Tag: wisdom
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The Truth About Self-Worth: We Don’t Need to Earn It
“Success isn’t about what you do; it’s about who you are. Just existing—waking up, breathing, being present—is enough.” ~Unknown
On my third trip to the emergency room, I lay in a hospital bed, ten weeks pregnant and nine kilograms lighter. I had just vomited for the forty-seventh time that day. My body felt empty, but the nausea never stopped. An IV dripped fluids into my arm, and I didn’t swallow anything for the next five days.
Hyperemesis—a rare and severe condition that affects about 1% of pregnancies—typically subsides by twelve weeks. For me, it lasted my entire pregnancy.
For fifteen years, I measured my worth by what I did. If I exercised, ate well, showed up for my friends and family, and worked hard—then I could go to bed knowing I was a good person. That was my framework. My safety net.
Now, I couldn’t do any of it. I could barely move.
And for the first time in my life, I asked myself: Who am I if I can’t do anything at all?
Six months of pregnancy, living in survival mode—failing to meet a single requirement on my self-made checklist for being a good person—I hated the person I had become.
The Framework That Held Me Together (Until It Didn’t)
For years, my sense of worth was built on a framework—one I had carefully constructed to keep myself on the right path. If I could tick off all the boxes, I could go to bed knowing I was enough. It gave me structure, a sense of control, and a way to measure whether I was living up to the person I believed I should be.
This checklist was my identity. It was how I knew who I was and that I was good.
At first, this framework served me well. When I left the structure of school, this checklist gave me direction.
It kept me disciplined, motivated, and focused on self-improvement. But beneath it all, there was fear—that if I didn’t check every box, I would somehow fail at being a good person.
The voice in my head wasn’t encouraging; it was demanding. Slowing down felt like slipping. No matter how much I did, there was always more to prove. Nothing was good enough, fast enough, or impressive enough.
Then, when Hyperemesis stripped me down to a barely functioning shell of myself, the framework collapsed. I wasn’t showing up for anyone. I wasn’t achieving anything. And without those measures of success, I felt like I had lost myself. My identity. My sense of worth. If my worth had always been something I had to earn, what happened when I could no longer earn it?
That’s when I realized the flaw in my system: it was built on conditional self-worth. As long as I kept up, I was safe. But the moment life forced me to stop, the framework didn’t hold me—it crushed me. Life was only going to get more complicated with kids, and I didn’t want it to feel this hard forever. More than that, I didn’t want them inheriting this checklist as a way of living.
Rebuilding From the Bottom Up: A Shift in Perspective
Hitting rock bottom can be an incredible gift. With nowhere lower to go, it becomes a chance to rebuild in a simpler, more aligned way—letting go of what doesn’t serve you.
A framework can be useful—until it becomes a cage. When discipline is fueled by fear, it exhausts us. True growth doesn’t come from relentless self-monitoring, but from knowing you are already enough. It comes from showing up, doing your best, and trusting that’s enough.
Talking things through with a psychologist, it became obvious: the checklist that once gave me security had become a restrictive system holding me back.
I decided to trust the extensive research that shows leading with self-compassion drives success and happiness by turning setbacks into growth, reducing stress, and helping us become more present people.
The hard part was learning to believe it—not just in my head, but in my gut. That kind of shift takes time, patience, and a steady mindfulness to gently bring yourself back when you drift.
Doing Things Out of Joy, Not Obligation
When I used to run, it was with a fierce determination to get to the finish. Quickly. And it was never fast enough. I didn’t use a social fitness tracker because no run I ever did was perfect enough to represent who I thought I should be.
When I started to exercise again after surviving the pregnancy and transitioning from a place of self-judgment to self-compassion, my mind was blown.
The voice in my head was kind and understanding and came from a place of love. When pushing for another lap, my thoughts would wander to words of encouragement. “Okay, do another lap, but stop if you need—you’ve already come so far!” I felt complete gratitude.
The rules I had followed for years didn’t disappear; they transformed from needs to wants—and never musts.
I still love to move my body, but I do it because I can and because I want to, not because I have to.
I still care for the people around me, but not at the expense of myself.
The things that once felt like obligations became absolute pleasures. And the best part? There are no repercussions if I don’t do those things. I either let it go without thought or reflect and learn from my actions. Without judgment.
You Are Enough, Always
Your worth isn’t something to prove—you are enough just by existing.
It doesn’t need to take a crisis to realize this. Checklists, measuring, self-checking, the relentless need to keep up—they are never what make you worthy. Letting go of that weight doesn’t mean losing yourself; it means freeing yourself.
