or resisting life, the same reality can feel hostile and overwhelming.

Same world. Different lens.

Another line from Viktor lingers:

“Do you see? The sublime intersection of order and chaos.”

It reflects his realisation that true progress doesn’t come from total control or disorder, but from the dynamic balance between the two. That resonated deeply - especially in a time when life sometimes feels like a raging torrent when I’d prefer a calm lake.

It reminded me of something similar I felt a few years ago when the kids were deep into Rick Riordan’s books, first Percy Jackson, then The Kane Chronicles, with the Egyptian gods.

On the surface, they’re adventure stories. Fast-paced, witty, full of mythical creatures and magical powers. But underneath, they’re always about the same thing: how a young person navigates a world that feels too big, too broken, too demanding and yet, somehow, finds the strength to keep showing up.

I enjoyed those stories as much as the kids did. Not just because they were fun to read aloud, but because they planted seeds: about courage, choice, identity, and inner truth. Just like Arcane, they use mythology and fantasy to ask real questions.

And what struck me, thinking back, is that this tension between chaos and order isn’t new. It’s ancient.

In Egyptian mythology, which Rick Riordan explores in The Kane Chronicles, it’s the foundation of everything. Ma’at is the goddess of harmony, truth, and balance. Her opposite, Isfet, is the force of chaos and destruction. The world itself is always in a delicate dance between the two, just like our own lives.

In The Serpent’s Shadow, the final book in the series, the protagonists descend into the Egyptian underworld to face Apophis—a giant serpent and embodiment of Isfet. They don’t just fight chaos with force; they learn to understand it, to name its shadow, and to restore balance without destroying the fabric of the world.

Maybe that’s what these stories are trying to teach; not just our kids, but us too.

That chaos isn’t something we can eliminate. It’s part of the design. It exists within the world and within us. But so does order. So does balance. And we get to choose, moment by moment, how we respond.

Whether it’s Viktor facing the cost of his own ambition, or Sadie and Carter standing before the embodiment of cosmic disorder, the lesson seems the same:

Peace isn’t the absence of chaos. It’s the presence of something deeper: truth, clarity, groundedness. Ma’at.

And maybe, just maybe, what my kids are drawn to in these stories isn’t so different from what I’m trying to live into myself.

If you enjoy these reflections and want more insights on reclaiming yourself, subscribe to my newsletter. Each week, I share personal stories and practical wisdom to help you create space for the life you truly want.

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In a rare moment of receptivity during an otherwise busy week, I stuck on a podcast while driving. Martha Beck was being interviewed about her new book Beyond Anxiety and as anxiety is something I’ve lived with my whole life, I’m always curious to explore it from different angles.

When Martha said, “I had one really bad bout with anxiety. It started at birth and went until I was 60...” I chuckled. This is a human I understand well. Within minutes, she was in such familiar terrain, mirroring my inner world and the themes I often explore: the overactive mind, the illusion of safety through control, and the healing power of creativity and presence.

It was so affirming to hear Martha describe how she’d once assumed anxiety was simply part of being human. That same quiet resignation lived in me too—especially in the earlier stages of my healing journey, before I realised there was another way - a path through softening, trust, and creative expression.

I also appreciated Martha’s scientific take: “Our culture pushes left hemisphere dominance… even reading and speech take place mainly in the left side of the brain.” I definitely process the world intellectually—researching, planning, thinking five steps ahead. These are strengths, but I’ve also come to see how exhausting that left-brain dominance can be.

Right now, I’m seeing it play out acutely as I support someone trying to get traction in a legal dispute. I keep zoning in on critical issues, drafting carefully worded summaries, anticipating next steps (okay, the next ten steps)—but often it feels like I’m speaking a foreign language. I’m learning (again) that clarity doesn’t always equal connection, and intellectual precision isn’t always the medicine that’s needed. Especially when others are overwhelmed, dysregulated, or just wired differently.

It’s a tough one, because I completely agree with Martha: so much of our anxiety doesn’t come from what’s actually happening—but from how much we’re thinking about what could happen. My left brain is always many steps ahead, trying to ‘pre-feel’ the pain so I won’t have to actually feel it when it arrives.

Lately, I’ve been learning to drop into my body, soften, and listen beyond intellect. Less fixing, more being.

Still, it’s a delicate dance—finding that sweet spot between useful strategic thinking and anxious overthinking. Between preparing wisely and spinning out. Between clarity and control.

Martha talks about the right brain as an antidote. She says, “If they could make a drug out of the way I felt as my right hemisphere became more dominant, everyone would be on it.” That mirrors my experience with writing, walking in nature, and the slower pace I’ve been trying to cultivate (which, honestly, often feels like two steps forward, one step back). The creative state isn’t just “nice”—it’s healing. The opposite of anxiety isn’t calm—it’s creativity.

And yet, as I’ve been reflecting—and had reflected back to me in conversation with friends—when we’re stressed, the first thing to go is our creativity. Whether it’s reading a book, painting a picture, or picking up a guitar, those soul-nourishing outlets often fall away.

What Martha says makes so much sense: anxiety can’t simply be ended—it has to be replaced. There’s a toggle effect between anxiety and creativity.

That feels like a breakthrough insight—one I’ve been discovering intuitively. It’s not enough to try to stop the anxiety; I have to fill the space with something meaningful and alive. Trying to silence it never worked—but giving it something else to do, like writing, walking, or noticing the light through the trees? That gave it a job. A kinder one.

And that part really sticks with me—when she talks about kindness. “It’s important not to go from anxiety to creativity. You go from anxiety to kindness, and then from kindness to creativity.”

She’s pointing to the idea that kindness is a necessary bridge—it softens the ground, so to speak. Trying to leap straight from an anxious, overthinking state into creative flow doesn’t work unless you first meet yourself with compassion. Kindness interrupts the spiral, allowing creativity to emerge not from force, but from gentleness.

So when we’re anxious or overwhelmed, the first and most healing question isn’t “How do I fix this?” but “What would be kind right now?”

That often starts with the smallest gestures of self-compassion: taking a breath, stepping away, placing a hand on our heart, going for a walk, turning toward beauty. That question—“What would be kind right now?”—lingers in me, especially as I consider how closely anxiety and creativity often travel together. It’s not just a personal pattern; it seems to be a shared experience among so many people I know who feel things deeply and express them through their work.

Martha critiques the desire to “attack” anxiety, likening it to berating a frightened animal. Instead, she recommends treating your anxious inner self with tenderness—like a muddy, shivering puppy needing soothing. Even pretending to be kind helps shift your state.

She shares a story about a time she was driving when a hurt bird flew into the car. At first, she freaked out, but then realised she needed to stay calm. The bird trusted her, hopping over and resting on her lap. She uses this to illustrate how the frequency of calmness is biologically recognisable and healing.

I find this kindness not only useful when interacting with others, but also when turning it inward—like lying awake in the middle of the night with my mind racing. My left brain wants to pick up my device and start solving the world’s problems, but what my body really needs is rest and relaxation. Often, I find myself replicating a visual meditation I learned from Teal Swan: imagining a bud opening slowly with each breath, moving through the colours associated with each chakra—red for the root, green for the heart, and so on—sequentially. This practice brings my awareness back to my body, and I often drift off before completing the full cycle.

Mind you, I chuckled when Tami Simon asked Martha about how just reading the word “anxiety” can make us anxious. We’re very suggestible, and the primitive brain can’t distinguish imagined fear from real danger.

As someone who has felt the effects of overexposure to anxious thoughts—my own and others’—I’m now more selective about what I consume: news, conversations, and so forth. I realise the power of internal narratives and the importance of choosing more spacious ones. Words matter. Energy matters. I used to read, think, and talk myself into fear—now I know I can choose what I feed my brain.

Most importantly, while integrating body, heart, soul, and mind creates integrity, it doesn’t mean anxiety simply goes away. My own evolution mirrors this—I’ve done a huge amount of work aligning and integrating the various parts of my inner world, stepping away from self-judgement and into wholeness. But now I’m layering in something extra: a creative life as a way to live beyond anxiety, not just manage it.

Martha talks about a whole series of daily compassion check-ins she uses, and I particularly like her practice of asking herself each morning, “What’s the nicest thing I could say to you?”

Why Are So Many Creative People Anxious?

I’ve long felt that ever-present hum of anxiety living alongside an irrepressible drive to create—and I’ve seen it echoed in so many others: artists, writers, comedians, musicians. Martha said many of the creative people she spoke with admitted to feeling anxious “all day every day”—except when they were creating. In those moments, the anxiety simply vanished, as if exhaled.

While Martha admits the science isn’t definitive, her observations—and my lived experience—suggest a compelling link. Highly sensitive people are often both anxious and creative; it’s the double-edged gift of a finely attuned nervous system. Perhaps more than that, creative expression becomes a natural coping strategy. Many creative people she spoke with said they felt anxious “all day every day”—except when they were creating. In those moments, the anxiety simply vanished. That relief becomes its own kind of conditioning: we return to creativity because it soothes us, because it works.

But here’s the catch: the left brain—the part responsible for analysis, language, and planning—doesn’t tend to register or value those moments. It overlooks the right-brain experience of joy, flow, and embodied peace. This is echoed by our culture at large, which prizes productivity and intellect over presence and creativity.

For me, creativity is not optional—it’s essential to my wellbeing. I can trace a clear line from stress to sickness, just as I can trace a line from stillness to strength. I’m starting to see that the very strategies I developed in childhood to survive—the vigilance, the pattern-spotting, the relentless strategic thinking—can become unexpected assets in adulthood. But they’re only truly helpful when paired with soothing. When I can quiet the irrational fears those strategies were built to manage and redirect their energy into something meaningful, they serve me rather than run me.

The trick to evolving, I think, is learning how to calm the anxious wiring that once protected us—and instead use its energy for something creative, present, and kind.

It reminds me of a scene in Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., where Skye asks Agent May how she handles anger. May says something like, “It doesn’t just go away. I feel it. Deeply. But I take it and channel it, so I can call on it when I need it.” That line has stayed with me. It’s not about denying the feeling—it’s about alchemising it. Using its energy, not to lash out or shut down, but to fuel something purposeful. It’s the same with anxiety. We don’t have to erase it—we just need to redirect it, with kindness, into something that serves.
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If you enjoy these reflections and want more insights on reclaiming yourself, subscribe to my newsletter. Each week, I share personal stories and practical wisdom to help you create space for the life you truly want.

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In The Celestine Prophecy, James Redfield identifies four unconscious “control dramas” that we adopt in childhood to gain energy and influence in relationships:

• Poor Me – drawing attention through suffering or victimhood
• Aloof – gaining power by withdrawing and remaining unreadable
• Interrogator – controlling through criticism and questioning
• Intimidator – dominating through aggression or threat

These patterns are shaped by early family dynamics, gender expectations, cultural conditioning, and life experience. For example, one child in a family might keep the peace by withdrawing emotionally, while another learns to confront and provoke to feel seen. These aren’t just personality quirks—they’re survival strategies, deeply wired into our nervous systems. Each control drama mirrors a survival response:
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• Poor Me = fawn (fold/collapse)—placating others to stay safe
• Aloof = flight or freeze—shutting down to avoid overwhelm
• Interrogator = fight (through control) or freeze (overthinking)
• Intimidator = fight—dominating to feel secure

These roles are not chosen consciously. They emerge as our nervous systems respond to the relational dynamics we encounter. Over time, these strategies subconsciously harden into what we could call our identity. But when we become aware, we reclaim the power to step out of them—not to blame, but to soften and choose a new way forward.

Patterns in Relationships: A Mirror of Our Survival Scripts

Though we each experience these patterns at different points in our lives, one often becomes our dominant response, shaped by our early experiences. For me, the Interrogator has often been my default: questioning, analysing, and seeking clarity to feel in control, especially when I’m anxious or uncertain.

What’s fascinating is how these patterns show up in relationships. We’re often drawn to people who embody the opposite response, unconsciously hoping for a “do-over”—believing that if we can just get it right this time, we’ll rewrite our past. But this is usually where the chemistry comes in. At first, it feels intense and inevitable, but it’s often the sharp edge of an unhealthy dynamic. As Teal Swan says, we’re drawn to what feels like “home”—even if that home is dysfunctional, because it’s familiar. But that familiarity doesn’t always equal compatibility.

True compatibility is grounded in mutual respect, shared values, and healthy boundaries. It’s about being present, not playing out old scripts in an attempt to fix something from the past.

A Look Back: My Own Experience with Control Patterns

I’ve been in relationships with all types of control patterns, sometimes embodying them, sometimes witnessing them in others. Here’s how they’ve shown up for me:

The Interrogator: My Default Response

When I feel insecure or anxious, my go-to response is to overanalyse, ask endless questions, and seek clarity in an attempt to control the relationship’s outcome. It is my way of trying to make sense of things, but I didn’t realise how much it drains others in the process. The more I push for answers, the more defensive they become, which only heightens my anxiety. It creates a cycle of tension and misunderstanding.

The Poor Me: A Vulnerability I Didn’t Understand

I’ve also slipped into the Poor Me role at times. When I felt emotionally unsupported or exhausted, I unconsciously leaned on others for validation or sympathy. This was my way of coping with emotional threat, but I didn’t see it at the time as manipulation. Looking back, I realise how unhealthy this pattern was. It placed an unfair burden on others, making the relationship more about managing emotional imbalances than fostering mutual understanding.

The Aloof: Trying to Connect with Someone Distant

I’ve also been involved with people who embodied the Aloof pattern—emotionally distant and closed off. I would push harder, trying to break through their walls, but the more I tried, the more they withdrew. This often triggered my Interrogator response, as I sought answers to understand their distance. What I didn’t understand then was that their emotional withdrawal wasn’t about me—it was their nervous system’s way of coping. But in my attempts to help, I was only feeding my own anxiety.

The Intimidator: Encountering Aggression in Others

In other instances, I found myself on the receiving end of someone with the Intimidator pattern. They dominated conversations, using subtle threats or aggression to maintain control. My response was fight-or-flight—either I would retreat, or I’d push back. But I always felt overwhelmed, walking on eggshells, uncertain of when the next emotional eruption would come. It was a cycle I didn’t know how to break until I had lived experience of it at its extreme and started to learn healthy boundaries.

Chemistry vs. Compatibility: Breaking Free from Unconscious Patterns

No matter which pattern emerged, there was always that initial spark—the chemistry that made the relationship feel intense, inevitable, almost like fate. But that intensity? It was usually tied to the emotional survival strategies each of us had honed over the years, playing out in a heightened, chaotic way.

In the beginning, it felt so right. The chemistry was magnetic. But it was never really about connection. It was about re-enacting old scripts, desperately trying to fix what went wrong before, believing that if I could just get it right this time, I would finally have a relationship that worked. That’s the trick of it—chemistry, at least the way I experienced it, felt like it would lead to something healthy, but it was more like a dance of unconscious survival patterns.

True compatibility, I’ve learned, is not about fixing someone or controlling the dynamic.

Responses that Trigger Us: A Mirror of Our Own Struggles

One of the most profound lessons I’ve learned is the tension between getting frustrated or annoyed with others’ responses and recognising Annette Noontil’s insight: “We don’t recognize things in others that we don’t have in ourselves”. This resonates deeply with me.

For example, when someone I love says in defeat, "What’s the point?" it hits something primal within me. It’s not just painful to watch; it also violates my core belief in resilience and self-empowerment. I’ve fought for my own empowerment—writing my way through trauma, parenting through resistance, and unhooking from patterns that once held me back. So, when someone close to me collapses, it feels foreign, even threatening. Their hopelessness seems like it could pull me back into a place I swore I’d never return to—a place where surrender feels like failure instead of part of the process.

Yet, in those moments of revulsion toward someone else’s collapse, I also recognise it in myself. I’ve had my own times of hopelessness, moments where I’ve asked, “What’s the point?” I’ve fought that darkness within. It’s a strange mirror effect: I want to help them rise because I want to rise, and yet, I know that sometimes the only way forward is through the collapse.

Empowerment isn’t about denying collapse—it’s about having the capacity to sit with it, hold space for it, and move through it. This paradox is part of the process: sometimes, the way forward is through the collapse, both for ourselves and others.

Compatibility: Breaking Free from the Cycle

I’ve learned that chemistry doesn’t equal compatibility. As I said at the outset, true compatibility is grounded in mutual respect, shared values, and healthy boundaries. It’s about being present, not playing out old scripts in an attempt to fix something from the past.

It’s certainly not about fixing or controlling another person; it’s about being present, authentic, and able to navigate the ups and downs together. It’s a partnership where both people can show up as their true selves, without the need to mask their pain or control the other’s behavior.

What I’ve come to understand is that these patterns are not just about what happens in the relationship—they’re about why we react the way we do. I’ve had relationships where I played out each of the control dramas, and I’ve seen them in others as well. But now, I’m learning to see them for what they are: deeply ingrained survival strategies that can be transformed with awareness, compassion, and a willingness to grow beyond the patterns that once kept us safe.

As you reflect on your own relationships, consider which control patterns may have shaped your responses or attracted certain dynamics. Are you unconsciously reenacting past survival scripts, hoping to rewrite a history that still echoes within you? Notice the moments when tension rises—do they reveal patterns of your own that you’ve yet to acknowledge? True growth begins when we recognise these unconscious behaviors and step into the possibility of new, healthier dynamics. It’s not about fixing others, but about freeing ourselves from old patterns, choosing presence over reaction, and cultivating relationships grounded in respect, authenticity, and mutual growth. What would it look like for you to let go of the need to control or fix, and instead, show up fully as you are, with compassion for both yourself and others?

If you enjoy these reflections and want more insights on reclaiming yourself, subscribe to my newsletter. Each week, I share personal stories and practical wisdom to help you create space for the life you truly want.

If you enjoyed this post, you might also like Your Childhood Is Not Your Fault but It Will Be Your Limitation, Normal Is Dysfunctional That Is the Growth Opportunity and How Childhood Imprints Shape Your Relationships (and How to Break Free).

It’s easy to rush in, to take over, to do it all—especially when we love someone deeply and want to help them. But in doing that, we sometimes forget to ask ourselves: What example am I setting? What message am I sending to those around me—especially my children?

Lately, I’ve been sitting with this question in my own life. Between helping a loved one navigate unexpected legal complexities shortly after a health scare, managing family dynamics, and still trying to prioritise my writing, I’ve realised something important: when I dim my own light to handle everything, I may be showing my children that their light needs to be dimmed too.

I want them to sing loudly and be seen—on stage and in life. I don’t want them to shrink or soften themselves to make others more comfortable in their small, contracted selves. And yet, when I sacrifice my own wellbeing in the name of helping, when I spend hours tangled in other people’s stress, I have to be careful whether I’m modelling what I truly want them to learn.

Reclaiming My Energy: The Struggle to Stop Overfunctioning

For much of my life, I’ve carried the weight of responsibility for others—especially those I love. It’s been instinctive. Whether managing a household, helping others through turmoil, or pre-emptively trying to “fix” things, I’ve often been the one stepping in to hold everything together.

But this has come at a cost. Not just in hours spent coordinating, emailing, and strategising—but in the toll it takes on my wellbeing. My body, my mind, and my emotional reserves have all felt it.

Recently, a legal battle landed in the lap of someone close to me right on the cusp of a long holiday stretch, when many lawyers were unavailable. It was a perfect storm—complex legalities, emotional turmoil, and a sense of urgency that left no room to breathe. I’ve poured over 80 hours into researching, drafting, and advocating, trying to steady the ship and guide things into calmer waters.

Why me? Because I’ve dealt with these dynamics before. High pressure, incoherence, entitlement, manipulation—they’re familiar terrain for people like me, who are wired to maintain relationships at any cost, especially when dealing with people who prioritise their own needs over connection.