Start noticing the voice in your head. Is it pushing you out of fear, or guiding you with love? Self-compassion isn’t about doing less—it’s about doing things from a place of kindness, not criticism. You can still strive, grow, and show up—but now, it’s because you want to, not because you have to. And that changes everything.
Shift the script. You don’t have to do more. You don’t have to be more. You already are enough—always.
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What My First Heartbreak Revealed About My Self-Worth
The first time I got my heart broken—really, painfully broken—I remember feeling too ashamed to ask for support. I didn’t talk about it with anyone because, at the time, there weren’t many people I trusted with such a raw and tender part of myself.
I cried a lot, so people around me knew something had happened, but looking back, I think it’s tragic that I had no friends or family I felt safe enough to open up to. No bestie to cry into a tub of ice cream with. Tragic, but also a bit revealing.
Like all painful experiences of loss, it eventually became more bearable. I resumed my regular routines. Heartbreak is just another part of life, and we move on as time passes, right?
It was over a decade later when I chanced upon a letter I had written to my ex shortly after our breakup. I found it at my parents’ house in the pocket of an old pair of pants, in a drawer full of remnants from those restless years of young adulthood when I had no true home of my own.
My stomach sank as I pulled it out, recognizing it instantly. Had someone found it and read it? Imagine that. Shame outweighed curiosity even all those years later. But the envelope was still sealed. It had his name written on the front in my handwriting.
The letter was written to him, but it was always meant for me. I had been drowning in misery when I wrote it, and re-reading the words pulled me right back into that pain. But with years of distance, I saw something I couldn’t have grasped back then.
At the time, I had believed the pain was all about losing him—that I couldn’t imagine not being with him anymore. Missing him felt like a black hole in my life, one that only he could fill. And yes, part of my pain was indeed about him. But if I’m being honest, our connection was never strong enough to justify the depth of pain I felt when it ended.
The true source of my pain—the visceral agony of the weeks that followed—was not about him at all. It was about what his rejection confirmed for me.
I’m not enough.
That is why the whole experience was so closely tied to feeling shame as much as (or more so) than feeling grief. Every insecurity I had carried since childhood—not smart enough, not interesting enough, not attractive enough, not cool enough, not sexy enough, not fun enough—felt legitimized the moment he decided I wasn’t for him. Losing him was a personal failure and a reflection of my insignificance.
Even more than that, I realized that our entire relationship had been a desperate attempt to prove my own worth. If I could be loved by him, then maybe I was good enough. That was my only focus. And in making that my focus, I sabotaged the relationship.
In the early days, I was being me. That’s what had sparked the attraction. But once we committed, I became hyper-aware of everything I thought I needed to be in order for him to keep wanting me. I stopped being present. I stopped enjoying him. Without even realizing it, I created drama—not because I wanted to, but because I needed him to prove he cared enough to stay. I was so obsessed with being enough for him that I never paused to ask myself if he was enough for me.
I didn’t know it then, but breakups don’t just hurt because of who we’ve lost. They crack open something deeper. They expose wounds we didn’t even know we were carrying.
At the time, I looked at other people—especially my ex—who seemed fine, and I convinced myself that something must be wrong with me. But looking back, I see how misguided that was. I wasn’t broken. I was reckoning with my own self-loathing. Without support. Without any reason to see how human it was.
I wish I had known that the pain of a breakup isn’t necessarily just about missing someone. It’s also about what the feeling of desertion stirs up in you. It’s about how the sudden loss of connection can make you question your own worth.
I tried to be strong by pushing through, distracting myself, pretending I was okay. I tried to hate him, fixating on all his flaws. But avoidance isn’t healing—it only postpones the inevitable. The feelings I refused to process didn’t disappear; they resurfaced in my self-doubt, in my choices, in the quiet moments when no distraction was enough.
Standing in my parents’ home that day, I was able to see the missed window of opportunity. I understood how going through that alone due to my shame never gave the experience a chance to be properly digested. The same inner critic and shame resurfaced again and again in the years that followed until eventually, I was brave enough to do the work and step into a version of myself who believes in my inherent value.
If I could go back, I would tell myself a few important things:
- This isn’t something to just get over. It’s something to move through. The pain isn’t here to break you—it’s asking for your attention.
- Real strength isn’t pretending you’re fine. It’s allowing yourself to feel what needs to be felt. It’s getting the right support, whether from a therapist, a coach, or a trusted guide. It’s letting the experience change you—not by making you harder, but by making you whole.
- Healing doesn’t mean forgetting. It doesn’t mean waking up one day and realizing you no longer care. It means learning from the loss. Understanding yourself more deeply. Stepping forward with a clearer sense of what you truly need and deserve.
I can’t go back and give my younger self this wisdom. Who knows if she would have been ready to listen anyway? But I can offer it to anyone who might be there now—wondering why it still hurts, wondering when they’ll finally be “over it.”
The truth? The most painful moments of our lives often carry the greatest invitations for self-discovery. Normalizing our pain and meeting it with self-compassion can unlock massive personal growth.
We don’t get through life unscathed. We will be hurt. We will face pain. We will have to accept the incomprehensible.
But if we learn to turn inward—to become a safe refuge for ourselves, filled with kindness and understanding—we can evolve. We can transform our lives rather than repeat the same lesson over and over, carrying that wisdom into our next experience.
So here is my wish for all of you with a broken heart. May you meet your pain so it won’t just wound you but shape you into a truer version of yourself. Stay in your heart.
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Redefining Extraordinary: How I Found Joy in the Everyday
“Joy comes to us in moments—ordinary moments. We risk missing out on joy when we get too busy chasing down the extraordinary.” ~Brené Brown
I started going to my local gym a few months ago to prepare for a strenuous hike.
The gym is a tiny place, located on a quiet street in the middle of a small town. It doesn’t have any fancy accommodations or instructors leading classes. It doesn’t even have showers or lockers to store my bag.
It does have a few treadmills, free weights, weight machines, and regulars who can lift really dang heavy weights.
Now, I’m not someone you would usually find in a gym. Let me put this in context: my lowest grade in school was in physical education. I quickly grasped long division and read complex stories, but I probably still could not get the volleyball over the net.
As you can imagine, the gym was not a fun place for me.
I imagined everyone silently judging me. I worried about what to wear. I was so clumsy from nerves that I even had trouble opening the gym door.
The regulars, mostly men, seemed huge and intimidating. I felt small and weak.
I stayed on the treadmill in the corner for six weeks. Headphones on. Head down. “I don’t belong” on repeat in my mind.
It was a battle with myself to get out of the car every time I visited, but I somehow found the courage to make it to the treadmill. I imagined the joy I would feel when I finally made it to the top of the mountain.
Finally, after six long weeks of walking on an incline, my husband and I flew across the country to complete the hike. It was the longest distance and highest elevation (and quickest descent) I had ever experienced.
I honestly thought I wasn’t going to make it in some parts. On two occasions, I had to sit down to avoid fainting.
My muscles screamed. I panted and wheezed and sweated. But we climbed.
And we climbed.
And then, when I thought we had reached the top… we unfortunately had to climb some more.
Finally, after several hours, we made it to the end of the trail. The summit opened up around us, and I instantly forgot my exhaustion. Every minute of struggle felt worth it for what stood before us.
It was a bright, clear day, and miles of rocky peaks were visible. A blue lake twinkled below. The sun reflected off a small glacier to my right. Everything was still and, even with other hikers around, incredibly quiet.
My husband and I spoke in whispers as we ate our peanut butter sandwiches, and I realized I had flown across the country and hiked a mountain in an intentional search for extraordinary.
If I am really honest with myself, I’ve been searching for extraordinary my entire life.
I know I am not the only one. Many of us high-achieving perfectionists often find ourselves frustrated. Not only do we want to experience extraordinary; we also want to be extraordinary. We have an innate desire to live a life of contribution and meaning.
We often feel like we are not doing enough. We feel we should be doing more. We think we need to be there instead of celebrating where we are right now in this moment. And even when we do accomplish something, it often doesn’t feel like enough for long. Our constant striving reinforces the belief that we ourselves are not enough unless we’re achieving something big.
This desire serves us well. We are individuals known for our ability to get things done and make an impact on those around us; yet we can be so forward focused that the right now can feel underwhelming and, well—for lack of a better word—quite ordinary.
Lately, I’ve held these beliefs under a microscope and really examined their hold on me. What makes a moment extraordinary? Do I really need a product, a summit, for the moment to have meaning? How many people must I impact before my life “counts?”
I’ve discovered extraordinary moments are like the summit of my hike, which also means they are fleeting. It is not long before your shins are killing you as you make the steep descent. It is not long before the extraordinary moment becomes nothing more than a memory and, on occasion, a beautiful photo.
I am realizing that maybe the extraordinary doesn’t have to be limited to the peak. Perhaps it can also be found in the hike. Maybe it was in the moments I gasped for breath. Maybe it was even in the mundane gym sessions I completed in the weeks leading up to the hike.
Those moments pushed me outside my comfort zone and allowed me to grow stronger. Those gym sessions prepared me so I could show up in the moments of the hike where it got really hard. Isn’t that, in itself, pretty extraordinary?