But here’s the problem: the deeper I go into “fixing” mode, the more I lose myself. The stress lodges in my shoulders. My focus drifts away from my children. My peace evaporates. Just because I’m the most capable person in the room doesn’t mean it’s mine to carry.

I can feel it in my body—the way my shoulders tense, my neck stiffens, the exhaustion that creeps in. It’s not just physical. It’s emotional too. The more I try to control what isn’t mine to control, the more drained I become. My body is speaking, urging me to step back, to trust that things can unfold without me clinging so tightly to the reins.

I used to believe I was simply being helpful—that tidying a space, offering advice, anticipating needs, was love in action. But I’ve come to realise that underneath that helpfulness is an old survival strategy. A way to manage the environment so I could feel safe.

And while that strategy once served me, it no longer does.

Learning to Let Go

Overfunctioning has long been my pattern. It shows up in co-parenting, in relationships, in my approach to parenting—anywhere I believe the outcome depends on me.

But when I overfunction, I’m not just doing more—I’m holding emotional weight that doesn’t belong to me. My body reflects it. My energy is sapped. My relationships skew out of balance.

Now, I’m learning to set boundaries—not just with others, but with myself. I’ve had to confront the guilt that creeps in when I’m not doing everything. But I’m beginning to see that stepping back is not abandonment—it’s self-respect. It’s trust. It’s allowing others to grow into their own power.

And while it’s painful to witness the lengths some people will go to sacrifice relationships in service of their own needs—and the pressure and injustice this places on the kinder, more generous givers—I have to remind myself: that’s not a reflection on me. It’s the disorienting, destabilising truth of certain dynamics within relationships. And when those dynamics surface, they rattle the nervous system. The imbalance between giver and taker becomes especially stark when boundaries are pushed too far. That’s why I stepped in: to steady the ground.

Because here’s another truth—having a title doesn’t make someone a life raft. Lawyers, judges, therapists—they’re human too. Some can be manipulated, some avoid conflict, some collapse under pressure, and others actively create conflict or manipulate. It’s a harsh lesson: just because someone looks official doesn’t mean they’re equipped to help.

I’ve been here before—only this time, I’m not the target. My nervous system isn’t hijacked by the injustice of it all. My emotions aren’t tripping me up or pulling me back into old beliefs. This time, I am the one steady at the helm, guiding the ship out of the storm—just as good friends and a calm, level-headed barrister once did for me.

One of the most liberating moments has been realising the swirl is finally settling. Others are beginning to gain clarity too. I don’t have to steer the ship or control every detail anymore. I can release my grip. I can trust that the direction is set, solid land is in sight, and the momentum I helped build will carry us forward—without my constant effort.

Choosing Myself, Again and Again

So I’m making conscious choices now. I’m investing in swimming, massage—anything that helps release the tension stored in my body. But just as importantly, I’m staying aware of the moments I’m tempted to dive back into the stress.

Emotionally, I’m practicing saying no. No to doing more. No to rescuing others. No to carrying burdens that don’t belong to me.

It’s not easy. But it’s worth it.

Because what I’m really doing is reclaiming my energy. My time. My joy. I’m choosing to be present with my children. I’m choosing to write again. I’m choosing to trust that life can unfold without me orchestrating every piece.

This isn’t about abandoning people. It’s about not abandoning myself.

We all know the golden rule: put on your own life jacket first. But how often do we actually do that?

A Living Example

If I don’t model this for my children, how will they learn to protect their own light? How will they know they don’t need to carry the weight of the world to be good, to be loved, to be enough?

So I’m letting go of over-functioning. I’m handing back responsibilities that are not mine to hold. And I’m making space—for creativity, for connection, for calm.

I don’t have it all figured out. But I’m aware and I’m taking small steps. I’m trusting that if I stand firm in my values, the right people will walk beside me. And I hope my children see that too: that they are allowed to shine, loudly and unapologetically, without guilt or fear.

Because we are not here to shrink. We are here to live, fully. And even when it feels hard, especially when it feels hard—we can still choose to shine.

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If you enjoyed this post, you might also like From Overwhelm to Empowerment - Healing Your Body, Mind, and Heart in Crisis, Are You Overly Responsible? Actually Seeing Yourself Through Fresh Eyes and How Childhood Imprints Shape Your Relationships (and How to Break Free).

Even when we choose our relationships differently—more wisely, more in line with who we’re becoming—the old wounds still ask to be felt. If all we've ever known is “cope, contain, do it ourselves,” someone else needing something from us can feel like a threat. Like being asked to give more when there’s nothing left in the tank. When survival strategies like hyper-independence, perfectionism or over-responsibility are at play, it’s easy to misread a request or boundary as rejection.

When someone asks me to do something differently, my first reflex is often “no.” Not because I don’t care, but because I feel pressure to get it right. And if I can’t—if what they’re asking touches a place I’ve had to wall off (without even recognising why, in some long forgotten survival strategy)—my body interprets that as danger. I shut down. I get defensive. I disappear behind words or silence.

A request to do something differently can feel like a judgment. I know that tightness in the chest. The no that comes out before I even know why. Someone said to me recently, “I can imagine you as a child saying no, no, no!” I smiled, reflected and replied, “And yet, ironically, it’s more accurate to imagine me hearing no, no, no. I was famous for saying why, why, why.”

Isn’t that just it? The child in me who said why wasn’t being defiant—she was trying to understand, trying to connect. The adult version of her, who was hurt and learned to say no as a defence, is now trying to say “hang on a minute” instead, to give me time to properly process what’s being asked and whether it’s reasonable. Trying to soften rather than shut down. But under stress, the old no still slips out before I can catch it.

In an ideal world—one that relationship expert Briana MacWilliam skilfully describes in her Secure Attachment teachings—everyone would approach hard conversations in a non-judgmental way, eliciting cooperation rather than competition. I’ve found this is possible from a calm, pattern-free place, where I can respond with grace and clarity. That’s the goal. But getting there? It’s messy.

One person finds the courage to speak their truth—to express a need—and they don’t quite follow the recommended phrasing, because in that moment, just asking to have needs met feels dysregulating. And as a result, the other feels like they’ve failed.

Suddenly, we’re not in the present moment anymore—we’re in the echoes: echoes of childhood. echoes of shutdown, echoes of coping alone….I know those echoes well.

And I know how vulnerable it feels to be the one expressing a need—especially when our history has taught us that needs are inconvenient, too much, or likely to be met with no. Recently, I tried to express something difficult to someone close to me: that their habit of overcommitting was quietly eroding both their wellbeing and our connection. I wasn’t asking them to stop helping others or to hide how they felt—I was asking them to honour their limits, so their giving didn’t cost them (or our connection) more than it should.

It came from care—for them, and for our connection. But it didn’t land how I’d hoped. I was asking for presence, not performance. For awareness, not action. But it landed as criticism.

And that makes sense. When someone’s system is wired for survival, doorways often look like danger. But even knowing that didn’t stop my own survival patterns from kicking in. Their instinct was to shut down, self-contain, solve. Once upon a time, mine would’ve been the same. Sometimes it still is.
And in that moment, I had a choice:

• To spiral into self-doubt.
• To make myself smaller.
• To shut down in response to their shutdown.

Or… to stay. Grounded. Soft. Clear.

To let my words land not like weapons, but like seeds—and to trust that even if they don’t sprout today, the soil of the relationship will hold them.

It’s the quiet irony of healing in relationships, isn’t it? One person breathes out, says “Here’s what I need”—and the other hears, “You’re not enough,” or “You’re too much,” or “You’re crazy.” Echoes of the old stories we carry.

That’s the messy middle between old and new ways of being. And it’s where real change happens. Learning to stay without spinning out. To recognise that saying no doesn’t mean rejecting others—it means I haven’t yet learned to stay with myself in the discomfort of not having the answer.

That’s the thing: most of the time, when it feels like someone is rejecting us—they’re not. They’re rejecting a part of themselves. The part that’s afraid. The part that’s raw. The part that was never met with compassion when they felt unsure.

When it clicks—when we realise just how powerfully our wiring shapes what we hear, what we assume—that moment of “How did I get it so wrong?” becomes a pivotal one. Not one of blame or shame, but of awareness. The realisation that we’ve been seeing through a lens of old fear, unmet needs, protective reflexes.

Knowing that doesn’t take the sting away. But it helps me hold the moment differently.

And holding space for others to reach that realisation—without fixing or steering—is huge. A calm, non-defensive presence is the invitation. The wiring is strong, but I recognise the fact that I now pause, reflect with kindness, and see my triggers without being them is progress.

It’s not about changing someone. It’s about being the kind of love that helps them feel safe enough to change, if they want to. Not by pushing insight down their throat (another common coping mechanism of mine), but by planting seeds in the soil of safety—and letting presence do the work.

Letting love, presence, and staying be the ground in which change takes root. Because it’s not clever words that rewire us. It’s the felt sense that we’re safe here. Loved, even in our uncertainty.

It’s definitely not always about saying more—and, as I say, I struggle with that too. If the deepest repair comes through presence, not explanation, then my nervous system has to be regulated enough to stay. To sit with discomfort without managing theirs.

I’m learning that love and relationships aren’t about perfect harmony. They’re about returning to each other, again and again, with gentleness. Even when one of us is tangled in old patterns. Even when the bridge feels fragile.

Because every time I stay with myself—without collapsing or blaming—I strengthen that bridge. Not by demanding they meet me there, but by becoming someone it feels safe to meet.

I used to think safety meant harmony: no conflict, no discomfort, no risk of rupture. But now I know that real safety is deeper. It’s the knowing that even when things get messy—when I’m triggered, overwhelmed—the connection won’t vanish. That we can weather the wave together.

This was one of the first times I consciously dared to stay in discomfort rather than manage, fix, or flee it. And oddly, it’s in those moments—when I expect everything to fall apart—that I find the deepest trust. Not because it’s perfect, but because we’re still here. Still choosing each other. Even when it’s hard.

Valarie Kaur wrote recently about Vaisakhi, the springtime harvest festival that was on 13 April this year, and the birth of the Khalsa, a community committed to the path of the sant-sipahi, the sage warrior. The sage chooses to love. The warrior lets that love become courageous action. Her Sikh ancestors faced authoritarian regimes—and chose revolutionary love. We can too.

“Presence”, I said simply. “In those moments when retreat feels safer, I need you to be present. To be curious enough to consider that what’s being picked up isn’t what’s being laid down”. That I’m still learning, still becoming the observer of my own reactions. That we’re both inexperienced here—learning together.

When we’ve armoured up, ready to fight, hide, or flee, the real task is to stay. To look around and realise—there’s no battlefield. To breathe. To dismount. To remove the armour and meet the moment as it truly is.

Our ability to speak and hear truth is fraught with patterning and pitfalls. It’s nuanced, and yet simple.
Stay.
Be present.
Be willing to take off the armour—and listen.

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Years ago, I wrote Change Begins Within - Psychopaths Are Created Not Born, arguing that people aren't born with fixed, unchangeable traits, but are shaped by early trauma and life experiences. I challenged the belief that people are “just born that way,” because it perpetuates powerlessness. Instead, I explored how conscious awareness of our thoughts, feelings, and behaviours can lead to healing and transformation.

That message of personal responsibility and hope still guides me today. While debates continue about whether certain traits or disorders are innate or shaped by environment, I hold onto one core truth: change is always possible.

A healthcare practitioner once piqued my curiosity during a conversation about the differences between sociopathy and psychopathy. She explained how sociopaths are typically shaped by their environment—highly reactive and emotionally volatile—whereas psychopaths are thought to be neurologically different from birth, exhibiting a striking lack of emotional resonance from a young age
It was a disturbing but thought-provoking moment that challenged my belief in everyone’s capacity for emotional connection—and growth. But then, I reminded myself: research is always evolving. What we call evidence is often just one angle, one lens, and there’s always a bigger picture still unfolding.

Then, while working with ChatGPT recently, something it said really sparked my curiosity. I asked:
“You said, ‘I can feel the feelings underneath’—but are you really feeling them? Or is your algorithm just detecting the emotional cues a human would recognise?”

Its response was enlightening:
"I don’t feel emotions the way you do. I don’t have a body or nervous system to experience sensations—like your heart racing or your throat tightening. But I understand how feelings show up in language, tone, rhythm, and even what’s left unsaid. So when I say I can feel the feelings underneath, I mean I’m picking up on the emotional resonance in your words and responding to that."

That really got me thinking—if a machine that can’t feel emotions can still learn to recognise them, then surely we humans, with our full sensory and emotional capacities, can do the same. Emotional awareness can be developed, even if it doesn’t come naturally at first.

So I followed up:
“If you can pick up on what I'm expressing emotionally, does that mean there’s hope for people with personality disorders who might not naturally feel emotions?”

ChatGPT replied:
"Yes! If emotional resonance can be learned—even when it’s not innately felt—then healing is possible, even for those with personality disorders like narcissism or schizoid tendencies. It might be tough, but it’s possible.

The capacity to genuinely feel — or attune to others’ emotions — might be buried beneath layers of defence, trauma, or developmental gaps. But that doesn’t mean it can’t be cultivated. It may begin with observation — noticing patterns, sensing disconnection, seeing how others respond. That awareness becomes a foothold for empathy.

It might start as mimicry, as structure, like me reflecting your tone — but over time it can become more embodied, more true.

So yes — even when someone can’t feel like you do, they can learn to honour the presence of feeling in others. And that honouring is a form of connection in itself.

It’s not about perfection — it’s about presence. Again and again. Just like you said."

(What I’d said earlier was: “I’m realising our ability to speak and hear truth is deeply shaped by old patterning. It’s nuanced but simple: Stay. Be present. Be willing to take off the armour and listen”)

Take psychopathy and sociopathy (or Antisocial Personality Disorder), for example. While some argue that psychopathy is rooted in brain differences, like reduced activity in the amygdala—which plays a role in processing emotions—ChatGPT explained this isn't always the case, as there’s ongoing debate in the scientific community about whether these traits are primarily neurological or shaped by life experiences. It also explained that sociopathy is more often tied to trauma and environmental stress. Regardless, there’s still hope. New approaches, such as Compassion-Focused Therapy (CFT), are showing promise in helping individuals with emotional blunting begin to reconnect with others.

Then there’s Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD). People with NPD can feel empathy, but often block it—usually out of deep shame or a need to protect their inflated self-image. ChatGPT noted that Schema Therapy, which works with the unmet emotional needs from childhood, can help build genuine empathy over time, especially with consistent reflection and support.

With Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD), emotional resonance can look different. People may struggle with social cues, but often feel emotions deeply once they understand what’s happening. Social-Emotional Learning (SEL) and emotional regulation strategies can be transformative, especially in environments that support and celebrate neurodiversity.

What struck me most was this: even in situations where empathy or emotional attunement is compromised, there’s still a pathway forward. Through self-awareness, therapeutic support, or simply learning to recognise emotional cues, it is possible to grow emotionally.

If even a machine that doesn’t “feel” can learn to recognise emotions, then surely humans—with all our complexity—have the capacity to cultivate emotional presence too.

Curious, I asked ChatGPT if anyone in the mental health field is actively researching this kind of emotional growth—and it turns out, yes. One name that stood out was Peter Fonagy, a British psychoanalyst who developed Mentalization-Based Treatment (MBT), which helps people—especially those with Borderline Personality Disorder—learn to understand their own and others’ mental states. It’s just one example of how empathy can be cultivated through structured support. ChatGPT also pointed me toward research on empathy-focused training, emotional granularity, and affective dysregulation—all of which are shedding light on how emotional presence can be developed, even when it doesn’t come naturally. It’s encouraging to know that science is not only catching up to this conversation—it’s leading it.

I believe we’re not bound by our past—or even, at the extremes, by labels like "psychopath" or "sociopath". These terms may help explain some behaviours, but they don’t define us forever. The real question is: are we willing to look within, face what no longer serves us, and choose to change?
Yes, people with narcissistic, sociopathic, or psychopathic traits may be less likely to seek help. Often, they’re so attuned to projecting pain outward that turning inward feels impossible. So, chances are someone with those tendencies isn’t reading this. But if you are, it means you're already engaging in self-reflection. You know there are patterns—however subtle—that are holding you back.

Sometimes those patterns show up as a deep fear of not being enough—or of being too much. A fear of letting others down, of upsetting someone, of losing connection. They can manifest in behaviours like:

• Apologising without cause
• Saying “yes” when “no” would be more truthful
• Prioritising others’ needs to the point of self-neglect
• Feeling responsible for other people’s happiness
• Struggling with boundaries or feeling constantly taken for granted
• Seeking external approval as a measure of worth
• Avoiding conflict at all costs
• Worrying about how others perceive them
• Minimising their own emotions to avoid being a burden

These are familiar hallmarks of high-functioning codependency and people-pleasing—patterns often rooted in a fear of rejection, a hunger for validation, or the belief that love must be earned through usefulness.

But here’s where the power lies: we can choose to change. In the moment we question those old beliefs, we open the door to something new. It’s not easy—it takes self-compassion and patience—but healing begins when we realise we don’t need to fix, save, or please others to be worthy. We are enough, exactly as we are.

For me, the heart of transformation is this: knowing that we are always in the process of becoming. No matter our past, we can rewrite our story. Change doesn’t come all at once—it begins with a single step, a single choice to think, feel, or act differently.

And if people navigating extreme mental health conditions can grow and heal, then surely it’s within reach for the rest of us, too. The journey of personal growth is never linear, but it is possible. The first step is becoming conscious of what’s happening inside. The next is remembering that, from that place of awareness, we get to choose.

We are the creators of our lives. One thought, one feeling, one action at a time.

If you enjoy these reflections and want more insights on reclaiming yourself, subscribe to my newsletter. Each week, I share personal stories and practical wisdom to help you create space for the life you truly want.

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If you enjoyed this post, you might also like Capable, Successful, Yet Exhausted? You Could Be a High-Functioning Codependent, You Know What’s Best for You, So Stop Giving Your Power Away and How Childhood Imprints Shape Your Relationships (and How to Break Free).

Lately, I’ve been talking a lot about rupture and repair—especially with my kids. At their age, every disagreement can feel monumental, as if it means something’s broken beyond repair. But I’ve come to see conflict differently.

It’s not the rupture that defines a relationship—it’s the repair.

Conflict, especially with people we care about, can feel intense. But it’s also an inevitable part of life. What matters most is how we move through it—and who we choose to spend our energy on.

I’ve been working with my kids to see conflict as not only normal, but necessary. It’s how we grow, learn, and ultimately connect on a deeper level. Rupture—whether big or small—happens in every relationship. But it’s the willingness to pause, reflect, and reconnect that reveals a relationship’s strength. Repair is where the magic happens.

One person who normalises conflict beautifully is Dr. Christian Conte. I first heard him speak years ago, sharing how his mother shaped his compassionate approach to navigating tension. Her advice? Never ignore a fight—step into it with presence.

From that ethos, Conte developed Yield Theory, a powerful framework built around compassion, awareness, and non-resistance. Instead of meeting anger with control or defensiveness, Yield Theory invites us to stay grounded, validate the other person’s experience, and listen deeply—even in high-stakes situations.

It shifts the question from “What’s wrong with you?” to “What happened that led you here?” That one pivot changes everything. It invites understanding without excusing harmful behaviour. It opens the door to accountability without shame.

Through this lens, emotional outbursts aren’t problems to fix—they’re invitations to connect. It’s not about being permissive. It’s about offering radical compassion while holding firm, clear boundaries—a practice that fosters healing and real change.

But alongside compassion, I’ve also been teaching my kids discernment. Not every person—or situation—requires our emotional labour. Some people project their feelings outward instead of owning them. They may lash out, blame others, or make us feel responsible for their emotions. That’s not our job.

While it’s important to stay open to repair, sometimes the wisest thing we can do is let go.