I have returned to my local gym. Only now, I have moved from the treadmill in the corner.
Now, several times a week, you will find me with a barbell in my hands. You will see me celebrating incremental growth—a few additional reps, a bit more weight, or maybe even just celebrating the fact that I showed up today despite my fear.
In a way, I guess the quest for the extraordinary has led me to appreciate these moments of ordinary. I am finding myself appreciating consistency and routine. I find myself appreciating incremental progress over the huge gains.
That’s not to say that I don’t still chase extraordinary. In fact, I have a trip planned in a few short weeks to find views like I have never seen and to push myself in new ways. I am sure it will be extraordinary.
Yet, I also am starting to find joy in the small, everyday tasks. I am starting to see meaning and purpose infused in every action. I’m now on a quest to appreciate just how extraordinary the ordinary can be.
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Beyond Cliché Advice: What Helped When I Was Struggling Financially
“When you are in uncertainty, when you feel at risk, when you feel exposed, don’t tap out. Stay brave, stay uncomfortable, stay in the cringy moment, lean into the hard conversation, and keep leading.” ~Brené Brown
When you think of someone who’s struggling financially, you might picture someone who’s barely making ends meet, living paycheck to paycheck, just getting by. But money trouble doesn’t always look like that.
I was struggling even though it didn’t seem that way. I had a six-figure salary. I owned a home in one of the most expensive cities in the world, having bought a half-million-dollar property in my late twenties. From the outside, I had it all.
But a year into homeownership, my partner backed out of our financial agreement, leaving me to manage everything alone. Then COVID-19 hit. The government responded to the national deficit by doubling mortgage rates. Suddenly, nearly every penny I earned went toward my skyrocketing payments, insurance, maintenance fees, and property taxes. Selling my home at the right time became an anxiety-inducing gamble.
That’s the thing about financial struggles—they look different for everyone. And at some point in our lives, most of us will experience them.
During those years, the weight of my financial burden crushed dreams I hadn’t even had the chance to imagine. Along with my dreams, my mental and physical well-being and vitality were exchanged with mere survival.
Well-meaning family and friends tried to offer support, but their words often missed the mark. Telling me to “trust the universe” or “just stay positive“ only made me feel more isolated, like I wasn’t truly understood. I struggled to explain why my financial hardships felt like a barrier to my dreams, why I couldn’t simply shake them off and believe everything would work out.
While I did make it through my financial struggles, I have reflected on this period of my life. Maybe easy was never an option, but did it all have to be so hard? I also realized there’s a massive gap between the complex challenges and struggles that can arise from prolonged financial struggles and the solutions, support, and advice that we receive from others in combating them.
What Not to Say to Someone Struggling Financially
“The struggle will end when you learn your lesson.”
This idea—that struggles repeat until we find meaning in them—might be comforting in some situations, but it doesn’t apply to financial hardship. The idea that I was somehow failing to learn my “lesson” only added to my stress.
The truth is, sometimes life throws challenges at us that have no lesson attached. Some things just happen. Our job isn’t to decipher a hidden message—it’s to keep moving forward, however we can.
“You’re strong; you can handle it.”
While meant as encouragement, this statement often feels dismissive. Financial stress is relentless, affecting not just the big picture but the daily grind of survival. Instead of pushing someone to be strong, ask how you can lighten their load. Let them vent. Acknowledge their exhaustion. Strength isn’t the absence of struggle—it’s surviving in spite of it. And even strong people need a break.
“Money is just energy—align yourself with abundance.”
A positive mindset is valuable, but financial hardship isn’t a spiritual failing. People don’t struggle because they’re “out of alignment” with abundance; they struggle because of real-life expenses, job markets, and economic systems. No amount of positive thinking can pay the mortgage.
“When something changes inside you, your external world will reflect it.”
After years of financial struggle, I had no aha moment, no inner transformation or miracle, or even a slight mindset shift before my financial circumstances changed. The only thing that counted was my consistent preparation, planning, and execution of all the logistical tasks that were completed over a very long period of time. In my case, it was hard work that paid off. There was no magical moment of liberation.
“Just work on your passion after your day job.”
When you’re financially drowning, exhaustion is constant. My job required intense mental energy. Coming home and using the same cognitive muscle to work on passion projects was nearly impossible. It’s like telling a personal trainer to do intense workouts morning, noon, and night—they’ll burn out or get injured. Sometimes, survival means setting dreams aside until you can pursue them without harming yourself.
What Actually Helps
Love through Listening
As someone who has gone through a period of financial struggle, it is even impossible for me not to bring my bias, experience, and perspective into the conversation when someone shares their struggles with me. The key is to remind ourselves that we are not an expert on somebody else’s life. They are, but we can be powerful listeners. It is in our listening that we express love.
Get Into the Specifics
One of the most helpful things I experienced was having real conversations about my financial situation. Talking through an overwhelmingly large number of concerns helped me gain clarity and relief. If you want to support someone struggling, ask about their specific plans and course of action. It will help them declutter their mind and ground themselves in something they can actually control.
Provide Resources
Support doesn’t have to be financial. Helping someone find a reputable accountant, connect with another homeowner, or compare mortgage rates were all incredibly useful for me. A friend once helped me break down different bank rates and calculate my options—a simple act that made a huge difference. Another friend helped me with repairs and paints. They helped move the plan along.
Help with Decision Fatigue
Financial struggles come with endless decisions—which bills to pay first, whether to downsize, how to negotiate better rates. The questions are endless. Having someone to talk through those choices with can be a game-changer.
Remind Them of Their Leadership
One piece of advice that truly stayed with me came from Brené Brown:
“When you are in uncertainty, when you feel at risk, when you feel exposed, don’t tap out. Stay brave, stay uncomfortable, stay in the cringy moment, lean into the hard conversation, and keep leading.”
At a time when I felt anything but a leader—let alone a good one—these words resonated deeply. They didn’t focus on what should have been or could have been, but on what was: a whole lot of discomfort. My job wasn’t to crumble under pressure or lose my footing with every new challenge. It was to keep leading—myself and everyone involved—through the uncertainty, no matter how difficult it felt. That was my only job.
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My financial struggles are now behind me—something I once thought was impossible. If you’re struggling, know that you are not alone. The weight of it may feel unbearable, but the leader inside you, the people who shoulder the journey with you, and a benevolent force greater than you can see will carry you through. As I recently read, “The horrors will persist, but so will you.”
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How to Coexist with Fear (and Spiders)
“If you are willing to look at another person’s behavior toward you as a reflection of their relationship with themselves rather than a statement about your value as a person, then you will, over time, cease to react at all.” ~Yogi Bhajan
Several years ago, I hiked into the remote forestlands of Bukidnon, a mountainous province in the southern Philippines. I was there to make a documentary about the Pulangiyēn people, an Indigenous community living in the village of Bendum. No roads led there. No running water. Just a winding trail upwards, a slow-moving carabao pulling my camera gear, and a few kindhearted villagers helping me climb.
I had come with the intention to listen—to observe daily life, record sounds, and learn what I could. What I didn’t know was that one of my deepest lessons would come not from the forest or the people, but from a spider.
A very large spider. Hairy. Big and spidery.
My lodging was a small, hand-built hut with bamboo walls and a woven floor mat. I felt honored to stay there, grateful for the simplicity and peace and the respite from the rains. But my gratitude dimmed a little when I noticed, down on the floor in the corner of the room, a dark shape—a spider. Motionless. The size of my outstretched palm.
I asked one of the locals if it should be, well… removed.
They smiled gently. “It lives there,” they said.
That was it. No concern. No plan to catch it in a cup and carry it away. The spider wasn’t a problem. In fact, to interfere might have been seen as disrespectful—not only to the spider, but to the spirits believed to dwell in all things, visible and invisible.
So I had a choice: coexist or live in fear.
The Challenge of Coexistence
At first, I couldn’t sleep. Every creak of bamboo startled me. I imagined the spider descending on my face in the middle of the night. But day after day, the spider never seemed to move around much; at least I was not aware of any major roaming around by the beast. And slowly, I began to wonder—what exactly was I afraid of?
It wasn’t just the spider. It was the unknown. The loss of control. The feeling of being vulnerable in a place far from what I understood.
But here’s what I learned: coexistence is not about agreement or comfort. It’s about choosing not to reject or destroy what we don’t yet understand. It’s about pausing long enough to see whether what we fear is truly dangerous—or whether it’s just unfamiliar.
That spider became a mirror.
Fear Isn’t Always a Problem to Solve
Over time, my relationship with the spider shifted. I stopped checking the corner obsessively. I still noticed it, but I didn’t react. I stopped trying to protect myself from something that wasn’t actually threatening me.
In the quiet of those forest nights, I began to think about all the other things I’d tried to avoid or control in life—conversations, emotions, uncertainties, even my own sense of failure. The pattern was the same: discomfort would arise, and I’d try to evict it.
But this experience showed me a different way: you don’t always need to solve the fear. Sometimes, you just need to sit with it. Let it stay in the corner.