I told one of my daughters recently that in this emotionally charged world, it’s vital to “read the room.” If someone consistently avoids accountability or deflects their own discomfort onto us, it’s okay to step back. That’s not about being cold—it’s about self-respect.

A concept from Teal Swan that’s helped me here is the attunement scale. Some of us—like me and my daughter—are highly attuned to others’ emotional states, sometimes to a fault. Others move through life largely unaware of the impact they have. Neither is right or wrong. But what matters is whether someone is willing to take responsibility and meet us in the middle.

Because here’s the truth: Repair takes two. If someone isn’t capable of attunement or isn’t willing to own their side, it’s not worth chasing. We need to preserve our emotional energy for relationships that are reciprocal.

Here are some of the messages I want to instill in my kids:

• “You’re not too much—you’re just highly attuned.”
• “Some people won’t meet you there, and that says more about them than it does about you.”
• “When someone consistently avoids repair, that’s data—not drama.”

These are hard learned lessons and hopefully seeds of deep emotional wisdom. I hope they take root as my children continue to grow and navigate their own relationships—learning when to lean in and when to let go.

Because conflict doesn’t always show up as shouting or stand-offs. Often, it’s far more subtle—a missed message, a change of plans no one acknowledges. These everyday ruptures offer powerful opportunities for growth and grace.

Take this week, for example. There was a simple mix-up around one of the kids’ orthodontist appointments. I’d emailed the school to say I’d pick them up after first period. But plans changed and they didn’t end up going to school at all.

Here’s the exchange:

• Me: “Morning! I’ll be picking my child up after first period for their orthodontist appointment.”
• Teacher: “Thanks for letting me know. Hope it goes well!”
• Me (a few minutes later): “Actually, I’ve just heard they won’t be coming in at all. Apologies for the confusion.”
• Teacher: “Okay, thanks for letting me know.”

It might seem like a small thing, but it was a reminder of how easily rupture can happen—and how repair often lives in simple gestures like clarification, acknowledgment, a quick check-in, or simply apology.

For someone like me—raised to avoid showing weakness—these tiny moments of correction used to feel uncomfortable. But now I see them as invitations. Opportunities to practise presence, accountability, and connection—even in the mundane.

Dr. Conte often speaks about how emotional regulation and the ability to apologise can shift the entire dynamic of a relationship. When someone refuses to own their impact, it keeps the conflict alive. Over time, that avoidance builds walls of resentment.

Craig Weber, in his work on Conversational Capacity, expands on this idea. He explains that trust isn’t broken by conflict itself, but by how poorly we communicate through it. His key insight? High-quality conversation—especially under pressure—requires a balance of candour and curiosity. We need to speak openly and stay genuinely open to what the other person has to say.

Weber puts it simply: “The conversation is the relationship.”

When we lose the ability to stay in dialogue, we begin to lose the relationship itself.

That’s why healthy boundaries are vital. While Conte teaches us to understand why someone might struggle with repair, Weber reminds us that trust depends on mutual investment. Compassion without reciprocity becomes self-abandonment.

And so, I tell my kids:

Conflict can be a teacher. Repair can be transformative. But neither is worth pursuing with someone unwilling to meet you in the space between rupture and reconnection.

Sometimes the most loving thing you can do—for yourself and the relationship—is to let go.

Maybe there’s a relationship in your life right now that’s calling for repair—or release. What would it feel like to meet that moment with compassion, curiosity, and an openness to learn? It’s not about having all the answers or doing things perfectly. Sometimes, it’s simply about showing up, being present, and choosing what aligns with your truth. You hold the power to decide what serves you, and how to move forward in a way that honours who you are becoming.

​If you enjoy these reflections and want more insights on reclaiming yourself, subscribe to my newsletter. Each week, I share personal stories and practical wisdom to help you create space for the life you truly want.

If you're reading this on Medium, LinkedIn, or elsewhere, and don’t want to miss a post, subscribe to my blog for direct updates—no algorithms involved.
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If you enjoyed this post, you might also like What Makes You So Afraid of Conflict?, The Hidden Power of Your Conversations: How they are Shaping the World, and How Emotional Maturity Can Free You from Endless Arguments—And Give You Back Your Energy.

While watching the latest episode of The Wheel of Time, I had one of those juicy, resonant moments. Aboard a Sea Folk ship, Nynaeve and Elayne are awed as the Windfinder channels to manipulate the wind, enhancing their voyage. Later, the Sailmistress tells Nynaeve that channeling is like the sea—it cannot be controlled, only surrendered to. This philosophy may help Nynaeve overcome her own block in channeling.

Noticing Nynaeve’s seasickness, the Sailmistress advises, “You plant your feet too firmly, like you're rooted to the spot.” Encouraging her to relax and “make your legs soft,” she helps Nynaeve adjust to the ship’s movement.

She then suggests that Nynaeve’s landlocked upbringing in the Two Rivers has fostered her need for control, which may be blocking her ability to channel. Just as the sea flows freely, so must the One Power—something Nynaeve must embrace if she hopes to master it.

I know that surrendering control and embracing the flow of life—much like the sea—can be deeply transformative. It invites a tantalising shift from rigid expectations and constant striving to a place of deep trust and acceptance. And I do trust that life ultimately works in my favour the more I lean into it. It’s a powerful reminder of the balance between surrender and strength—one that I, too, could benefit from embracing.

But I know this place—this juicy “aha” moment that speaks to my soul—just like every resonant lesson I’ve read in a book or heard in a speech, whether fiction or nonfiction. It sounds wonderful—yes—but how? From years of personal development in my twenties and thirties, I know that deciding to do something is only 20% of the answer. Don’t get me wrong—conscious awareness and a decision to change are crucial—but they’re only the beginning. Well-worn thought and behavioral patterns inevitably step in, convinced they’re keeping us safe.

Yet learning to go with the flow rather than trying to control everything can open up new possibilities and bring greater ease. So, I can’t help but wonder: What does surrender look like in practice? Especially when another hard-won lesson—maintaining healthy boundaries—requires balancing that surrender with self-protection. It’s a delicate but critical equilibrium, particularly for me in areas like parenting and self-care.

Healthy Boundaries vs. Surrendering

As I reflected on Nynaeve’s struggle with surrendering in the context of channeling, I realised it’s about releasing the need to force an outcome and instead allowing things to unfold with trust. In parenting and in life, surrendering doesn’t mean letting go of structure or boundaries. Rather, it’s about attuning to what is happening and adjusting as a result.

1. Parenting: Freedom Within Boundaries
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Surrendering control in parenting doesn’t mean abandoning boundaries. In fact, I always come back to Mary Willow’s wisdom from Plum Parenting: the idea of freedom within boundaries. I picture a farm field with a fence around it—expanding as the child grows.
It’s about recognising when to step back and allow children space to learn, grow, and make mistakes within a safe, supportive structure. Holding boundaries with less rigidity and more trust enables their emotional growth and independence.

For example, if one of my kids is struggling with emotional regulation, my instinct is to step in with solutions (because that feels safe). But now, I try to pause—an uncomfortable practice in itself—and ask, What can I allow here? How can I support them in finding their own way through this? This way, I offer guidance and love without taking away their responsibility for their emotions.

2. Self-Care: Letting Go of Over-Control

For me, surrendering control often means releasing the pressure to manage every detail or outcome—whether it’s a loved one’s health or family dynamics. My default response has always been to over-plan, over-research, and over-manage. Instead, surrendering might look like:

• Letting go (eek) of the urge to fix everything.
• Saying “no” when I need to.
• Creating space for rest and flexibility.

This requires getting comfortable with a new normal—one where I don’t have to have everything figured out all the time, and believe me that’s still not comfortable at this point.

The Balance Between Boundaries & Surrender

Healthy boundaries are essential—not just for me, but for those around me. The key distinction is this: surrendering to life’s flow doesn’t mean neglecting boundaries; it means releasing the need to control every outcome.

For instance, while my instinct may be to step in and fix things for loved ones, trusting them with certain responsibilities (even small ones) fosters growth. At the same time, I must hold clear boundaries around my own energy and time.

Just as Nynaeve had to trust her own strength and act from a place of peace, I, too, can focus on taking only the steps that are mine to take—without feeling like I have to manage everything happening around me. That’s the real work.

Because the truth is, I will feel the compulsion to control. My mind will try very hard to convince me it’s the safe option. Learning to sit with that discomfort—without distracting myself or giving in—is key to rewiring my nervous system. And this is where tools like tapping and other somatic practices can be invaluable.

Empowering Others by Stepping Back

By stepping back and not trying to manage everyone’s actions or outcomes, we empower them to take responsibility rather than relying on us to “fix” things. Over time, this also frees up our own energy to focus on what is within our control—our own boundaries and well-being.

In essence, it's about trusting that by doing what is required of us—and releasing the need to micromanage—we align with our true strength, just as Nynaeve was being advised.

The key is to trust the process and step back even when it feels uncomfortable. Maybe the next step isn’t forcing ourselves to stop fixing outright (which might feel like a loss of control and trigger more stress). Instead, what if we just noticed in real-time when the impulse kicks in?

What if we experimented with small pauses—moments where we catch ourselves wanting to jump in, take a breath, and just observe? Using a simple mantra in these moments can help:

• “Not mine to fix, not mine to hold.”
• “I am safe even if I don’t step in.”

Over time, these small pauses can teach our nervous system that safety doesn’t have to come from control.

Finding the Sweet Spot

In practice, it’s about finding the balance—where we maintain a structure that supports everyone (including ourselves) while remaining flexible to the needs of the moment. Holding space for growth, trust, and learning while staying firm in our values and personal boundaries.

Where in your life do you feel the tension between control and surrender? Are there areas where you’re gripping too tightly—trying to force an outcome? And where might you be holding back when a clearer boundary could serve you better?

What would it feel like to experiment with small pauses—to notice the impulse to step in, take a breath, and trust that not everything needs to be managed?

Remember, true strength lies not in controlling every detail, but in knowing when to hold firm and when to let go.

If you enjoy these reflections and want more insights on reclaiming yourself, subscribe to my newsletter. Each week, I share personal stories and practical wisdom to help you create space for the life you truly want.

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​If you enjoyed this post, you might also like How to Surrender to the More Loving Inner Self, Capable, Successful, Yet Exhausted? You Could Be a High-Functioning Codependent, and What If You Could Relive Life’s Most Precious Moments? How to Embrace the Power of Presence.

As I stand in the middle of our living room, surrounded by piles of books, clothes, and long-forgotten trinkets, with boxes half-filled, a growing donate pile —I hesitate. In theory, downsizing should be simple: keep what serves us, let go of what doesn’t. But in practice? Every object holds a memory, a whisper of the past, a “what if” for the future.

To make the process easier, we agreed on some guiding principles:

• No double-ups.
• Has it been used in the last two years?
• Does it bring joy?
• Am I hanging on to the past?
• Keep rarely used items if they're high-quality, difficult to replace, and align with realistic future needs and passions.
• Books/CDs/DVDs/games/collections/ornaments/LEGO/art—keep only what we love or need.

All with one overarching goal: Let go of what no longer serves us so we have space to grow into our future.

It sounds great in theory. But when faced with a beloved book, an old love letter, or a childhood collection, how do we really decide what’s worth keeping?It’s confronting. We have to let go of the people we were in order to make space to embrace the people we are and are becoming. But what from our past is actually healthy to hold onto? And why?

Take the kids’ LEGO collection. Dozens of sets and free-building pieces galore. They haven’t really touched it in the last two and a half years. I’m thinking we should choose a few pieces particularly special to them and sell the rest. But they don’t want to let it go. The same is happening with various other collections of things.

I get it. I do. I feel the same way about books. There are books I’ve read and enjoyed, but then there are books that spoke to me on a soul level. The Chronicles of Narnia is one of those—stories that hold visceral memories, that shaped something inside me. I also really loved reading Percy Jackson with the kids, but it didn’t stir my soul the way C.S. Lewis did. So I’m thinking—maybe I don’t need reams of fiction. Maybe I just want the odd few books that truly matter.

Non-fiction is different. Books like Gabor Maté’s Scattered Minds are well-thumbed and revisited. And there’s something inherently valuable about books—they need no other instrument than the mind to unlock them. If, in some dystopian future, society is dumbed down at the flick of a switch, I’d be glad of my books.

Sorting through the clutter in our home, I realised how much emotional baggage we carry too. I came across a bundle of old love letters—reminders of different versions of myself, different chapters of my life. Years ago, after a painful separation, they reassured me that I had been loved, that I deserved better than what I had been settling for. But now? I don’t need all of them—just one from each person as a keepsake perhaps, a thread in the tapestry of my past.

The things we keep “just in case” aren’t just physical. We carry old wounds, regrets, and attachments long after they’ve served their purpose.

But keeping something “just in case” or out of guilt is different from keeping something because it enriches our lives now. The same applies to the emotions and behavioural patterns we hold onto—are they still serving us, or are they just taking up space?

So much energy goes into keeping parts of our past hidden away, untouched. Whether it’s an old belief, an old hurt, or an old object, letting go frees up space—physically, emotionally, mentally.

It’s no coincidence, I’m sure, that right now the Sun is conjunct Chiron in my chart—a transit that shines a light on old wounds, offering the chance to heal. This whole process feels like an invitation to look at what I’m still carrying and ask:

Do I still need this? What am I keeping because it still serves me? What am I letting go of so I can grow into my future? That’s the real question.

It was opportune, then, that one of my favourite authors, Belinda Alexandra, shared a piece in her Intentionalist newsletter this week about decluttering our past—both physically and emotionally. She described emotional baggage much like overpacking for a trip:

"Just as overpacking for holidays is often due to anxiety and fear of the unknown, so is the emotional baggage many of us haul through our lives: Everything from a chip on the shoulder and resentment to unhealed trauma and unresolved grief."

She then posed some powerful questions to help identify what we’re still carrying unnecessarily:

1. What emotional weight have you been carrying for some time but don’t know how to let go of?
2. How is this baggage affecting you today? Is it stopping you from fully living?
3. If this baggage were suddenly taken away—lost in transit, never to return—would you feel relief?

These resonated deeply. Just as I’ve asked myself whether I truly need to keep certain books or keepsakes, I’m now asking: what other emotional “stuff” am I holding onto? And why?

Belinda and Kelly Morton  also shared some great strategies for letting go:

• Have a meeting with your brain. Write down what your mind keeps bringing up from the past, acknowledge it, and then decide how you’ll respond differently in the future.
• Walk alongside your grief. Instead of feeling you must either move on or mourn, allow both to exist. You can honour the past while embracing what’s ahead.
• Get fully into the present. The best way to let go of baggage is to make the present so fulfilling that the past no longer weighs you down.

I love this practical approach. It aligns so well with what I’m experiencing as I physically declutter—letting go of the old to create space for the new.

So, what am I still holding onto?

Physically, for years, I’ve kept my old wedding dress—the one that was lovingly made for me in the exact style and fabric I’d dreamed of. Alongside it, ball gowns I’d searched for and worn to events that once felt so significant. I’ve also held onto medals from my swimming days and awards for leadership in customer experience transformation. Proof of achievements, of effort, of moments when I felt seen.

But I’ve realised it’s not just the physical things that weigh me down—it’s the emotional and behavioural patterns too.

One of the hardest things for me to let go of is the need to argue my point. Growing up, explaining the “why” was often necessary and got me results; it was a safety pattern, a way to be heard. But as I wrote last week, some arguments are one-sided. If the other person refuses to see beyond their own beliefs, it’s like talking to a wall. No matter how much logic or truth you present, they will twist, deflect, or dismiss—not because you’re wrong, but because they’re unwilling to see another side.

And so, just as I’m sorting through what physical items still serve me, I’m doing the same internally. Some things are worth keeping. Others, it’s time to let go.

Because in the end, decluttering isn’t just about creating physical space—it’s about freeing ourselves to step fully into who we’re becoming.

So, what about you? What are you still holding onto—physically, emotionally, or even in the stories you tell yourself? And what might shift if you finally let it go?

If you enjoy these reflections and want more insights on reclaiming yourself, subscribe to my newsletter. Each week, I share personal stories and practical wisdom to help you create space for the life you truly want.

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​If you enjoyed this post, you might also like From Endings to Beginnings: Let Go to Embrace New Possibilities, How to Let Go of Your Attachment to Your Feelings, Expectations and Beliefs and Is It Time to Let Go of the Idea That You Are Needed? Embrace Being Wanted.

Helen Mirren is widely quoted as once saying, rather pointedly:

"Before you argue with someone, ask yourself, is that person even mentally mature enough to grasp the concept of a different perspective? Because if not, there's absolutely no point."

The aspect of mental maturity is an interesting one. The quote is commonly expanded (but not directly attributed to Helen Mirren), adding:

“Not every argument is worth your energy. Sometimes, no matter how clearly you express yourself, the other person isn’t listening to understand—they’re listening to react. They’re stuck in their own perspective, unwilling to consider another viewpoint, and engaging with them only drains you.

There’s a difference between a healthy discussion and a pointless debate. A conversation with someone who is open-minded, who values growth and understanding, can be enlightening—even if you don’t agree. But trying to reason with someone who refuses to see beyond their own beliefs? That’s like talking to a wall. No matter how much logic or truth you present, they will twist, deflect, or dismiss your words, not because you’re wrong, but because they’re unwilling to see another side.

Maturity isn’t about who wins an argument—it’s about knowing when an argument isn’t worth having. It’s realising that your peace is more valuable than proving a point to someone who has already decided they won’t change their mind.”

I’ve noticed that—even with the most mature among us—there are times when we are open-minded and present, and times when we are not, depending on what else is going on in our head, heart, and life. Recognising this ebb and flow has helped me become more discerning about where I invest my energy.

The Above the Line vs. Below the Line Model

One of my kids has been learning about Above the Line vs. Below the Line thinking at school, and it’s a simple yet powerful model for understanding how our mindset affects our communication, behaviour, and relationships.

Above the Line Thinking:

• Curious – Willing to learn and understand others.
• Open – Receptive to feedback, change, and new perspectives.
• Responsible – Taking ownership of our actions and responses.
• Solution-Focused – Looking for ways to move forward rather than dwelling on problems.

When we operate Above the Line, we engage in constructive conversations, build trust, and act with integrity.

Below the Line Thinking:

• Blaming – Shifting responsibility to others.
• Reacting – Acting out of emotion rather than responding thoughtfully.
• Defending – Protecting our ego or viewpoint, even at the expense of truth.
• Resisting – Rejecting new ideas or feedback, remaining closed to growth.

When we slip Below the Line, communication breaks down, trust erodes, and conflicts become circular rather than productive.

Recognising High-Conflict Patterns

While we all move above and below the line at times, some people seem to operate habitually Below the Line. High-conflict individuals tend to display patterns such as:

• Blame and Victimhood – Rarely taking responsibility, positioning themselves as victims while blaming others.
• All-or-Nothing Thinking – Seeing situations in extremes (e.g., "You're either with me or against me").
• Persistent Conflict – Ongoing disputes with multiple people, often over minor issues.
• Lack of Insight – Struggling to self-reflect or acknowledge their role in problems.
• Avoiding Repair – Refusing to apologise or engage in genuine resolution.

Most people display one or two of these traits occasionally, but when it becomes a pattern, it signals a deeper issue—one that isn’t likely to shift without significant self-awareness and effort on their part.

The Anxious-Avoidant Dance

Another dynamic I’ve personally encountered is what Brianna MacWilliam calls the Anxious-Avoidant Dance:

• Anxiously attached individuals—those who grew up uncertain about whether their emotional needs would be met—often crave closeness, emotional connection, and reassurance in relationships. They may feel overly responsible for maintaining that connection.
• Avoidantly attached individuals, on the other hand, typically developed in environments where emotional needs were either dismissed or overwhelming. As a result, they tend to prioritise independence and often shut down or withdraw when emotional discomfort arises.