And over time, your relationship to the fear changes. You grow larger around it.
In the Indigenous worldview of the Lumad people, coexistence isn’t an abstract concept—it’s life. Trees, rivers, stones, animals—everything has a presence, a role, a spirit. You don’t have to like every being you share space with. You just have to respect it.
This is echoed in many traditions. In Buddhism, the practice of metta encourages us to extend loving-kindness not only to friends but to enemies, strangers, and even things that scare us. In modern mindfulness practice, we learn to observe our experience without judgment, to allow thoughts and sensations to come and go.
Even ecology tells us: thriving systems are diverse, and balance depends on the peaceful presence of all things—even spiders.
What I Tell My Students Now
I’ve taught filmmaking and storytelling for many years. My students often wrestle with fear—fear of being seen, of not being good enough, of making mistakes. Before, I tried to coach them out of it. Now, I teach them to make room for it.
I tell them about the spider.
I tell them about the time I shared a hut with something I was afraid of—and how, by coexisting with it, I changed more than it did. The fear didn’t go away. But it stopped running the show.
So the next time something in your life scares you—not because it’s harmful, but because it’s unfamiliar—see if you can let it stay in the corner a little while longer. Don’t push it away. Don’t judge yourself for feeling it. Just breathe.
Let it be there.
You might discover, like I did, that peaceful coexistence is possible—even with the things you never thought you could accept.
And once you learn that, there’s very little left to fear.
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More Energy, Less Regret: Your Guide to a Sober Summer
“Believe you can, and you’re halfway there.” ~Theodore Roosevelt
We are used to people talking about Dry January or Sober October but rarely a Sober Summer. That doesn’t seem to be a thing—but what if it was? What if it could be your reality this year?
I knew I wanted my relationship with alcohol to be different at many points in my twenties, thirties, and forties, and in the summer of 2017, I decided, “This is it—I am going to choose a different path.”
That day in June left me with a terrible hangover the next morning. I didn’t parent well, I ate all the foods I wouldn’t normally, I underperformed at work, and I went to bed early in a fog of regret, shame, and guilt.
I’d love to tell you that was my last drinking day, but it wasn’t. It took me another two and a half years from that point to get to the start of my sober life. One thing holding me back was thinking about all the things I was going to miss out on. I knew I could do a month of not drinking—I’d done that before—but three months, six months, a year… that felt like a big deal.
January is sometimes seen as a reset time of year. Perhaps finances are a little tighter, maybe you already drank enough over the winter period, and a break from alcohol is seen as ‘socially acceptable’ in January.
October has gained traction over the last few years as another ‘break from alcohol’ month. It fits neatly in that point between summer and Christmas and lends itself to a month of non-drinking because we might need a reset after the excesses of the vacation period.
What I now know, after more than five years of being a non-drinker, is this: We don’t need to be confined to other people’s expectations of when it’s a good time to have a break from alcohol, and also, it doesn’t have to be for a fixed thirty days. We are allowed to make our own rules, challenges, or well-being experiments when we want to and for however long we want to.
When I initially decided that I was going to set myself an experiment and choose not to drink for one year, I really worried about all the summer fun I might miss out on. I usually switched my regular drinks around for the summer. Red wine and heavy cocktails were out, and rosé wine and spritz cocktails were in… in abundance.
That first sober summer I worried about how I would navigate a friend’s wedding without champagne for the toast, how I would do a festival without a bottle of beer, and what other people would think of me if I didn’t bring a bottle of wine to a BBQ.
It all seemed like too much to process and too much to try and work out. In the end, I decided to come up with some strategies to support myself. I had worked for over twelve years in a local government role, supporting people with their substance use and misuse, and it was time to start listening to my own good advice.
I realized I needed some compassionate self-talk, some scripts to use for other people’s comments, and some practical steps to follow to navigate events where alcohol was going to be served.
If a sober summer sounds like a good idea for you, then here are five pointers (and some journal questions) to support you in finding your sober serenity.
1. Be intentional.
Don’t see drinking as inevitable. Give yourself plenty of joyful thoughts, feelings, and choices around being a non-drinker.
Choose: How would you like to think about alcohol?
Examples: I chose to see alcohol as an unnecessary addition to this day. I know that alcohol won’t help me connect authentically with those around me today.
Choose: How would you like to feel about alcohol?
Examples: I feel empowered in my choice not to drink today. I feel joyful about being hydrated and clear-headed through this weekend.
Choose: How would you like to behave around alcohol?
Examples: I behave in a neutral way around alcohol; I neither want it nor think about it. I behave as if alcohol has little meaning to me.
Picture it all in your mind’s eye, write it down, and talk to yourself about it. This will support you to make it your reality.
Know that you are likely to enjoy some physical benefits from a sober summer quite quickly—think improved sleep, better cognitive function, clearer skin, and more.
2. Have answers ready for social situations.
What will you say to other people when you arrive at social events, and they ask why you’re not drinking? Do you need to say anything? Will you make it no big deal that you’re not drinking?
Perhaps you’ll just say, “Thanks, I’ll have a ginger beer,” or “Thanks, I’d like a sparkling water.”
Do you need or want to say anything at all? You will never owe anyone an explanation for your behavior around choosing not to drink.
What you drink when you get to a party/gathering/dinner might feel important to you. Is it an event where you will have to choose from the drinks on offer, or is it an event where you can take your own? If you know the answer upfront, you can decide on a plan.
Want to know what is super important about answers to questions like these? Planning them and then following through. It will do wonders for your self-esteem and confidence to arrive home from a social event knowing you can rely on yourself to follow through on what you decided.
3. Avoid summer stress and overwhelm.
What can you do to simplify your life this summer? Can you reassess the social activities that you were thinking of? Can you say no to some invitations that don’t fill you with joy? Can you do more of what you really like doing?
See this time as an experiment. If you are not 100% sure about what you love doing in the summer, now is a great time to explore and find out.
The emotional space created by removing alcohol allows you to reconnect with yourself and identify which social situations truly energize you versus those you merely tolerate with a glass in hand.
4. Find your peace or your emotional middle point.
So often we drink in the summer to relax, distract, numb out, or relieve boredom. You can find better habits that support your emotional, physical, and spiritual health in other ways.
Are you going to enjoy a meditation practice? Are you going to spend more time outdoors? Are you going to start journaling?
Will you recognize what you want to distract or numb yourself from? Will you recognize why you might need alcohol to make events feel more fun or exciting? What are the things that feel uncomfortable for you?
5. Try these ideas as an experiment.
You don’t have to commit to quitting drinking forever if that feels wrong or too difficult right now. Just enjoy what is ahead for the next couple of months. See how you feel doing a sober summer. See if you feel more serene and then reassess in autumn.
Experiment and explore new drinks. How about a ginger beer, a lime cordial and club soda, or a Shirley Temple? The alcohol-free beers, no-alcohol sparkling wines, and botanical drinks are worth exploring too.
A sober summer can serve as a conscious experiment in intentionality. It doesn’t have to be about permanent abstinence but rather creating space to re-evaluate your relationship with alcohol on your own terms. Enjoy!
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The Trauma in Our Tissues and How I’m Setting Myself Free
“I feel like I can see with my whole body,” I said to my peer after our last session exchange.
As part of my ongoing growth and development as a practitioner, I regularly participate in somatic therapy exchanges with a small group of peers.
On completion of our last session, I found myself sitting with a sense of a quiet, steady seeing, almost like sitting on the top of a mountain, rooted to the earth, not a breath of wind, and a 360-degree view of not just the world around me but of it within me, and me within it.
It felt as though I had stepped into a deeper dimension of perception, where sight wasn’t limited to my eyes but woven into my body’s knowing.
It was unfamiliar, but a place where I felt a deep sense of being able to rest. Completely.
I came to her that morning wanting to work on the shock I felt I was still carrying from the day—twelve years ago—when I learned my partner had taken his life. I’ve done a lot of work over the years, but the impact of this moment in time was still untouched.
As we prepared for our session, I felt a fluttering in my chest and a mild contraction behind my heart and upper torso.
“I feel a little fear…” I shared with her, knowing that this was normal and the very reason I had yet to touch how my body had stored the impact of this day.
Often the places we fear the most are exactly where we need to go.
I recalled the memory of traveling down the small bitumen road leading to the gravel driveway of our family home. We lived on two acres in a beautiful community in semirural NSW. My dear friend, who unbeknownst to me had already been informed of what had happened, was driving, as I was five months pregnant and overwhelmed with emotion.
That morning, we had gone to the local police station to report him missing. He had not been answering his phone and had not turned up at work that day. His closest friend had not heard from him, and neither had I.
We all knew something was amiss.
As we turned onto our property, we were met with a row of cars scattered outside the entrance. My breath caught in my chest, my eyes widened and darted, taking in the cars and the close friends walking toward me through the front door. The moment felt so surreal; I knew something was terribly wrong.
There is a moment in time where our nervous system perceives what the eyes have yet to see. A deeper knowing that, much like an animal in the wild who can feel the storm before it arrives, braces itself against the danger afoot.