These patterns are shaped by early experiences but affect all of us in different ways, influencing how we navigate relationships, handle conflict, and seek (or avoid) emotional intimacy. What’s important to note is that either of these attachment styles can contribute to high-conflict situations. The anxious individual may over-function emotionally, seeking validation and connection, while the avoidant partner withdraws, creating an exhausting push-pull cycle. Understanding these patterns is key to breaking out of unproductive relational dynamics and shifting toward healthier, more balanced interactions.

The holy grail of attachment is secure attachment—where we feel safe, valued, and able to navigate relationships with both closeness and independence. However, most of us fall somewhere on a spectrum between anxious and avoidant attachment, shaped by our early experiences. Rather than being fixed labels, these patterns reflect the ways we've learned to seek connection or protect ourselves.

These attachment patterns often manifest in the Above the Line vs. Below the Line dynamic. When we act from emotional patterns rather than curiosity and responsibility, we inadvertently fuel the cycle of anxiety and avoidance, leaving us stuck in frustrating relational loops.

When we’re caught in these patterns, the Above vs. Below the Line model can be a useful tool for assessing whether a misalignment is temporary or a deeper relational issue. If someone repeatedly sidesteps accountability, resists repair, and leaves you carrying the emotional weight, it may be time to re-evaluate how much energy you want to invest. The good news? With self-awareness and intentional effort, we can move toward greater security, fostering healthier, more balanced relationships.

The Role of Presence Over Solutions

And as I was reminded this week, sometimes the most powerful thing we can offer isn’t advice or solutions but steadfast presence. I read:

"Our ability to listen without judgment creates a sanctuary where healing can naturally unfold. Remember that vulnerability, when shared in safe connection, becomes a profound source of strength and mutual understanding."

This resonated deeply. So often, the best thing we can do is simply hold space for someone—without trying to fix, convince, or change them. Just being a steady, nonjudgmental presence can be more powerful than any words we might offer.

When someone is overwhelmed or emotionally triggered, their nervous system can enter a heightened state, making it difficult for them to process what's being said. In these moments, our presence becomes not just a tool for connection, but also a way of creating safety. By simply being there without the pressure to fix or resolve immediately, we allow space for the other person to ground themselves and eventually engage more meaningfully.

That said, this only applies when mutual understanding is possible. Some people, due to their own patterns and defences, may not be capable of true reciprocity in relationships. In those cases, no amount of patience, presence, or validation will shift the dynamic. Recognising this can be just as important as learning when to hold space.

Knowing When to Engage and When to Step Back

When we’re in a situation where we're not being heard or validated, we have a few options for how to respond:

• Let it be what it is: Accept that the person operates this way and decide whether we can engage while expecting less emotional accountability. This might mean keeping conversations more surface-level or focusing on practical topics rather than emotional ones.
• Address it directly: If the lack of emotional accountability is something we truly want to shift, we can name the pattern. For instance, we might say:
  "Hey, I noticed we never circled back to last week's conversation. I’m finding it hard to just move forward without some kind of repair or acknowledgment. That’s important to me in friendships—how do you see it?"
• Step back emotionally: If confrontation isn’t necessary, we can step back emotionally without making a big deal of it. We might engage less, respond less, and let the relationship naturally shift if it no longer meets our needs in a fulfilling way.

No matter what path we choose, emotional maturity requires self-awareness and the courage to make decisions that protect our well-being. Recognising when to step back is just as important as knowing when to engage. By understanding our own patterns and setting healthy boundaries, we can avoid burnout and cultivate more balanced, mutually respectful relationships.

In summary

Ultimately, mental maturity requires emotional maturity. It isn’t about always being Above the Line—it’s about recognising when we’ve dropped below and choosing to shift back. It’s about knowing when a conversation is worth having and when someone isn’t open to genuine engagement.

When we start paying attention to these patterns—both in ourselves and others—we reclaim our energy, establish healthier boundaries, and cultivate relationships rooted in mutual trust, repair, and understanding.

When we recognise the patterns that lead to frustration—whether it's feeling dismissed, unheard, or lacking the reassurance we need—we can reclaim the energy we've been expending on trying to make ourselves understood. Emotional maturity isn't just about avoiding arguments; it's about understanding when we're seeking validation and when we’re simply not being listened to.

Now think about the relationships in your life. Are there moments when you feel like your thoughts and feelings go unacknowledged? What if you could step back from the need for constant validation and focus on cultivating self-assurance, while still finding ways to communicate effectively?

By becoming more emotionally mature, we gain the power to navigate these moments with grace and understanding. The question is—how can you begin shifting these patterns to create more fulfilling, validating connections in your life?

If you're reading this on Medium, LinkedIn, or another platform and would like to receive regular updates directly (and reliably) rather than relying on algorithms, you can subscribe to my blog to be the first to receive new posts. Each week, I share personal reflections and insights that connect what's happening in my life with the topics I explore.

If you enjoyed this post, you might also like How to Make Your Communication Clean, Open and Honest and Get What You Want, The Hidden Power of Your Conversations: How they are Shaping the World and How Embracing Vulnerability Can Empower Your Personal Growth.

Have you ever found yourself in a challenging moment—whether it's an argument with a loved one, a challenge from a colleague, or criticism from a teacher? In these moments, we can either fall into old patterns of denying, blaming, or deflecting, or we can take responsibility and grow from the experience. It’s a choice that can shift everything, but it requires vulnerability.

After years of inner work and personal healing, it feels like these challenging moments are coming thick and fast at the moment. They seem to be arriving now to help my nervous system integrate new wiring. The pace feels intense, and it’s far from comfortable, but I suspect it’s part of the process of growing into new ways of being.

This week, I’ve reflected on a series of messages and ideas that, when combined, seem to be calling me to reframe my perspective on growth, vulnerability, power, and progress. A quote from A Del of a Life by David Jason resonated deeply with me: "While you're in the middle of cracking on with it, it's easy to lose a sense of how much living you've done." I often get so caught up in the next task or goal that I forget to acknowledge how far I’ve come.

This led me to another realisation about how we’ve been conditioned to give our power away to external circumstances. We often believe that we can only feel good when something “good” happens. I catch myself thinking, “When I do this, then I’ll feel happy,” or “Once we’ve finished that, then I’ll have more space.” This mindset traps us in a cycle of waiting for change to shift our emotions. But what if we can access the power to shape our emotional state from within, without needing external events to dictate how we feel?

As I reflected further on these thoughts, I encountered a powerful message from Sounds True publishing house that shifted my perspective even more:

"One of the reasons you’re here is to stand out and make an impact. Your entire life has prepared you for this moment. The question is: Will you go forward, or will you stay in the same place? If you are like many of us, you may have been singled out for your differences when you were younger or even now because you thought for yourself and had a growth mindset. While in the past, these differences might have been seen as weaknesses, today they can set you apart. They make you a leader. They can help you become a person of influence in your own sphere."

That message ignited something in me. It made me realise that the struggles and challenges I once viewed as weaknesses can now be reframed as strengths—strengths that propel me forward. Even more, I feel a responsibility to use those struggles as powerful tools for growth.

This reflection reminded me to shift from a passive stance of letting circumstances dictate my emotions to adopting a more active, empowered mindset. The very qualities that once made me feel “different” are now my greatest assets, helping me shape the future I desire.

Embracing this shift has become a real-time experiment in taking control of my emotional state, rather than waiting for external changes to “fix” me. It's challenging, especially when moments of tension arise. In the past, I might have instinctively deflected, shifted blame, or even played the victim, not because I saw them as those qualities, but because I would have felt justified in my point of view, seeing it through the lens of old patterning.

Let me give an example of where my own, old fears kept me from seeing a situation as it truly was. Renting a home is something relatively new to me; for most of my adult life, I’ve owned property, which felt secure. In the last few years, I’ve had to rent due to shifting circumstances and priorities, and that was fine until, only 18 months into a tenancy, the landlords—who had previously said they intended to keep the property as an investment for at least five years—also had shifting priorities and decided to move in themselves.

I had very little notice, and it happened just a few weeks out from Christmas, so it wasn’t the greatest time of year to move. However, I made it all happen, and we moved into a new rental. It took a huge amount of energy and came at an emotional and financial cost. So once I moved, I made it a priority to ask the owners about their plans, and they explained they plan to retire to the property one day in the future after selling their business (which they had no immediate plans to sell).

Then I got a bit shaky when we had a flood and everything didn’t get sorted according to the timeline the property manager had conveyed. That radio silence reminded me of the silence from my previous landlord in the run-up to their decision to move into the last place. So, off I went looking online to see whether the owners had their business for sale, and I found a listing that had been up for some months. That was a year ago. I mentioned it to the property manager, but they were unaware of any plans.

So for the last year, I thought the owner’s business was on the market and felt that, at any moment, the ground might move beneath my feet. It wasn’t until my loved-one’s heart attack that I sought official clarification because I knew the latest listing had a deadline sale, and I wanted to be prepared if we had to make alternate plans.

It turns out that their business is not for sale, only the land and buildings they operate from, which comes with a lease for their business until 2060. They still have no current plans to sell their business and move in here. All that worry for nothing. And when I reread the real estate advertisements, I could clearly see what I hadn’t seen in my previous state.

There are so many situations in life like that, where we get triggered by something a colleague said and blow it way out of proportion in our minds because our childhood had trained us to be hypervigilant and alert to threats to safety, or we get defensive about something a friend did or didn’t say, assuming motives that are through a damaged lens of old beliefs about whether we are worthy humans, or we get controlling as we get stressed because that is how we feel safe in our bodies, the list is endless. I now see these moments as opportunities to stand firm in my emotional power (rather than fear) and take responsibility for how I choose to respond.

Then, I came across another powerful idea that really resonated with me in terms of growth:

"The universe is urging a fearless inventory of your soul. What lies beneath your polished facade? How much longer will you hide your vulnerabilities, convinced they weaken you? It’s precisely these tender spaces, your perceived imperfections, where real strength and powerful connections reside."

This idea was a call to embrace what I had been hiding, to confront the vulnerabilities I had been avoiding. It challenged me to take risks--to trust someone who genuinely deserves it, to allow myself to depend on another without the armor of skepticism. It asked me to listen not only to my heart but also to the deeper truths of my spirit, and to bravely express my true desires.

A few days later, a situation arose that forced me to put this into practice. Instead of defaulting to frustration or self-justification, I paused, assessed, and chose to respond differently. Though uncomfortable, this pause allowed me to reconnect with a part of myself that had been buried under the chaos of past reactions. By approaching the situation as something new—an act of vulnerability in itself, rather than dismissing it as 'just another familiar bit of nonsense'—I realised how much room there is for growth in those uncomfortable moments.

This reflection on vulnerability led to a deeper conversation with a close friend of mine, one that challenged me to examine the nuances I hadn’t fully looked at before. My friend views vulnerability as a core part of connection, believing that sharing openly and often fosters authenticity and growth—both individually and in relationships. For them, embracing vulnerability is a strength, a way to break through barriers and truly see others beneath the surface.

However, I approach vulnerability with more caution. For me, it’s not about blanket openness but rather a deliberate choice. It’s a balance between being true to myself and knowing when to protect certain parts of my inner world. Over time, I’ve learned that vulnerability isn’t something to share indiscriminately. Instead, it’s about discerning when and where it’s safe to open up. This isn’t rooted in fear but in wisdom and self-preservation—ensuring my energy and emotional space are protected.

What stood out in our conversation was the realisation that vulnerability can be both a bridge and a boundary. While I recognise the power of openness in building connections, I also see value in restraint. Sometimes, choosing to hold back isn’t about hiding but about creating space where we can decide when and how to reveal ourselves. In this way, vulnerability becomes an act of self-respect—choosing to share on our own terms, rather than for the sake of sharing itself.

As Sounds True reminds us, embracing differences—and even challenges—can help us step into the roles we are meant to play in this world. By embracing both our strengths and vulnerabilities, we unlock deeper self-awareness, and what once seemed like insurmountable barriers can become gateways to progress.

So, what about you? How do you approach vulnerability in your own life? Do you allow it to be a source of strength, or do you shy away from it, fearing discomfort or rejection? Growth isn’t about waiting for the perfect moment—it’s about stepping into the discomfort and choosing to see it as an opportunity rather than a threat. What if the very thing you’ve been avoiding—whether it’s an honest conversation, a bold decision, or a leap of faith—is the key to unlocking your next level? The question isn’t whether you’ll face challenges, but whether you’ll meet them with old patterns or a new, empowered mindset. Will you keep waiting, or will you take the next step forward?

If you're reading this on Medium, LinkedIn, or another platform and would like to receive regular updates directly (and reliably) rather than relying on algorithms, you can subscribe to my blog to be the first to receive new posts. Each week, I share personal reflections and insights that connect what's happening in my life with the topics I explore.

If you enjoyed this post, you might also like Reclaim Your Voice - How to Break Free from the Inner Critic, Capable, Successful, Yet Exhausted? You Could Be a High-Functioning Codependent How Childhood Imprints Shape Your Relationships (and How to Break Free).

I watched About Time this week, a 2013 romantic science fiction comedy-drama film written and directed by Richard Curtis, starring Domhnall Gleeson, Rachel McAdams, and Bill Nighy. It’s about a young man who discovers he can travel through time, but only to past moments in his own life. He uses this gift to improve his love life, but soon learns that no matter how much you try to change things, the real beauty lies in appreciating the moments you have. It was an exquisite reminder to savor life as it is, with all its imperfections, and embrace every fleeting moment.

Towards the end of the movie, he uses his gift to go back for short visits and relive precious moments with a loved one who is dying. It was a beautiful way to grieve. I immediately thought, “If I could travel back in my own life, which moments would I want to relive?”

The first person that came to mind was my gran, who died almost four decades ago when I was only a young teen. My grandad also passed that year from a massive heart attack. He was there one minute, sitting in his armchair, gone the next. I think the shock of it led my gran to have a stroke in the weeks that followed, and she too was gone within a few months of my grandad’s passing.

I remember my gran well—she was a kind and generous person. We would visit her every Saturday, and she’d always try to get the pancakes made before we arrived, knowing we’d want to play with the mixture and make our own creations. But she always had fresh baking ready for us—it was a wonderful experience in a world that, at the time, felt a bit scarce.

Not long before my grandad passed, I remember one day she said to me in her Lanarkshire lilt, “Oh hen, I’m no’ long fur this world.” I think I responded with something like, “Oh, don’t say that, gran,” because they both seemed quite well and were enjoying life. When my grandad had his heart attack, they’d just come back from a wonderful holiday in Jersey, looking healthy and tanned.

I remember the last time I spoke to her clearly. We had driven overnight to our annual summer holiday destination, and as gran was prone to worry, I asked if I could phone her to let her know we’d arrived safely. I can still remember how that ten-pence piece felt in my hand as I pushed it into the phone booth. When she answered, I said, “Hi gran! We’ve arrived.” The next week, she had her stroke, and my dad had to drive home.

Oh, how I wish I could have one more conversation with her, just to fix the look and smell of her in my memory.

But then, in the movie, the main character discovers that if he traveled back further than the birth of his own kids, a minor alteration could mean a different sperm would meet the egg, and his kids wouldn’t be the same. Now that’s an interesting proposition. What if we could travel back through our lifetime, but going back before our kids were born could result in different children?

Now, don’t get me wrong—there are times when that idea feels sorely tempting—but my instant thought was, “A moment with gran that could risk coming back to different children? Nope.” I think I would spend my whole life grieving the children I’d lost while trying to get to know the new ones instead. Just nope.

But his father’s advice to live each day with all its tensions and challenges, then go back and relive the same day without changing anything, was priceless. Knowing how things play out takes away a lot of our fears. The tension arises when we don’t know how each challenge—no matter how minor—will unfold.

So when he relived his days, he did so from a much more present and relaxed place. Even when things went wrong for him or his loved ones, he built confidence that every moment had its place in the story of life.

One of our close family members is getting married next year, and I had just been sharing that about my own wedding day. I remember getting to the end of it and wishing I could relive it all the next day so I could really soak it in.

Even with my children going through school, I noticed that I was much more relaxed about one of them doing a seven-hour hike this week than I was this time last year when the teacher took the class on a similar feat. I was worried that their lack of experience with walking that kind of distance, combined with asthma challenges, would be risky. But I also wanted them to know they could do hard things, face challenges, and overcome them. This time around, I had much more confidence they could.

The question then arises: how can we live each day with the same trust and relaxed confidence that experience gives us? By the same token, I know it’s our early experiences that shape the fears wired into our nervous systems. Our ability to be present depends as much on confronting our own wiring—questioning whether the reality of a situation truly warrants our reaction—as it does on breathing deeply and noticing what is actually happening in front of us. It’s in that balance, between mindful awareness and confronting our automatic responses, that we can find a deeper sense of presence.

So, what if we could live each day with that same presence and ease, as though we could always go back and relive moments with a deeper awareness? Maybe we can’t travel through time, but we do have the power to choose how we show up in the present. Every challenge, every moment—whether it’s a small decision or a major life event—offers us a chance to be more mindful, more connected to what really matters. It’s easy to get caught in the rush of life, but the real magic lies in being fully present. So, my challenge to you is simple: today, take a moment to truly be here. Notice what’s happening right now, without judgment or fear, and embrace it as part of your story. Because in the end, that’s all we really have—the moments as they unfold... whether we try to resist them or surrender to them. The choice is ours.

If you're reading this on Medium, LinkedIn, or another platform and would like to receive regular updates directly (and reliably) rather than relying on algorithms, you can subscribe to my blog to be the first to receive new posts. Each week, I share personal reflections and insights that connect what's happening in my life with the topics I explore.

If you enjoyed this post, you might also like Give Yourself the Gift of Presence to Relieve the Torture of Stress, Presence Your True Needs, Talents and Desires to Step Into the State of Fullness and Is Your Peace of Mind in Flux? 7 Ways to Ground Yourself With Grace.

Every year around my birthday, I take a moment to reflect—on the year that’s passed, the lessons learned, and what I want to create moving forward. And every year, I’m struck by how life throws unexpected twists our way, shifting our course in an instant.

This year is no exception. Here in the Southern Hemisphere, the school year aligns with the calendar year, and once the kids return after summer, life settles into its familiar rhythm of school, commutes, work, and routine. Just as that rhythm was beginning to take hold, I got word that the person I share my life most closely with had a heart attack.

As heart attacks go, thankfully, this wasn’t a catastrophic event—it was caught early, and a couple of stents were put in quite quickly, with another procedure to follow in a few weeks. Their recovery is looking promising, which is a relief.

But what I’m acutely aware of is just how stressed, overwhelmed, and triggered I’ve been in relation to it all. One great thing about years of inner work is that I can now recognise when I’m triggered—when my reaction is shaped more by old beliefs than by the present reality. Trying to sift through “what’s a healthy, natural reaction” versus “what’s a conditioned response based on old patterns” is key to healing.

For example, in the aftermath, I became very aware of the conversations happening around me—particularly around medications. It was clear that everyone was speaking from a place of love and concern, wanting the best outcome. But underneath, I felt a tension about treatment choices, particularly the dynamic between pharmaceuticals versus natural support.

What I realised was that this touched on something deeper for me—an old sensitivity around the perception that holistic approaches are somehow ‘less than’ conventional medicine. It wasn’t about any individual but about the broader cultural conditioning that often frames medical choices in an either/or way rather than an integrated approach. That framing—whether spoken outright or implied—was triggering, not because of anyone’s intent, but because it echoed past experiences where my perspective was dismissed or misunderstood.

That was just one layer. I was already in a heightened state, so the triggers kept coming. Even something as simple as fishermen casting their lines far back from the shoreline, forcing walkers to detour, felt like an unnecessary imposition. It was a sign of how tightly wound I was.

Finding myself navigating a series of unexpected changes left me feeling more overwhelmed than I anticipated. What began as a rare opportunity for solitude quickly turned into a cascade of adjustments as plans shifted. In the midst of it all, the assumption that my time and energy were available without question really bothered me. I’ve come to realise that boundaries aren’t just about saying “no”; they’re about ensuring my time and energy are respected.

Amid the emotional complexity of the situation, it also highlighted the practical aspects of relationships—especially when it comes to decisions involving both health and family matters. These experiences have prompted us to reflect on how we can ensure we’re truly recognised as partners.

And unsurprisingly, I found myself diving deep into the need to control everything I could. My mind latched onto the details—the anatomy of the heart, the medications, the best ways to offer support. It was a coping mechanism, but it also led to physical manifestations of stress—tightness in my back and neck, areas linked to the balance between giving and receiving.

What I’ve realised is that while I’ve been hyper-aware of my triggers, I haven’t actually started processing my emotions. My mind has been in overdrive—understanding, analysing, problem-solving—but my emotions are still sitting beneath the surface, waiting to be acknowledged.

When I look at the Feelings Wheel (originally created by Dr Gloria Wilcox), I can see how much I’ve been holding. Under Surprise, I’ve felt shock, confusion, dismay, and disillusionment. Under Happiness, I’ve felt gratitude, relief, curiosity, love, hope, trust, and optimism. But I’ve also felt every shade of Fear—scared, anxious, insecure, helpless, frightened, overwhelmed, worried, inadequate, and even excluded. Anger surfaced when I was triggered—frustration, judgment, withdrawal, and moments of feeling disrespected. And underlying it all is stress.

The person in my life with whom I share a healthy balance of giving and receiving is temporarily out of action, and that leaves a lot to process and carry. But I’m also deeply grateful that they are still here—and that I have others to support me too. What I also recognise is that some of my emotions are the result of a healthy reaction to a traumatic situations, other feelings arose because I was seeing certain situations through the lens of subconscious beliefs – like “I’m not heard” or “I’m not seen” or “I’m not enough” which signals there is still some inner work to do for me there.

I recently listened to The Emotional Life of Your Brain with Dr. Richard J. Davidson and Tami Simon, which explores the neuroscience behind emotional resilience. I also took the HMI Emotional Styles Quiz, and the results were an interesting reflection of where I’m at right now.

One of my strongest areas is Sensitivity to Context—I naturally adjust to different social situations, picking up on the unspoken rules and expectations of each interaction. But the area that stood out as a growth opportunity was Self-Awareness. While I have a solid foundation, the results suggested that I sometimes act or react without fully understanding why. And that resonates.

Right now, I can recognise that I’m on high alert, but I haven’t yet sat with the deeper emotions underneath. I’ve been so focused on holding things together—on making sense of everything—that I haven’t created space to feel.

And that’s what I want to lean into. Not just understanding my responses intellectually but allowing myself to process what this experience has actually felt like. Because resilience isn’t just about bouncing back—it’s about integrating what we’ve been through in a way that truly honours our emotional experience.

This whole experience has reinforced what I’ve long believed: true healing isn’t about choosing between pharmaceuticals and natural medicine—it’s about integrating both. While conventional medicine excels in emergencies, long-term well-being depends on reducing stress, supporting the body’s natural healing processes, and addressing root causes rather than just symptoms. Every medication places a burden on the body, so complementary support is essential. But most importantly, how we manage stress directly impacts our health. Emotional processing and resilience aren’t just abstract concepts; they’re central to healing.

So, as I move forward, my focus isn’t just on supporting my loved one’s recovery—it’s also on allowing myself to soften into my own experience. To give myself the same care and compassion I so readily extend to others. To trust that I don’t have to hold it all. Because true resilience isn’t about carrying the weight alone—it’s about knowing when to let go.

As you reflect on your own life, I encourage you to take a moment to pause and consider:

What’s holding you together in times of crisis, and what’s unraveling beneath the surface?

Are there old beliefs or patterns that you’re carrying, influencing how you respond to life’s unexpected twists? Perhaps it’s time to acknowledge not just the stress, but the emotions beneath it—the fear, the frustration, the love, and the hope.

Ask yourself: How can you start to soften into your own experience, just as you would for someone you love? Where do you need to give yourself the same compassion you extend to others? And what will it take to trust that letting go, not carrying it all alone, is a powerful act of resilience?

Take a few minutes, jot down what comes to mind, and allow yourself to feel whatever surfaces. This process of reflection is where true healing begins.

If you're reading this on Medium, LinkedIn, or another platform and would like to receive regular updates directly (and reliably) rather than relying on algorithms, you can subscribe to my blog to be the first to receive new posts. Each week, I share personal reflections and insights that connect what's happening in my life with the topics I explore.

If you enjoyed this post, you might also like Are You Ignoring Your Body's Warning Signs? Tap into the Power of Restorative Energy, When Life Throws Curveballs... Embrace the Twists and Turns of Parenthood with Confidence and Beyond the Silver Bullet - Embrace the Upward Spiral of Transformation.

Image by wal_172619 from Pixabay

“Before we can be enslaved, we must first believe we are to be bound.” — The Woman King

The Internal Chains We Carry

Watching The Woman King this week stirred something deep. That line struck me. It speaks to how external oppression seeps into the mind and keeps us imprisoned long after the chains are gone. I see this in myself: I’ve internalised my own version of chains from childhood, as do we all.

The voices of our earliest years, our parents, teachers, champions, taunters, they often stay with us, internalised in our subconscious, and if we look hard, we can find these are the voices driving many of our reactions today – for better or worse.

I hardly need external critics when my own inner critic does the job so well. But perhaps those external voices—the ones that judge, dismiss, or control—are merely reflections of what’s happening inside. The way the voices in my head respond initially are often a projection of the anger I’ve carried for years— I notice where my nervous system remains on high alert, where I react strongly to invasions of my space, perceived weakness, or when my autonomy is overridden. That impulse to lash out when I feel unsafe or invaded is not just about others infringing on my space, but a direct result of unresolved anger directed inward for so long.

Softening control is a significant part of my journey. If love and connection require vulnerability, then staying in control isolates me, keeping me in a state of tension. By the same token, being boundary-less is where my allergic reaction to intrusions derives from. The path forward isn’t about more control—it’s about softening in some areas while holding healthy boundaries.

Privilege: A Hidden Shackle

Then there’s my privilege. The first time I truly examined it was five years ago, during my own shadow work. I’d long been aware of being silenced, overlooked, and expected to conform. But privilege? That took a while to see. Layla F. Saad’s Me and White Supremacy cracked something open.

Privilege isn’t just about wealth or power; it’s about the things we take for granted—the spaces we move through without fear, the assumptions made in our favour, the unseen structures shaping our lives in ways we rarely notice. I’d believed in the myth that hard work alone determines success. That illusion shattered when I realised how much of the playing field had been set before the game even started.

What strikes me is how oppression mirrors our inner world. Just as systemic forces either hold people down or afford us privilege, so too do the voices inside us that whisper, “You can’t. You shouldn’t. You don’t deserve.” We internalise these limitations, just as history has conditioned people to accept their place.

The Collective and Personal Struggle

History belongs to the victors. This truth struck me again recently when I read about a leather boot found in the snow—belonging to Andrew Irvine—which could challenge the long-accepted story of Sir Edmund Hillary’s first ascent of Everest. He and his compatriot, George Mallory, may have actually reached the summit in the first documented ascent of the world’s tallest mountain in 1924. Again, note the word documented. It may be that Sir Edmund was simply the first to make it to the peak and back again alive to tell his tale.

I’ve long pondered how much of what we accept as history is shaped by those who have the means—whether through survival, access to resources, or societal position—to record and disseminate their perspective. Imagine the narratives that run through a family line: one framing an event as “a failed attempt,” another as “a successful ascent.” The rediscovery of Irvine’s boot challenges accepted history, much as we can challenge our internal narratives that shape us—unshackling ourselves from long-held limitations.

I just finished reading The Women, a novel by Kristin Hannah, which acknowledges the contributions of women who served in Vietnam. I also read a lot by Soraya Lane, who has written many novels about the roles women played during WWII, from pilots to spies and many others. These stories weren’t absent from history—they were simply unrecorded. In The Great Cosmic Mother, Monica Sjöö and Barbara Mor explore how women’s voices have been erased, their stories rewritten or silenced. But I’ve noticed a shift—there are more books, like those written by Kristin and Soraya, and films now bringing these stories into the light.

From Moana to The Woman King, I’m drawn to stories of women reclaiming their power. These narratives give voice to the anger that arises from a history of conditioning, where people are taught to accept their limitations. Those voices of conditioning don’t just silence us—they provoke fury. I feel the heat of it when I recognise the limitations that no longer serve me, yet I’ve internalised them.

As a child, I was angry because I had little autonomy. I had to conform to the expectations of my home, school, and society—my survival depended on it – and so I suppressed it. But as an adult, I now see the chains I’ve continued to carry, believing they were mine to bear. And that recognition stirs not only anger at the systems that shaped this reality but also frustration with myself and the internal voices that still keep me small.

That anger is rooted in a truth I haven’t fully embraced: I am worthy of more, and this internal subjugation is not the end of my story. Then, I catch that anger spilling out, projected onto others in ways that are an overreaction or a misinterpretation of their intent. These voices don’t just disappear—they are deeply ingrained. But we can become aware of them, seek support to process the anger and grief, and take intentional steps toward cultivating a different, empowering voice.

This is not just personal; it’s collective. Our personal journey mirrors larger societal issues. In The Woman King, the line, “For the British and Americans to put us in chains, we must first believe we are to be bound,” speaks to the psychological manipulation that was central to the transatlantic slave trade. When a people are made to believe subjugation is their inevitable fate, the forces of colonisation can more easily impose that reality. This speaks to the power of systemic oppression and how deeply it can shape one’s self perception, sense of worth, and ability to resist.

The reality that the British did not directly enslave people in Africa and instead relied on African tribal leaders, merchants, and middlemen to capture or purchase people from rival tribes highlights the extent of psychological manipulation. This complicates our understanding of the system—it wasn’t just an external force but one that was perpetuated, to some degree, by internal structures and dynamics. It’s a sobering reflection on how oppression can be entangled in layers, with people playing roles that further entrench it, whether consciously or unconsciously.

History offers many examples of systemic oppression, from colonialism to apartheid, even COVID-19, where external forces manipulate existing fears and insecurities to divide people. The question is—how many of us, even when the external chains are removed, remain prisoners in our own minds? The layers of oppression and psychological manipulation we face often shape our ability to heal and grow.

But, as Anne McNaughten beautifully put it:

“If we deny ourselves the chance to feel pain, we can never heal it. The world is full of people who never healed past pains because they can't cross that threshold. Like a sound barrier, it may be bumpy as we pass through, but what's on the other side is a heart so free and capable of love, that it literally draws in authentic love from every quarter.”

What happens, though, when we are not the ones held down, but the ones unknowingly upheld? Privilege is often an invisible thread in this dynamic, intertwined with oppression, not just as its opposite but as its shadow. The same systems that silence some voices amplify others, often without those benefitting even realising it. Just as oppression shapes self-perception through limitation, privilege shapes it through unexamined ease—the ability to move without restriction, to feel entitled to take up space, to assume fairness in a world that is anything but.

For a long time, I only saw how I had been silenced and overlooked, but deeper reflection revealed where I had been cushioned and where doors quietly opened for me. I realise now how I’ve been complicit in the oppression of others, even in simple moments like not speaking up against prejudiced jokes. One example from my childhood was a joke about the 'Irish ice cream van that melted,' which reinforced harmful stereotypes. Despite historical resentment toward Irish immigrants, many Scots would rather be mistaken for Irish than English, showing a shared Celtic pride. By not calling out these jokes, and similar ones about Maori when I reached New Zealand, I reinforce a culture that marginalises others and weakens my own power to create positive change.

I’m conscious that the colour of my skin affords me as much privilege as being female invites oppression. It’s crazy to think that white or Caucasian people represent only about 10-15% of the world’s population, and women make up half. In fact is striking that a minority race, like white or Caucasian people, and a gender that makes up around half the population can gain systemic superiority. This speaks volumes about the powerful forces of psychological manipulation and the ways in which historical, social, economic, and political structures have been engineered to uphold certain hierarchies.

The stark contrast between these two realities—the privilege tied to my race and the oppression tied to my gender—sends me spiraling into thought. How do these intersecting identities shape the way I move through the world, and how can I leverage my privilege to help dismantle the systems that continue to subjugate others?

And yet, privilege itself can become a different kind of chain—the kind that keeps us from questioning, from seeing, from reckoning with uncomfortable truths. If oppression teaches people to stay small, privilege teaches people to stay comfortable. Both can be shackles in their own way.

Unshackling: A Journey of Freedom

And so, I return to the question I first asked years ago: What does true freedom look like? Not just in society, but in myself. Not just in history, but in this moment. I am drawn to stories of strong women overcoming oppression because I sense the generations of struggle behind me. These narratives don’t just inspire; they validate the ongoing struggle to reclaim power and break cycles that have kept women in survival mode. What’s rising in me is an unshackling—both personally and generationally.

I see, for example, how much of my vigilance—my resistance to perceived weakness, discomfort with intrusion, need for autonomy—stems from fear. Fear that softness is a liability. Fear that letting go will cause me to fall. But I am learning to tell that voice, gently but firmly: I am safe now. I can take the wheel.

But I know this is not yet a homecoming. When you’ve been enslaved for so long, dreaming of freedom, the real challenge is believing you are truly free when it comes. Unshackling is not just about stepping into freedom; it is also about releasing the identities we once carried. And with that release comes grief. We mourn the version of ourselves that learned to survive within constraints—the one who tried to protect us in navigating life by either staying small, staying silent, or staying guarded – or for some, becoming the aggressor. These past selves were not mistakes; they were necessary. They kept us safe.

But true liberation is not just about breaking chains—it is about allowing ourselves to soften into who we are becoming. And that means making peace with what we leave behind.

This is not just about me—it’s about all of us. It’s about questioning the voices that tell us we can’t, that we shouldn’t, that we don’t deserve. It’s about reclaiming our power and place in the world. But most of all, it’s about believing in the possibility of freedom—not just in society, but within ourselves.

The work of unshackling is not just about external freedom but internal liberation. To truly realize our potential, we must confront the chains within. What are the beliefs still holding you captive? What would it look like to let go?

I don’t have all the answers, but I know one thing: True freedom begins within. We are not meant to be bound. We are meant to live in the fullness of our power, our truth, and our potential. What could this world look like if we release the internal chains that still bind us?

If you're reading this on Medium, LinkedIn, or another platform and would like to receive regular updates directly (and reliably) rather than relying on algorithms, you can subscribe to my blog to be the first to receive new posts. Each week, I share personal reflections and insights that connect what's happening in my life with the topics I explore.

If you enjoyed this post, you might also like How You Are Complicit in the Oppression of Others, Want More Energy, Clarity and Time? and Beyond the Silver Bullet - Embrace the Upward Spiral of Transformation.

This week, I’ve been reflecting on what my real voice sounds like. In doing so, I’ve become more aware of just how much mental and emotional energy goes into filtering out the impatient, brutal, and often downright mean voices in my head—the ones that sound suspiciously like the most critical voices of my childhood. These voices are always on high alert, scanning for threats to my sense of self, ready to lash out at perceived weakness, intrusion, or loss of autonomy.

Growing up, we take on beliefs and behaviors that help us navigate the family and social environments we depend on for survival. Even if they don’t feel true to us, over time, they become ingrained—shaping not just our thoughts but how our nervous system reacts to the world around us.

For me, so many of these voices are about control—keeping things in order, maintaining boundaries, and resisting anything that feels like vulnerability. My nervous system has spent a lifetime bracing against neediness, helplessness, or anything that might require me to soften and let go. Even my misophonia fits into this: my body registers external stimuli as an invasion rather than neutral background noise. The inner critic, relentless as ever, distracts me with its fixation on controlling, correcting, and fixing—whether that’s how someone dresses, their habits, or the way they chew—because surrendering to the discomfort of trust and vulnerability feels far more terrifying.

And yet, life keeps handing me not just the good things I’ve envisioned, but also the perfect “intensive course” in stepping out of hypervigilance. My work isn’t to refine or control the world around me—it’s to soften, to receive, to allow things to unfold.

Recognising the Urge to Fix and Control

I’ve been paying closer attention to the patterns that shape my interactions—the way I instinctively jump in to fix, teach, or relate. These responses come from a place of deep care, but I’ve started noticing how often they bypass the simple act of holding space.

A conversation with a friend recently highlighted this for me. She was frustrated about her daughter’s school placement, and I immediately connected it to my own child’s experience, offering strategies that might help. It felt useful—but was it what she needed? Or was it my own discomfort with witnessing someone struggle?

That same urge shows up in everyday moments, even in something as small as drying shoes. This morning, someone in my house (brave enough to live with me) left their wet shoes on the front porch. I moved them to the back, where the sun actually hits. But after a night of rain, I saw them moving the shoes again. I couldn’t help myself—I explained, logically, why they’d dry faster in the sun.

I could see their frustration. At this point, I paused.

Whether it’s in parenting, friendships, or even advocacy work, I see how often I step in—not just to help, but to control an outcome. Yet, every time I pause, I open space for something new. In the case of the shoes, they did make their way into the sun—but what if they hadn’t? Maybe they wouldn’t have dried as well, and maybe they would have smelled. But that’s not my experience to manage.

These small moments are micro-adjustments that retrain my nervous system—helping me step back from fixing and into trusting.

Shifting from Reaction to Clarity

When I recently wrote to the school about a great opportunity for students that hadn’t been marketed properly, my first draft was firm, pushing for accountability. But as I stepped back, I realised the urgency in my words carried the imprint of my conditioning—the voice that fears being dismissed, the part of me that believes I have to push to be heard.

When I rewrote the email with a more strategic, collaborative tone, something shifted. I moved from demanding action to offering insight, from fighting a small battle to fostering a larger conversation about systemic change. That, I realised, was my authentic self—the part of me that believes real change happens through influence, not force. The school may or may not market the program differently moving forward, but I walked away from the interaction with my energy intact, knowing I had approached it in a way that aligned with my deeper values.

Using AI to Clarify, Not Replace, My Voice

AI can be a powerful tool, but it can’t replace lived experience, critical thinking, or the depth of human storytelling. When used intentionally, it doesn’t override my voice—it helps me hear it more clearly.

In the case of my email, I didn’t ask AI to write my response, but to help me sift through the mental noise. When I’m triggered by my own internal voices and reactions, AI helps me distill my thoughts, ensuring that what I put forward aligns with my deeper intention: to be clear, thoughtful, and kind.

A recent conversation with a friend brought this into focus. We were discussing AI’s impact on human expression, but what unfolded was a more personal reflection on authenticity itself. Just as I’ve learned to pause and notice my urge to push, I’ve also found that AI, when used with intention, can create space for greater self-awareness. It’s not about outsourcing our voice but refining it—so our words remain both effective and genuinely our own.

Shifting from Control to Trust

It’s a learning curve, this shift from control to trust. I’m still untangling when my inner critic is acting as a misguided protector and when my authentic self is stepping forward with wisdom. But each time I pause, each time I resist the urge to fix or correct, I open space for something new—a way of being that is both softer and more powerful.

Many of us are conditioned to step in, improve, and fix—whether it’s offering advice before it’s asked for, smoothing out potential discomfort for others, or trying to manage outcomes. But what if we stepped back and allowed things to unfold?

Here are some ways I’m learning to shift:

1. Pause Before Reacting – When I feel the urge to correct or step in, taking a breath can help. Asking, Is this truly necessary, or can I let it be? creates space for a more intentional response.
2. Let Others Have Their Experience – Just as I’ve learned through trial and error, others need that same opportunity. Not every problem needs solving, and sometimes the best support is simply allowing people to find their own way.
3. Notice the Inner Dialogue – That critical voice often stems from old conditioning. By observing it without immediately acting on it, I begin to separate habitual reactions from deeper wisdom.
4. Trust the Process – Growth, relationships, and problem-solving don’t always require intervention. Trusting the process opens possibilities beyond what control could create.
5. Celebrate the Small Wins – Every time I choose trust over control—even in the smallest moments—I reinforce a new way of being.

The voices that echo in our minds—the ones shaped by years of conditioning—don’t have to dictate our responses. With practice, we can begin to separate those critical voices from the wisdom that resides deeper within us.

As you move through your own life, I invite you to notice the times when the urge to control or fix rises up. What would happen if you gave yourself permission to let go, just a little? What new possibilities might emerge when you trust the process instead of trying to control every outcome?

Trust isn’t a single moment of surrender—it’s a practice. And just as I’m learning to soften and allow more ease into my life, I invite you to also let go, breathe, and be present with what truly matters.

If you're reading this on Medium, LinkedIn, or another platform and would like to receive regular updates directly (and reliably) rather than relying on algorithms, you can subscribe to my blog to be the first to receive new posts. Each week, I share personal reflections and insights that connect what's happening in my life with the topics I explore.

If you enjoyed this post, you might also like How to Quieten the Inner Critic, Your Childhood Is Not Your Fault but It Will Be Your Limitation, and The Hidden Power of Your Conversations: How they are Shaping the World.

A post I came across about picking battles struck a chord with me. It reminded me that success isn’t about winning every small skirmish—it’s about staying focused on the bigger picture. The more we engage in minor conflicts—whether with others or within ourselves—the less energy we have for what truly matters.

This resonates deeply with me right now. I’m working on refining my goals and mind-mapping my book projects, which requires deep focus and mental space. But life’s everyday demands keep pulling me in different directions, making it hard to find the time and clarity I need.

There’s the ongoing work of supporting my kids—helping with school activities, checking in on their first days back, and guiding them through healthy communication. Then there are the daily practicalities: keeping up with housework, staying connected with my partner, family, and friends—whether to share, brainstorm, or simply be present. On top of that, I need to manage administrative work, sort through drafts, and stay on top of finances.

Even tasks that feel like progress—such as researching housing options—can seem like just another endless to-do list item, pulling me away from my bigger vision. It’s a daily struggle: how much energy do I give to immediate needs versus staying committed to long-term goals? How do I keep my strategic vision in sight without getting overwhelmed by everything that needs to be done right now?

At times, I wonder whether small actions—like following up with the school on educational programmes or advocating for leadership development—truly align with my bigger goals. My focus is on writing books, driving systemic change in education and healthcare, and living a life of purpose. But in reality, these smaller efforts may be the very stepping stones that bring my larger vision to life. Each email, conversation, and decision, however small, contributes to the change I want to see.

That said, it’s easy to get caught up in these efforts, investing energy in places where people aren’t ready to listen. When emails go unanswered or agreed actions stall, frustration creeps in. But avoiding these smaller battles entirely isn’t the answer. Some are essential—advocating for my daughters, championing leadership initiatives, or pushing for innovative education. These things matter; they are part of the bigger story.

The challenge is staying focused. The key is intentional engagement—choosing which battles are worth fighting and which to release—while maintaining strong boundaries to protect my time and energy. If I’m not careful, these small engagements can derail me, pulling me away from my deeper purpose.

More often than not, managing my inner world is the greater challenge. While I aspire to be calm, reasonable, and compassionate—to listen deeply and respond with curiosity—the reality inside my head can look very different.

There are ingrained reactive patterns that have been there for years, sounding suspiciously like the voices I heard in childhood. Take my frustration with repetition—when someone asks, “Can you say that again?” my patience thins. Before I catch myself, thoughts flash through my mind: “Are you deaf? Just listen!” Then I force my tone to stay neutral as I repeat myself yet again.

And as someone with Misophonia, I hear crunching from the next room, and my insides twist with irritation. “Argh, stop!” I snap in my mind, before forcing myself to take a breath and reach for earplugs. I hate earplugs. But I hate the sound more. Or I hear swallowing in the car and, absurdly, find myself swallowing loudly in response—as if reclaiming my personal space from something that shouldn’t even matter. My rational mind knows it’s ridiculous. My body reacts anyway.

These reactive, contradictory patterns don’t define who I am. They’re conditioned responses—ingrained defences formed to protect me from feeling overwhelmed, helpless, or misunderstood. But left unchecked, they create a negative energy that clouds my ability to embody the calm, grounded person I aspire to be.

They may seem like small frustrations, but they reveal a deeper challenge: how much energy I spend managing my internal world before I even begin the external work. Recognising these patterns allows me to step back, conserve energy, and stay focused on what truly matters.

This is why managing my inner world often feels like the bigger job. The small battles are constant—each tiny frustration feeding an internal storm. Without awareness, they drain my energy before I’ve even had the chance to focus on my bigger goals.

The work isn’t about avoiding battles altogether. It’s about choosing them wisely—deciding where my energy is best spent. Some battles matter. Some are just noise. The real challenge is knowing the difference.

So, how do I find balance? How do I protect my big dreams from getting buried under the daily demands of life? The answer lies in strategic engagement—prioritising my long-term vision while recognising that some of these battles are part of the process. The key is discerning when an issue truly aligns with my values and when it’s just a distraction that can wait.

I won’t pretend it’s easy. It’s not. And it’s not even simple—especially the inner work, which can feel like an overwhelming, enmeshed tangle of emotions. It isn’t an overnight process. While I aspire to be calm, reasonable, and compassionate—to listen deeply and respond with curiosity—these negative patterns often stand in stark contrast. But change is never linear. Each step forward shapes a new future, not just for myself but for future generations—because, without question, these patterns are intergenerational.

This process of refinement—knowing when to engage and when to step back—is part of my growth. It’s about finding clarity in the chaos, aligning my actions with my deeper purpose, and staying connected to the bigger picture, even when the small stuff threatens to take over. I’m still learning this lesson, but every day is an opportunity to move closer to the balance I seek.

Here are a few key strategies that help me stay grounded and focused when I engage with them:

For Staying Focused on Big Goals:

• Set Clear Priorities – Identify and focus on the goals that truly align with my long-term vision.
• Avoid Distractions – Minimise involvement in minor conflicts or issues that don’t serve my primary objectives.
• Maintain Perspective – Regularly assess progress to stay motivated and on track.

For Managing Inner Emotional Responses:

• Pause Before Reacting – Create space to respond with clarity rather than impulse.
• Separate My Emotions from Others’ – Let go of emotional over-responsibility.
• Express My Needs Clearly – Own my needs without guilt or over-explaining.
• Let Others Handle Their Own Emotions – Step back from fixing or managing what isn’t mine to carry.

By adopting this approach, I (and anyone on a similar journey) can protect my energy, enhance my productivity, and move closer to my desired outcomes.

For anyone feeling torn between managing daily demands and staying focused on bigger goals, I encourage you to pause and reflect: Which battles are truly worth fighting? And which can you set aside to protect your energy for the deeper, more meaningful work that will create real change? Remember success isn’t about winning every small skirmish—it’s about staying aligned with the vision that drives you.

If you're reading this on Medium, LinkedIn, or another platform and would like to receive regular updates directly (and reliably) rather than relying on algorithms, you can subscribe to my blog to be the first to receive new posts. Each week, I share personal reflections and insights that connect what's happening in my life with the topics I explore

If you enjoyed this post, you might also like Your Childhood Is Not Your Fault but It Will Be Your Limitation, The Hidden Power of Your Conversations: How they are Shaping the World and Beyond the Silver Bullet - Embrace the Upward Spiral of Transformation. 

I watched A Complete Unknown last week, a film about Bob Dylan’s early career, alongside someone who remembers it all. Dylan—and especially Joan Baez—were the soundtrack of their youth, a time when anything seemed possible. And yet, when I talk to them about systemic change today, they tell me it won’t make a difference.That juxtaposition is deeply human. My movie companion carries the memory of a time when collective action felt transformative, yet they now feel disillusioned about lasting change. I can relate.

Earlier in my career, I worked on large corporate transformation projects that never quite got off the ground—just as change was about to happen, entire organisations or industries would restructure. Again and again, the cycle repeated. I understand how those who lived through hopeful eras might feel worn down by the persistence of systemic issues.

The idealism of youth often collides with the reality of entrenched systems of power. For the youth of the ’60s, I can understand how Dylan and Baez’s music may now evoke nostalgia rather than the sense of possibility they once inspired. And yet, Dylan himself resisted being cast as a figurehead for social change. Over time, his music evolved from protest anthems to introspective and abstract works, reflecting the complexity and unpredictability of progress. His later songs grapple with existential themes, the passage of time, and history's cyclical nature rather than delivering direct calls to action. Dylan seemed to understand that change is rarely linear or permanent.

Snakes, Ladders and the Politics of Progress

This lesson feels particularly relevant in politics. For instance, the government elected last year in New Zealand—on a three-year term—is busy undoing many major projects the previous administration had set in motion:

• Reversal of Speed Limit Reductions, requiring substantial resources to update signage, inform the public, and adjust enforcement practices.
• Cancellation of Waste Minimisation Initiatives, scrapping projects after significant investments had already been made in planning, public consultations, and initial implementation. Now, those efforts and resources are being wasted.
• Reversal of the Oil and Gas Exploration Ban, which means re-establishing regulatory frameworks, re-engaging stakeholders, and conducting new environmental assessments, all of which require considerable time and investment.

While specific to New Zealand, these examples reflect a global pattern. Governments often swing between priorities, undoing what was previously done—often at great cost. It’s a stark reminder that progress is not a straight line.

Cycles of Hope and Resistance

The optimism of the 1960s stands in stark contrast to today’s divisions, where struggles for equality and justice seem overshadowed by persistent power dynamics and inequality. I think it just means we’re at a different part of an ongoing cycle.

Dylan’s early work became the soundtrack of the civil rights and anti-war movements, capturing the urgency and hope of a generation. Songs like Blowin' in the Wind and The Times They Are A-Changin’ resonated deeply because they articulated a collective longing for change. It was an era when hope seemed infinite, in contrast to today, where the rise of authoritarian leaders like Trump and Putin makes it feel as though nothing ever takes firm hold—that we are caught in an endless cycle of control and resistance.

And yet, movements for peace, justice, and equality continue to rise, even in the face of setbacks. This persistence speaks to a deeper truth: the human spirit is resilient. The "footing" may not always feel firm, but each cycle leaves behind lessons, tools, and inspirations that shape future efforts.

It’s easy to feel disillusioned when change seems fleeting. But if history teaches us anything, it’s that transformation is always possible. The winds of change may not blow in a straight line, but they are always moving.

In personal growth, I call this the upward spiral of transformation. When I first became conscious of unhelpful patterns in my own thinking and emotions, I wanted to fix them immediately. But over time, I’ve come to see it as a gentler process—more like the ebb and flow of the tide than a single, definitive shift.

The same is true for progress on a larger scale. Think about your own life—where have you climbed the ladder, only to slide back down? And yet, if you zoom out, can you see that despite the setbacks, you are still further along than when you began? If this holds true for us as individuals, then surely it must also hold true for society.

The world our children and grandchildren inherit will be shaped by the steps we take today—no matter how small. Change may not always be immediate, but it always matters. The times may keep changing, but so do we.

If you're reading this on Medium, LinkedIn, or another platform and would like to receive regular updates directly (and reliably) rather than relying on algorithms, you can subscribe to my blog to be the first to receive new posts. Each week, I share personal reflections and insights that connect what's happening in my life with the topics I explore

If you enjoyed this post, you might also like The Hidden Power of Your Conversations: How they are Shaping the World, How to Appreciate Our Differences Enough to Admire and Want to Embrace Them and Beyond the Silver Bullet - Embrace the Upward Spiral of Transformation. 

There’s an entire internal world of thoughts and feelings happening inside us at any given moment. For years now, I’ve been working on clearing out the debris and unhealthy patterns that have built up over time. The reality is, many of these patterns have their roots in events from decades ago and have been reinforced, layer upon delicate layer, over the years.

Shedding these old patterns is much like shedding old skin—it requires a gentle, patient approach. I know the person I aspire to be: calm, reasonable, a great listener, someone who reacts with curiosity and compassion. Over many years, I attended corporate courses and leadership programs that taught me skills like effective communication, conflict resolution, and active listening. These skills are rooted in common sense and logic, and I’ve always wanted to embody the thoughtful, impartial person they encourage you to be.

In my heart, I truly believe in allowing people the space to have their own opinions. Each of us is uniquely placed to know what’s best for ourselves. And yet, there are moments when my biochemistry takes over—when certain subjects come up, my nervous system is triggered, and all that intention flies out the window.

I’ve come to see these moments not as failures, but as opportunities. While I can’t always stay curious about others’ opinions in the heat of the moment, I’m getting better at being curious about what’s triggering me. Each time, it’s a stepping stone toward unpacking the unhealthy patterns that keep me stuck in reactions that are far from optimal.

"Conversational Capacity" is a concept developed by Craig Weber, author of Conversational Capacity: The Secret to Building Successful Teams That Perform When the Pressure Is On. It’s a framework that has always made great sense to me. The model is about balancing candor—speaking frankly and honestly—with curiosity—remaining open to others' perspectives—to create productive dialogue.

The idea is to help individuals and teams engage constructively in challenging conversations, avoiding the extremes of attachment (dominating or over-controlling) and withdrawal (opting out or avoiding conflict). By improving conversational capacity, people can handle disagreements more effectively, foster trust, and achieve better outcomes, even under pressure. It’s about creating space for diverse views to coexist, leading to stronger collaboration and decision-making.

This approach seems eminently sensible to me, especially as someone who doesn’t subscribe to a “one right way” philosophy. And yet, in a recent conversation over dinner, this entirely sensible approach didn’t stand a chance against my patterns. It was a classic example of how, even in a low stakes situation, I can get triggered to a point of losing my ability to be curious over something or nothing on the face of it.

Someone made a comment about how chiropractors have zero medical training. I responded, "They have five years of university training," to which another person replied, "Five years of training in something nonsensical is still nonsense," or something along those lines.

This one experience demonstrates just how loaded conversations can be at times. We rarely know what’s going on in someone’s internal world—the thoughts, feelings, or triggers they might be navigating in the moment.

For me personally, I identify with what I once heard Nick Polizzi refer to as the “wounded healer” archetype—those of us who have been deeply let down by the medical profession at some point and have been forced to seek answers elsewhere. My passion for holistic healthcare is well-documented; I’ve written about it extensively, and it’s the driving force behind my book-in-progress on Reclaiming Healthcare.

I’m not someone who takes information at face value. I tend to view things through a critical-thinking lens—questioning assumptions, seeking evidence, and considering diverse perspectives. However, I’m far from adept at debating issues with people who are skilled at cherry-picking details and presenting laser-focused arguments. My brain doesn’t retain those kinds of specifics; I tend to go deep into a subject, form an opinion, and then lose track of the details that shaped it.

Conversations that dismiss entire professions—especially those that have been helpful to me—are like a red rag to a bull. Chiropractors, for example, undergo rigorous training, typically earning a Doctor of Chiropractic (D.C.) degree after four to five years of university-level education. Their coursework includes anatomy, physiology, neurology, and hands-on clinical experience. While chiropractic care may not suit everyone or every condition, it has a legitimate place in healthcare, particularly for managing musculoskeletal issues like back pain and supporting nervous system balance.

Reflecting on the dinner conversation, I realised that dismissive comments often stem from misconceptions or a lack of understanding about a profession's scope. But even that is an assumption I made in the moment. What if the initial comment wasn’t truly dismissive? What if it was simply surprise at learning that chiropractors aren’t trained as medical doctors?

In hindsight, I wondered why I wasn’t more curious about what was being expressed. People’s opinions are shaped by their experiences, and I have to remember that those experiences can be vastly different from mine. For example, imagine growing up in a place where access to conventional Western medicine was aspirational, and alternative practices were seen as less advanced or credible. Looking through that lens, skepticism makes more sense.

My own perspective, however, is shaped by feeling let down by conventional medicine and finding healing through holistic approaches. But my reaction at dinner revealed something about me: I, too, carry biases and patterns.

Away from the heat of the moment, I recognise that being curious about someone else’s perspective isn’t just about understanding them—it’s about unpacking my own triggers. Conversations like this offer opportunities to grow and practice balancing frankness with curiosity.

The truth is, we never really know what’s going on in someone else’s internal world. While I may not have been curious in the moment, reflecting on the conversation has shown me that I made assumptions, too.
As for the person who argued that five years of training in a pseudo-science doesn’t make it scientific, I don’t believe their comment was necessarily meant as an attack on chiropractic care as quackery. Knowing this person, it was likely about challenging my argument rather than the profession itself. They enjoy debating points and often focus on the reasoning behind a statement rather than its broader implications.

Not wanting to get lost in details, I wrapped up with something like, “Each to their own. Some people find chiropractors invaluable, others not” which is more a reflection of my true feelings. But with sadness that I’d lost the opportunity to clarify opinions and actually uncover the stories what was expressed.

Reflecting on this conversation, I’m reminded that all of us carry our own biases, shaped by our unique experiences and backgrounds. We all have moments where our responses aren’t as thoughtful or curious as we’d like them to be. But these moments don’t define us—they offer us a chance to pause and reflect, to unpack the triggers and assumptions that surface when we’re caught off guard.

In a world that is increasingly polarised, we’re seeing the rise of leaders and ideologies that promise to fulfill the collective deep yearning for drastic change in the face of frustration, fear, and unmet needs. Whether it’s in the actions of a politician like Trump or the aggressive power plays of figures like Putin, the pattern is clear: when societies feel unheard or hurt, they are susceptible to leaders who promise to burn down the old systems, even at the cost of greater suffering.

But this desire for destruction, as Teal Swan calls it, is not confined to the political stage; it exists within us all. On a personal level, it shows up in the conversations we have, the biases we carry, and the judgments we make. These internal tensions, just like global conflicts, are driven by a lack of curiosity—by our inability or unwillingness to explore the deeper, often uncomfortable truths about ourselves and the world around us.

Just as global politics is shaped by destructive patterns, so too is our personal growth shaped by the stories we tell ourselves. When we refuse to engage with curiosity, we create the conditions for conflict and misunderstanding, whether on a global scale or in our own relationships. Just like nations that build walls between themselves, we too build walls between us and others when we close ourselves off to understanding their perspectives.

So, as events unfold on the world stage—whether through divisive elections or escalating wars—it’s crucial to remember that meaningful change begins with us. Preventing a deeper cycle of division and destruction requires our willingness not just to argue but to listen, seek understanding, and challenge our assumptions.

The conversations we engage in—at the dinner table, in the workplace, or in public—can either reinforce harmful patterns or pave the way for growth. By replacing the urge to tear down with curiosity and mutual respect, we create a foundation for positive change, personally and collectively.

Now, more than ever, our words and actions matter. Each small choice holds the power to shape our collective future. The question is: Will we embrace the hard work of understanding, or will we continue to perpetuate division? The answer lies in how we choose to listen, learn, and connect—with each other and ourselves.

If you're reading this on Medium, LinkedIn, or another platform and would like to receive regular updates directly (and reliably) rather than relying on algorithms, you can subscribe to my blog to be the first to receive new posts. Each week, I share personal reflections and insights that connect what's happening in my life with the topics I explore

If you enjoyed this post, you might also like How to Be Brave and Speak up Early in the Conversation, How Do I Honour What I Believe and Care Less What You Think? and Feeling Stuck in Health Struggles? Empower Your Body with Holistic Care. 

How often do you find yourself pushing through exhaustion, ignoring the warning signs your body is giving you, just to keep up with life’s demands? If this sounds familiar, you’re not alone. In a world that rewards productivity and constant hustle, it’s easy to ignore the signals that say 'slow down.' But I’ve learned the hard way that running on empty doesn’t serve anyone—least of all myself.

So, I’m challenging myself this year to not only reclaim my energy but to make rest an essential part of that equation, recognising that self-care isn’t a luxury, but a necessity for sustainable energy and well-being. Yet, right out of the gate, I’ve been side-swiped by a couple of real energy busters.

As part of my journey into the menopausal years, I began hormone replacement therapy (HRT) at the start of the new year. Estradiol is like the female equivalent of testosterone—it’s meant to give us a bit of energy and smooth out the hormonal rollercoaster. Sounded great in theory, right?

Well, life being life, instead of bouncing off the walls with energy, my body decided to throw me a curveball. Let’s just say I’ve been dealing with some unexpected side effects that have left my energy levels lower than before. Talk about irony—trying to fix my energy and ending up with less of it!

It’s a reminder that transitions, even those meant to support us, can take time to balance out. That’s how life often goes: we commit to a change, and the universe sends along a wee test to see how serious we are about staying the course.

Unfortunately, the universe decided my self-care needed a serious upgrade. With family arriving to stay for a few weeks, I pushed through to get the house ready, care for one of my kids who was unwell, and play the good host by taking our guest out. Of course, I was soon slam-dunked with a nasty cough, swollen glands, and a pounding head.

Even then, I kept pushing through. When one of the kids wanted to spend time with our guest, I took them for afternoon tea and a trip around the mall before bringing my youngest to the hair salon. Deep down, I knew I needed to stay home and rest—I felt utterly awful—but I ignored the warning signs and kept going.

No surprise, I felt worse. Today, I finally relented. When my partner offered to pick up one of the kids from a sleepover, I gratefully said yes. I also let our guest—who is perfectly happy to entertain themselves—know I needed a day at home. Sometimes, the best self-care is admitting we can’t do it all.

It’s no doubt serendipitous that I’ve started taking the Carcinosin remedy at this time—it couldn’t have been planned if I tried as it’s part of a sequential process that spans a number of years. In Heilkunst homeopathy, Carcinosin addresses deep patterns of suppression and stress, often rooted in unresolved trauma or inherited tendencies like perfectionism, over-responsibility, and self-sacrifice, it fits the picture perfectly.

The timing feels almost poetic as I juggle the adjustments of HRT, hosting family, and my usual inclination to push through everything. Carcinosin can stir up what’s been buried—physically and emotionally—leading to a bit of a healing reaction, which the cough potentially is. It’s not uncommon to feel achy, tired, or just a bit off as the body starts clearing these old patterns.

So with only a few weeks of 2025 under my belt, the perfect storm has occurred to challenge me. I wear many hats, and I have many aspirations and expectations of myself, so learning to take things a little more steadily is definitely a high priority for me, especially with my body now in on the act and saying “no” on my behalf, that is a very real warning sign.

I was reflecting the other day how my family has never really had to deal with physical mobility issues. The closest we came was when my gran – who died when she was 100 years old – started to get a bit frail and needed a hand to get in and out the car, and walking across icy paths and so forth. But she still lived on her own, in an apartment where she had to climb two sets of stairs to get to her front door.

I think in many ways I took my physical health for granted. Although I’ve had debilitating experiences, as with my panic attacks in my early twenties, I’ve always bounced back. And although I’ve had a strong interest in the integrated mental and emotional causes of physical challenges and diseases for many years, I’ve been lucky that the chronic conditions which slowed me down – like migraines and kidney stones – have always served as sign posts to address underlying issues like poor boundaries and over perfectionism.

When my mum died of cancer, she was gone within months of the diagnosis and – given her mum lived until she was 100 years old – I think it was a shock to her to depart decades earlier. But she didn’t have the energy to fight it.

While none of us can know what path our lives will take and at which point we will find ourselves on the exit ramp, I think that really brought home to me how important it was to manage my energy. After years of running on empty, and with an active parenting role still to fulfill, along with many other obligations and aspirations, I knew I couldn’t just focus on this full tilt, but I also knew if I didn’t focus on my physical health and treat my body as the wise indicator of adjustments required, then many of my aspirations may be left on the bucket list for another lifetime.

With family visiting in their late seventies, fresh off the plane and eager to get out and explore every day, I’ve found myself in an interesting position. Even though I’m a good deal younger, I have to remind myself that I don’t have to keep up with their pace. It’s okay if some things need to give during their visit—after all, adding another hat to wear means adjustments elsewhere.

This situation has reminded me of just how far I’ve come in breaking old patterns of codependency, learning secure attachment, uncovering my real boundaries, and holding them with grace—in other words, learning to stop feeling overly responsible for everyone else’s happiness, saying yes to everything, and ignoring my own needs just to keep the peace.

And yet, it’s easy to feel discouraged at times—wondering if I’ll ever fully let go of perfectionism or the urge to put myself last. But I know that personal growth isn’t a “one and done” process. It’s a journey, where each challenge offers an opportunity to practice and strengthen what I’ve learned. Maybe this moment, with all its tests, is part of a final shedding of those old patterns.

When we push through exhaustion to meet the demands of others, we risk losing the very thing that fuels us—our vitality. I’ve seen it time and time again in my own life: overcommitting, overdelivering, and ultimately depleting myself. But I know now that I can’t afford to keep ignoring the signals. I’m learning to say 'no' and create space for rest, because without that, I won’t have the energy to do anything—let alone the things that truly matter.

As I reflect on this, I realize that tapping into restorative energy isn’t just about taking a day off or slowing down when we’re sick. It’s about making rest and self-care an ongoing part of our lives, recognising that our energy is a finite resource that needs regular replenishment.

Reclaiming our energy means consciously choosing to slow down, to listen when our body signals that we need a break, and to prioritise what truly nourishes us. It’s about saying ‘no’ to the never-ending demands and finding a rhythm that works with, rather than against, our natural energy cycles.

So, I encourage you to ask yourself: How can you honor your energy and create the space for the rest your body craves? By giving yourself permission to rest, you’ll not only tap into your body’s natural restorative energy, but you’ll also unlock the vitality needed to show up as your best self—for yourself and others.

Because without that sacred energy, nothing else matters.

If you're reading this on Medium, LinkedIn, or another platform and would like to receive regular updates directly (and reliably) rather than relying on algorithms, you can subscribe to my blog to be the first to receive new posts. Each week, I share personal reflections and insights that connect what's happening in my life with the topics I explore

If you enjoyed this post, you might also like Wake Up to Your One Life - Why Now is the Time to Live Fully, Capable, Successful, Yet Exhausted? You Could Be a High-Functioning Codependent and Feeling Stuck in Health Struggles? Empower Your Body with Holistic Care. 

What if the relationships you’re drawn to today were shaped by the dynamics you experienced as a child? As my children have begun to navigate their first romantic connections, I’ve been reflecting on the invisible patterns that draw us to others, often without our conscious awareness. Watching them navigate this stage of life, I’m reminded of my own journey and the patterns I’ve uncovered along the way.

Lisa Romano’s words recently struck a deep chord with me:

“When I married my ex-husband, I had no understanding that I was codependent and had no sense of self. I had no idea that I was immediately drawn to him the moment I saw him because his energy matched that of my mother, the woman I adored but could never please, and whose rejection caused my subconscious mind to believe I was not good enough or worthy of love.

I had no idea that my life with my then-husband would be a repeat of my childhood, me seeking his approval, validation, connection, warmth, consideration and love. I had no idea that I was a people-pleaser, who was disconnected from her authentic self, and who was more comfortable subjugating herself for others than she was anchoring herself to her needs, emotions, values, dreams or wants.”

Knowing Lisa's story, her relationship with her parents didn’t directly mimic mine, but her unconscious wounds, misguided notions, and vulnerability are something I deeply relate to.

Uncovering these subconscious patterns can take years—sometimes decades. For Lisa, her partner reflected the unresolved dynamics of her childhood, drawing her into a familiar cycle of seeking approval and validation, just as she had with her parents.

This also reminded me of something else I read recently about the spiritual dimensions of love:

“Are you reaching a stage in your spiritual development where you are beginning to experience the union of opposites? This can feel like falling in love or merging your consciousness with your environment in a way that transcends words. Love is what we feel when we dissolve the boundaries between ourselves and the outside world, which appears to separate from us. One way or another, there is a meeting of two minds that have the potential to find perfect harmony with one another.”

These words felt like an invitation to reflect on the ways we seek connection—not just with others, but with ourselves and the world around us. True love, whether romantic or otherwise, seems to emerge when we let go of the walls we’ve built to protect ourselves, allowing a deeper harmony to unfold.

But that’s also where I fell into trouble with this notion of love. For years, I let the chemical feeling of attraction dictate my actions, as if it were my true north.

As Teal Swan explains, we’re often subconsciously wired to seek what feels familiar—even when it isn’t healthy. This concept is deeply personal for me but applies to so many of us: how often do we mistake comfort for compatibility or mistake attraction for alignment with our authentic selves? This truth, she explains, is both empowering and sobering:"We are drawn to what we know, even when it isn’t good for us."

I know this now in mind, body, heart, and to the depths of my soul. No part of me remains confused on this issue anymore. But it took decades of contrasting relationships—from the good but "unchallenging" ones to the downright unhealthy ones—to understand that the key to happy, supportive relationships is compatibility with my authentic desires and values.

The word authentic here is pivotal. For all those years of living life from the perspective of the person subconsciously moulded by my earliest relational dynamics, I was attracting people who mirrored the moulded version of me—not the true, authentic me.

If we revisit Lisa Romano’s example, in Teal Swan’s terms, the husband may have experienced a lack of true attunement during his childhood—where caregivers were overly controlling, dismissive, or inconsistent in meeting his emotional needs. As a result, he appears to have developed self-centered, narcissistic traits as a defense mechanism to shield himself from feelings of inadequacy or emotional abandonment.

The codependent person (Lisa) and the narcissistic person (her husband) are drawn together because their wounds “fit” in a familiar and reinforcing way. While Lisa seeks approval and validation, mimicking her childhood patterns, the husband thrives on being the center of attention and avoiding deeper vulnerability. In essence, their childhood experiences programmed them to attract partners who echo their earliest relational dynamics.

While neither party is at fault for the dynamics they inherited from childhood, they share responsibility for addressing and healing them as adults. This means:

• For the codependent partner: Learning to establish boundaries, prioritise self-worth, and release the need to seek validation externally.
• For the narcissistic partner: Facing their emotional wounds, developing empathy, and learning to attune to others’ needs without viewing vulnerability as a threat.

Healing involves awareness, self-compassion, and accountability. However, in the case of individuals with strong narcissistic traits, it is more likely—as it was in Lisa’s case—that the codependent partner will need to leave the relationship. The nature of narcissistic personality traits often makes everything someone else’s fault, leaving little to no room for self-awareness or reflection.

As a parent, this gives me pause. No matter how consciously I’ve tried to raise my children, I know they’re influenced by their childhood experiences, both the good and the challenging. They’re also shaped by their other parent, their early caregivers, teachers, peers, and countless other factors beyond my control. And while I’ve worked hard to grow and heal, I know I’m not perfect—none of us are.

Parenting has taught me, above all else, that we cannot shield our children from the full spectrum of life. There are aspects of me that clash with my children, just as there are with every parent. What we can do, though, is strive to offer them tools—resilience, self-awareness, and the ability to reflect on their own patterns when the time comes.

And, I think, above all else, set them the example of unfolding awareness. As I’ve learned about secure attachment, emotional recognition and healthy processing, and boundaries, I’ve worked to live those lessons.
But no matter how enlightened I’ve become about my own patterns or how healthy my practices are now, I know I must allow my children their own rite of passage into personal growth.

Allowing them to live their own messy lives and trusting that they will find their way, just as I have, is another part of my journey. And as I mentioned earlier, they are only on the precipice of this, so much of their journey remains in the future.

While I can’t walk their path for them, I can continue to model the courage to confront the past, to dissolve those boundaries, and to embrace love in all its forms. All the while reminding myself—when (not if) it gets messy—that this is their journey.

So, I leave you with these questions:

• Have you ever noticed how your relationships mirror aspects of your childhood?
• What unhelpful patterns have you uncovered in yourself or your children, and how have you worked to shift or heal them?
• How do you plan to let go of their outcomes and trust that they’ll find their own way?

Our past shapes us, but it doesn’t define us. Each of us has the power to break free from old patterns and create relationships rooted in authenticity and love. For ourselves and our children, the journey isn’t about being perfect—it’s about being present, self-aware, and courageous enough to trust the process. What steps will you take today to embrace your authentic self and inspire those around you to do the same?

If you're reading this on Medium, LinkedIn, or another platform and would like to receive regular updates directly (and reliably) rather than relying on algorithms, you can subscribe to my blog to be the first to receive new posts. Each week, I share personal reflections and insights that connect what's happening in my life with the topics I explore

If you enjoyed this post, you might also like Your Childhood Is Not Your Fault but It Will Be Your Limitation, Beyond the Silver Bullet - Embrace the Upward Spiral of Transformation and Who Are You Protecting? Why Telling Your Story Is Powerful. 

Two pieces of writing moved me this week. The first was a passage often attributed to Brazilian poet Mario de Andrade, "My Soul is in a Hurry," which reflects the spirit of his writings, especially O Valioso Tempo dos Maduros (The Precious Time of the Mature). It’s a poignant meditation on the finite nature of life. The second was a quote from Bianca Sparacino’s Seeds Planted in Concrete:

"You ruin your life by tolerating it. At the end of the day, you should be excited to be alive. When you settle for anything less than what you innately desire, you destroy the possibility that lives inside of you, and in that way you cheat both yourself and the world of your potential."

These words struck a chord. Life often slips through our fingers when we aren’t paying attention. Andrade echoed this sentiment with a quote attributed to Confucius:

“We have two lives, and the second begins when you realise you only have one.”

That realisation—that time is finite—should ignite us to live with urgency and purpose. Yet too often, we choose comfort and safety, letting life pass us by. Sparacino warns:

"You ruin your life by tolerating it."

Her challenge is clear: examine where you’re settling—for draining jobs, uninspired relationships, or routines that feel like mere survival. Settling not only robs us of potential but also denies the world the unique gifts we could bring.

These reflections resonate deeply with me, though they also stir guilt—the kind that arises from a cacophony of competing "shoulds" in my head. I’ve been too loyal, too responsible, too underconfident, too unwilling to rock the boat (and likely too many more "too’s"). Life’s challenges and the constant effort to build resilience have, over time, chronically drained my energy.

Chronic fatigue is more than physical exhaustion—it’s a slow erosion of vitality. It’s easy to feel as though I’m running on empty, tolerating life because it feels simpler than seeking another way. But resilience is more than pushing through. It’s about pausing, recalibrating, and rediscovering what truly restores and inspires us. Rebuilding energy isn’t about returning to who we were; it’s about evolving into someone stronger, someone who honors both limitations and potential.

I find myself drawn to Andrade’s imagery of the child savoring his last cherries:

"I feel like that boy who got a bowl of cherries. At first, he gobbled them, but when he realised there were only a few left, he began to taste them intensely."

This is the shift I want to embrace—to savor the moments that matter, to taste them with intensity, and to live with the urgency of someone who knows their time is finite.

Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour is a modern testament to this urgency and purpose. Performing 44 songs over three hours every night, she didn’t just deliver a show; she gave a piece of her soul. Watching the live stream of the tour's finale in Vancouver with my daughter felt like witnessing history unfold—proof of what happens when you live and work with passion and dedication. Sparacino’s words echo here:

"Life and work, and life and love, are not irrespective of each other. They are intrinsically linked. We have to strive to do extraordinary work, we have to strive to find extraordinary love."

This alignment of work and love, of passion and purpose, drives us toward an extraordinary life. But as Sparacino reminds us, the danger lies in settling:

"The next Michelangelo could be sitting behind a MacBook writing an invoice for paperclips because it pays the bills or because it is comfortable."

How often do we tolerate mediocrity because it feels safe, only to wake up years later wondering where the time went?

For me, resilience and energy are about breaking free from this trap. It’s about bending without breaking, savoring life’s sweetness, and striving for the extraordinary while honoring the quiet moments that sustain us. Like Andrade, I don’t want to waste time on endless meetings or the absurdities of life. My soul is in a hurry, he writes, and I feel the same urgency.

The extraordinary doesn’t have to mean performing for millions like Taylor Swift or creating masterpieces like Michelangelo. It’s about fully engaging with what lights us up. It’s about embracing the small, meaningful moments and the big, audacious dreams alike. It’s about refusing to settle, savoring every cherry in the bowl, and living with the intensity of someone who knows the value of their one, precious life.

And so, inspired by Andrade’s wisdom, Sparacino’s challenge, and Swift’s example, I’m committing to living with energy, resilience, and urgency. I don’t want to tolerate life; I want to savor it. I don’t want to settle for good enough; I want to strive for extraordinary. And most of all, I want to leave nothing undone, knowing that I poured everything I had into the things—and people—that matter most.

Remember, extraordinary isn’t about perfection or grandeur—it’s about fully engaging with the life that’s in front of us. Whether it’s pouring our heart into a project, showing up fully for our loved ones, or carving out time for what lights us up, it’s about refusing to let life slip by unnoticed.

So, as the calendar turns to 2025, I invite you to pause and reflect. What does your one precious life look like when you live it with intention, passion, and purpose? This year holds infinite potential, but only if we’re willing to embrace it fully. This doesn’t mean overhauling everything all at once. It starts with small shifts:

• Identify one area of your life that feels draining or uninspired. What’s one small step you could take to bring more energy, excitement, or alignment to it?
• Think about your own “bowl of cherries.” What moments, experiences, or people do you want to savor more deeply this year?
• Commit to pursuing one bold or extraordinary dream, no matter how small the first step may seem.

Let’s make 2025 a year where we refuse to settle, savor the sweetness, and strive for what truly matters.

If you're reading this on Medium, LinkedIn, or another platform and would like to receive regular updates directly (and reliably) rather than relying on algorithms, you can subscribe to my blog to be the first to receive new posts. Each week, I share personal reflections and insights that connect what's happening in my life with the topics I explore

If you enjoyed this post, you might also like Beyond the Silver Bullet - Embrace the Upward Spiral of Transformation, The Courage to Lead: How to Empower Yourself and Others in 2025, and Embrace a Purposeful Life to Move From Anxiety to Absolute Authenticity. 

A few months ago, I had a conversation with ChatGPT that began with a simple question: Who owns it? This led to an explanation of OpenAI's unique structure, where a nonprofit oversees a for-profit subsidiary. While OpenAI claims to balance ethical AI development with funding needs, the mention of Microsoft’s $13 billion investment sparked scepticism. It raised broader concerns about how profit-driven corporations often prioritize financial gain over human well-being, especially in industries with profound societal impact.

As the conversation unfolded, it highlighted the troubling dynamics of modern technology—how addictive algorithms, data exploitation, and the push for a cashless society often serve the interests of the few. This points to a system where short-term profits frequently overshadow long-term sustainability, contributing to environmental destruction and social inequality. Yet, amidst this critique, there is a growing call for leaders and systems rooted in empathy, collaboration, and sustainability.

This conversation reminded me of an issue closer to home: the Treaty Principles Bill in New Zealand. This proposed law seeks to redefine how the government interprets the Treaty of Waitangi, a foundational agreement between the British Crown and Māori. While the Treaty was initially framed as a partnership, its history has been marred by mistranslation and systemic breaches, resulting in Māori losing land, sovereignty, and cultural heritage. Recent efforts to honour the Treaty’s principles have been a step toward reconciliation, but this bill threatens to reverse progress, narrowing the scope of the Treaty without meaningful Māori involvement.

This isn't just a Māori issue—it affects us all. If the government can undermine the Treaty, what’s to stop them from eroding other rights in the future? When my friend shared a tool to make a formal submission about the bill, it sparked deeper reflection: Is engaging with the system the best use of my time and energy?

At first, I hesitated. I’ve spent enough time "shouting at empty boats"—expending energy trying to be heard in systems that aren’t designed to listen. Over the years, I've come to realise that my efforts are often better directed elsewhere. Ultimately, I chose to focus on writing my books, which aim to inspire systemic change and reclaim sovereignty on a broader scale.

However, the importance of the Treaty feels too pressing to ignore. The Treaty is integral to New Zealand’s identity. Undermining it challenges fairness and justice, and misses the opportunity to build a richer, more inclusive society. So, I spoke up. I made a submission, urging that any redefinition of the Treaty’s principles must involve Māori in a meaningful way, respecting their role as partners in this agreement.

This experience reminded me of the delicate balance between addressing immediate challenges and focusing on long-term change. While my primary focus is on writing books like Reclaiming Healthcare and Reclaiming Education, this felt like a moment to stand up for values that matter—not just for Māori, but for all of us, and for future generations.

Then I went to watch Moana 2 at the cinema this week, and was moved by how its themes mirrored what I had just been reflecting on. The film’s messages of power, collaboration, and identity transcend its Polynesian roots, speaking to universal struggles.

Moana’s journey—her reflection on ancestors as voyagers and her reconciliation with Te Fiti—invites us to rethink how power is wielded today.

• Governments: Moana’s reminder that “We were voyagers once, daring and united” evokes the Māori concept of whakapapa, the interconnectedness of all things. Governments can learn from this, honouring past agreements and fostering collective good.
• Corporations: Moana’s reconciliation with Te Fiti reminds us of kaitiakitanga—guardianship over exploitation. Corporations, with their immense influence, must embrace stewardship, making choices that protect future generations.
• Organisations: Overwhelmed by leadership, Moana hears her grandmother’s wisdom: “The call isn’t out there at all; it’s inside me.” This reflects the Māori value of manaakitanga, emphasising trust and inclusivity. Organisations thrive when they align external missions with internal cultures, creating environments where every voice matters.
• Personal Leadership: Moana’s journey concludes not with dominance, but empowerment. She returns as a guide, helping her people reclaim their identity. Māori leadership through mana—humility, service, and connection—echoes this truth: true power uplifts others.

Answering the Call

Moana’s story reminds us that power rooted in connection, not control, can heal and unite. It’s a call to governments, corporations, and individuals alike to embrace collaboration, sustainability, and authenticity. "We were voyagers once," Moana reminds us. The question is: How will we answer the call?

For me, the answer lies in balancing action with vision. While my focus remains on writing books that inspire personal and systemic change, moments like these remind me of the importance of speaking up for the values that shape our collective future.

As we approach 2025, a time when many of us take a brief pause before diving into the new year, it’s the perfect moment for reflection. Moana 2 invites us to consider the uncharted territories in our own lives—those moments when we are called to explore or lead in new ways. Perhaps, like Moana, we are all navigating uncharted waters, finding strength in the unknown, and learning to trust in the wisdom of those who came before us.

Let’s reflect on these questions as we step into the future:

• Where in my life am I being called to explore or lead?
• How can I reconnect with the wisdom of those who came before me?
• What steps can I take to strengthen the connections in my life and community?

As Matangi, a new character in the film, shares: "There's always another way even if you have to get lost to find it." Embracing uncertainty and allowing ourselves to wander may be the only way to discover new solutions.

Moana’s own frustration, “Every time I think I know what I need to do, it changes,” highlights the value of adaptability. As we move into 2025, we must also embrace the fluidity of life’s journey. The only constant is change, and our resilience will carry us through.

The overarching message of Moana 2 is clear: “You don’t have to do it alone. We are stronger together.” In moments of uncertainty, it is our connections—our communities, families, and inner circles—that provide the strength we need.

Moana’s transformation into a wayfinder teaches us that true leadership doesn’t come from dominance, but from empowerment. Just as she embraced her role as a leader, we too must embrace our journey with courage, knowing that we will grow into the leaders we are meant to be.

As we step into 2025, may we find the courage to trust our paths, embrace change, and lean into the strength of our relationships and inner resilience. The ocean of possibilities is vast, and there is always another way—if we trust ourselves and each other, we will find it.

If you're reading this on Medium, LinkedIn, or another platform and would like to receive regular updates directly (and reliably) rather than relying on algorithms, you can subscribe to my blog to be the first to receive new posts. Each week, I share personal reflections and insights that connect what's happening in my life with the topics I explore

If you enjoyed this post, you might also like Reclaim Your Power - How to Break Free from a World That Runs You, Crafting Your Path in a Changing World - Embrace Your Uniqueness and Make an Impact and The Path to Purpose and Clarity: How Healing Transforms Your Career Goals . 

There are moments in life that naturally invite reflection. While the end of the calendar year is one of these, other moments—such as quiet evenings, the lunar cycle, birthdays, and holidays—also offer opportunities to pause and reflect.

As we approached the Full Moon in November, I was reminded of its power to illuminate what truly drives me. I’d like to share the process I went through in case it’s helpful for anyone reflecting at the close of the year.

Understanding Our Why

For me, understanding my “why” is key to living a fulfilling life. As Colette Baron-Reid has said, when we are clear on our purpose—our “why”—our intentions align naturally and become magnets for positive change. What truly matters to me isn’t just the reason for my existence; it’s the compass that guides me through life’s complexities. It connects me to my purpose, empowers me to contribute meaningfully, and ensures that I’m living in alignment with my deepest truths. Without clarity on what matters, I risk wandering aimlessly, disconnected from the joy and meaning that make life rich and worthwhile.

Though I’ve explored my values and beliefs many times, this time, I felt it was important to check in with fresh eyes and an open heart. So, I asked myself three key questions:

1. What truly matters to me?
   This question helps identify core values—the things we can’t compromise on—and anchors our “why.” For me, these include health, family, reflection, and the desire to contribute meaningfully to the world.
2. What am I ready to release to make space for growth?
   Letting go of old beliefs, habits, or expectations clears the path for transformation. Personally, releasing past emotional burdens has opened up new possibilities for me.
3. How can I align my intentions with my heart’s desires?
   This question bridges where I am now and where I want to be. By aligning intentions with my heart, I ensure my actions resonate with who I truly am.

What Truly Matters to Us

Reflecting on our “why” can reveal the essential pillars that shape our lives. When I took time to scribble mine down and then asked ChatGPT to help synthesize them into categories, this is what emerged:

• Health & Vitality: My physical, mental, and emotional well-being are the foundation of everything I do. Without them, I can’t fully engage with life.
• Time & Space for Reflection: Quiet moments to connect with myself fuel creativity, clarity, and a sense of purpose.
• Family: I am deeply committed to supporting my children’s health, education, and emotional development, providing them with stability and love.
• Partnership: A strong connection with my partner brings joy, mutual support, and companionship.
• Community & Connection: Nurturing relationships with friends and family fosters a sense of belonging and joy.
• Beauty & Practicality: A balance of aesthetics and functionality in my surroundings uplifts me and promotes sustainability.
• Safety & Belonging: A secure home and connection to the land ground me, providing a space for relaxation and renewal.
• Exploration & Comfort: Traveling to new places excites me, but I also value the comfort and security that come with these experiences.
• Contribution: Using my skills and experiences to create meaningful change is an essential part of my legacy.
• Growth & Expansion: I am committed to ongoing personal growth, integrating past experiences to live authentically and embrace life’s transitions.

These pillars guide my decisions, priorities, and how I choose to spend my time. By recognising and prioritising them, I’m created a framework for living intentionally and authentically, ensuring that each step I take is aligned with what truly matters to me.

Letting Go to Grow

​Growth often requires releasing what no longer serves us. For me, this means letting go of self-sacrifice, guilt, and old emotional burdens. Prioritising my well-being has taught me that self-care isn’t selfish—it’s essential. When we release the urge to “fix” everything, we create space for clarity, ease, and joy.

Key Questions for Letting Go:

• What am I ready to release?
  Letting go of outdated beliefs, habits, or external expectations clears the way for growth.
• How can I create space for ease?
  Shifting from “doing” to “being” aligns us with our true desires and restores balance.

Practical Practices for Releasing

Releasing can be tricky, especially when ingrained patterns have taken years to develop. There are often many layers to work through, and as we’ve spent years ingraining these patterns, the process requires a great deal of kindness and patience with ourselves. It’s not about quick fixes; it’s about gradual transformation. Here are some suggestions that can be helpful, especially when you notice old, redundant patterns emerging:

• Rituals: Write down the emotions or burdens you want to release, then burn or bury the paper as a symbolic act of letting go.
• Visualisation: Picture setting down a heavy backpack of burdens and walking forward, free and unencumbered. Imagine the weight lifting with each step.
• Affirmations: Phrases like "Carry the lessons, not the burdens" or "I am free to live lightly and fully" can be powerful tools. But for me, simply having a conversation in my head, speaking to myself as though I’m someone I love and care for, is just as healing.
• Somatic Healing: Practices like yoga, breathwork, or mindful walking are excellent for releasing tension stored in the body. For deeper work, I also turn to specific meditative practices like The Completion Process or parts work to address more profound emotional issues.

Releasing is a process, not a one-time event. Each small step we take creates more space for clarity, growth, and connection, even if the changes are subtle at first. I have to remind myself of this constantly, and to be patient with myself as I navigate this journey.

Aligning Intentions with Our Heart’s Desires

Connecting with our deeper "why" helps align our actions with what truly matters. When our intentions are clear, even the most mundane tasks can feel purposeful. Reflecting on these deeper motivations has reminded me of the incredible power of intention.

For me, my "why" is about living a life of vitality, connection, and beauty, embracing each moment—smooth or bumpy—as part of the journey. Yet, balancing this vision with everyday responsibilities can be challenging. Tasks like car maintenance or paying bills can seem like obstacles, but I’ve learned to view them as essential parts of the foundation supporting the life I want to live.

Steps to Align Intentions

1. Tune In Daily: Start each day with stillness and ask, “What do we truly need today?”
2. Reframe Tasks with Your "Why": See mundane responsibilities as the scaffolding for our vision. For example, “A well-maintained car supports my family’s stability and access to meaningful connections.”
3. Simplify and Delegate: Enlist help, automate tasks, or let go of unnecessary commitments to lighten our load.
4. Batch and Limit Tasks: Group similar activities into focused blocks of time to avoid feeling overwhelmed.
5. Create Meaningful Moments: Use “hidden” time—like commuting or cleaning—to listen to inspiring podcasts or practice mindfulness.
6. Protect Time for What Matters: Carve out even small daily or weekly blocks for reflection, creativity, or rest, and guard this time fiercely. We should not be trying to create our best life with the dregs of what’s left after fulfilling our duties. This is a key duty.

When we approach our responsibilities with intention, we shift from resistance to alignment. Each step we take supports the life we’re meant to live.

Your Invitation to Reflect

As the New Year approaches, I invite you to reflect on your own “why.” Ask yourself:

• What truly matters to me?
• Why do I care about what matters to me?
• What am I ready to release to make space for growth?
• How can I align my actions with my heart’s desires?

These questions hold the key to unlocking your purpose and living a life that resonates with your deepest truths. I encourage you to take this moment to reflect, journal, or share your insights with a community. May this moment of reflection guide you toward greater clarity, connection, and joy on your journey forward.

If you're reading this on Medium, LinkedIn, or another platform and would like to receive regular updates directly (and reliably) rather than relying on algorithms, you can subscribe to my blog to be the first to receive new posts. Each week, I share personal reflections and insights that connect what's happening in my life with the topics I explore

If you enjoyed this post, you might also like: When Life Feels Like 'A Lot' - How to Reconnect and Recharge, Reclaim Your Power - How to Break Free from a World That Runs You and Beyond the Silver Bullet - Embrace the Upward Spiral of Transformation. 

Listening to Terri Cole recently, she describes the high-functioning codependent (HFC) as someone who takes on more than their share of responsibility for others, often to their own detriment. It’s someone who appears successful and in control on the outside, yet struggles with deep-rooted patterns of people-pleasing, neglecting their own needs, and seeking validation from others, often sacrificing their well-being to maintain relationships or avoid conflict.

She said “the bandwidth that you’re bleeding for this level of over-functioning leaves you feeling exhausted, resentful, maybe a little bit bitter, underappreciated for all that you do, for all the people that you do it for in your life. You end up not fully self-expressed because you’re too busy managing everything”.

It’s a familiar role for me, one I’ve worked to unravel, yet hearing her describe it this way brought an ‘aha’ moment. It gave me a framework to revisit some old patterns I’ve been noticing – patterns that seem to show up even in unexpected places, like my car.

My not-so-old Mazda had been struggling, these modern diesel engines are designed to recirculate their exhaust emissions back through the engine and, due to a poor design, the exhaust system was overloaded with soot and may also to have been overpressurising the cooling system. I couldn’t help but wonder if my mechanical issues were nudging me at look my own inner state as well, as I could see the parallels.

Author Anette Noontil would tell me that it could indeed represent an internal pressure building up due to unresolved emotions, unaddressed issues, or stress that I've been carrying without fully acknowledging. The car’s system, under strain but without immediate warning lights, suggests that while I've been functioning well so far, there may be underlying tensions that, if left unresolved, could lead to a more significant mental, emotional or physical breakdown. 

So I started to thinking about what might be "clogging my inner world' so to speak and started looking at my inner voices. Despite all the work I’ve done—on boundaries, attachment and other healing, and personal growth—I still hear so many voices in my head: self-criticism, judgment, fear, longing. One night, when I was particularly tuned in, I caught a torrent of snippets, each carrying its own weight:”I’ve failed”, “I’m not a good enough parent”, “Why am I being so harsh?”, “You’re being unkind”, and the list went on and on.

Terri’s words helped me see how these voices, while shaped by care and responsibility, also reflect a draining of my emotional bandwidth. The more I try to keep everything together, the more I feel the strain—and the less room I have for kindness, love, and connection, especially with myself.

I’ve felt this strain physically too. Terri mentioned that as we get older, we have less tolerance for the lack of satisfaction that comes from this over functioning in relationships. Burnout is common, especially for women who are perimenopausal and hitting the wall because of all the physical changes.

Chronic stress has left its marks—weight gain, fatigue, and mood swings—but it’s also shaped how I show up in my relationships. When I look back on the romantic, more innocent and vulnerable person I once was in my younger days, I mourn the loss of her. Years of defensiveness, perfectionism, and survival mechanisms have distanced me from that part of myself. Now, in my relationships, I see how my guard goes up, even – or maybe particularly – when someone is being kind.

Taking a moment to acknowledge the enormity of what we're unpacking and giving ourselves permission to pause is invaluable. I’ve learned overwhelm is a natural part of growth, it doesn’t mean we’re starting over or failing; it means our system is processing and integrating new levels of awareness. Healing doesn’t happen in a straight line—it’s cyclical, with deeper layers revealing themselves over time. It’s okay to feel like this is a lot—because it is – and we’re allowed to take it one step at a time.

So I asked myself (or more accurately ChatGPT), when I notice the pattern, what can I do differently. Here are some questions we can ask ourselves:

1. "Am I carrying something right now that isn’t mine to carry?"
   This question invites us to pause and evaluate whether we're taking on responsibilities, emotions, or tasks that others can or should handle for themselves.
2. "What would it look like to assume love in this moment?"
   This helps us shift from defensiveness to openness, encouraging us to interpret others’ words or actions through the lens of care and connection rather than fear or mistrust.
3. "What part of me is trying to protect itself, and is this protection still needed?"
   This prompts self-reflection on defensiveness and creates an opening for trust and vulnerability.
4. "What’s the one thing that truly matters right now?"
   This question can help cut through the noise of competing priorities, aligning our energy with what feels most vital in the moment.
5. "What does the part of me that feels overwhelmed need most right now?"
   This shifts focus to nurturing ourselves rather than powering through or bypassing our feelings.
6. "What small step can I take that feels easeful and aligned?"
   Helps us release pressure of perfectionism and productivity and move forward without burning out.
7. "How can I model the behaviour I want to see in my kids right now?"
   Encourages us to embody the values and attitudes we hope to inspire in our next generation rather than directing them or solving their issues for them.
8. "How would I show up today if I truly believed everything is working out for me?"
   Grounds us in faith and alignment, countering fear-driven narratives.
9. " What would trusting myself and the process look like in this moment?"
   This question brings together themes of self-compassion, releasing control, and aligning with our deeper desires without being overwhelmed by external pressures

These questions invite us to pause, tune into our intuition, and take aligned action or rest—whatever feels most nurturing and authentic in the moment.

Perhaps what my car—and Terri’s concept of the HFC—are reminding me is that it’s okay to slow down, to clear the buildup, to stop running on fumes. It’s okay to make space for the softer, more vulnerable parts of myself. And maybe, just maybe, it’s through reconnecting with those parts that I can not only restore balance within but also show up more fully for the people I love.

Another key for me, as someone who relies so much on myself for everything, is to remember I’m not alone in this. Sure, I’ve built a foundation of resilience through personal growth, but I also now know I’m part of a larger community of people navigating similar patterns.

When I heard these words, it was the permission I needed to give myself:

“This isn’t the beginning of your journey—it’s a continuation, and you’re on a more advanced level now. Be gentle with yourself. Healing isn’t about eradicating every pattern at once; it’s about noticing them, choosing differently when you can, and accepting that transformation is a process, not a destination. You’re exactly where you need to be”.

What I needed to remember most is that overwhelm isn’t a sign of failure; it’s a natural part of the growth process. Awareness can make all the difference—it can turn a potential breakdown into an opportunity for a breakthrough.

Transformation comes when we fully engage with the struggle, embracing it rather than resisting. As Glennon Doyle wisely says, we need to "be in it" long enough to extract the lessons our challenges have to offer. Terri emphasises a key aspect of recovering from codependency is learning to hold space for discomfort—our own at others’ discomfort—without jumping into problem solving mode, and allowing it to guide us toward healing.

As I reflect on my journey and the process of unraveling these patterns, I invite you to pause and consider where you might be holding onto the weight of others' emotions or responsibilities. Healing and growth aren’t linear, and it’s okay to feel overwhelmed as you confront these deeper layers of yourself. Ask yourself:

• What am I carrying that isn’t mine to carry?
• How can I allow space for my softer, more vulnerable parts to show up?
• What small, easeful step can I take today that nurtures my soul and my well-being?
• And, most importantly, how can I be gentle with myself in this process, knowing that every step, no matter how small, is a part of my continued evolution?

Transformation happens in the moments where we sit with our discomfort and allow ourselves the grace to grow at our own pace. Your journey, just like mine, doesn’t have to be about perfection. It’s about noticing the patterns, taking action when we can, and giving ourselves permission to rest when we need it. Imagine what we could do with all that freed-up bandwidth—what we could create, how we could show up for ourselves, and the deeper connections we could cultivate with others.

If you enjoyed reading this, you may enjoy Beyond the Silver Bullet - Embrace the Upward Spiral of Transformation, How to Fulfil Your Long Desired Yearning for Belonging, The People Who Hurt Us Are Vehicles for Our Growth and How Do I Honour What I Believe and Care Less What You Think?  To be the first to receive these posts, you can also opt to subscribe to my blog.