I don’t know when that initial moment was for me. Whether it was when I spoke to his work and was advised he hadn’t turned up, when I went to the police, when my friend stood to take a private call while we were waiting for the police to contact us, or when we turned the car to drive down the little bitumen road, right before the tree canopy parted to expose the cars scattered outside my home.
When it comes to shock trauma, the brainstem registers the shock before it has even happened. And the body, in response, braces.
I was already bracing as I exited the car, tightening further as I met the eyes of my friend walking out of the front door, and then at the nod of his head, my world stopped and my body locked.
I had shared with my colleague that morning that I felt like I was bracing. That in my deepest moments of meditation, I could feel a very deep clench. That sometimes I wake with a very subtle but palpable internal holding, a contraction deeper than I could touch on my own. I also shared that I felt this bracing was impacting my health.
For many years, I have worked diligently on restoring my health. Spending thousands upon thousands. Recovering from severe biotoxin poisoning, chronic fatigue, and burnout from the trauma of the relationship, the trauma of his death, and all of the survival stress beyond.
Though I have come a very long way, I know there is still a way to go. Peeling away layer by layer.
Our session met one of those layers.
Releasing trauma can often appear as a tremor. A tremble. It can show up in the arms, hands, legs, feet, or anywhere in the body, visible to another in its release. And it can also be held deep inside, in tissues that never see the light of day.
Twenty-five minutes into our session, I felt a subtle internal tremble. It felt almost like an electric shock. A tremor that started in my cervical spine, just under the occiput, the back part of the skull at the base of the head where the skull meets the spine, and rippled to the bones protecting the back of my heart, and there it stopped.
I had been sitting in silence with myself, noticing sensations in my body and allowing my body to direct me to where the bracing was. Sensing, feeling, and ‘being with’ all that arose. Offering simple, loving presence.
It took all of three seconds from start to finish for this seismic ripple to initiate a wave through my body that was literally like a soul-level shudder—a deep unwinding pulse—reaching into the very fabric of stored experience so that it may unravel.
It was sudden, potent, and gone in an instant. And then something unlocked, I took a deep breath, and I wept.
I grieved in a way I had not yet done for what was lost that day. For him. For me. For my children. For his family. For the ripple effect of his choice.
I cried an ocean of tears for days. Tears that were locked within the fortress of my body, held in place by years of survival, tension, and bracing.
In my own attempt to manage the intensity of the event, my own vulnerability of being pregnant at the time, and all that came after it, I had braced against the news of his death and the aftermath. I had braced against the reality of mothering alone. I had braced against my breath. I had braced against all of it.
Over the years, I thought I had worked through all of that, but deep down inside, I was still bracing.
As I cried, I softened.
The walls that once held so firm began to melt a little, and in their place, there was space. A vast, quiet openness where my breath could move freely, where my body no longer clenched against itself or life.
I felt lighter. Not in the way of something missing but in the way of something finally released.
I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until I could finally exhale.
This is what I was holding. This is what I was not feeling. What I was unable to feel at the time because my body was primed to protect my unborn child. This was what my body had been orienting around for the last decade.
Holding in these tears, holding in the shock, holding in the fear.
This is where deep unraveling happens. This is why we work with the body.
I can’t say that all was released in that session, but I can say that the earth cracked open enough for me to feel a space within my being that is unfamiliar and yet also feels very much like what a deeper part of me knows as home.
In the days that followed, I moved differently. I breathed differently. I noticed the absence of a tension I had carried so long it had become invisible, woven into the fabric of my being. And with its release, even more presence to be with what is, rather than bracing against what was.
This is what the body holds.
Not just the stories, not just the memories, but the impact of them, the ways we shape ourselves around survival. And this is why we must listen, not just with the mind, but with the body itself.
Because healing isn’t about erasing the past. It’s about unwinding from it.
It’s about reclaiming the space within us that trauma occupied. It’s about finding breath where there was constriction, movement where there was rigidity, presence where there was absence.
And ultimately, it’s about coming back to ourselves. Whole. Embodied. Free.
As I continue on this journey, I find myself increasingly aware of how much of our lives—the obstacles we face and the emotional, health, and relational challenges we experience—are shaped by the events we have yet to truly feel.
Trauma, shock, old wounds, and all that we hold in our tissues don’t disappear because we ignore them; they settle into our body, like dust gathering on the shelves of a forgotten room, firing the lens through which we see, live, and breathe, waiting for the moment when we are courageous enough to turn towards them instead of away.
I recognize that the path of healing is not linear, nor a one-time fix or a quick release. It’s a constant process of coming back to the body, coming back to the breath, and coming back to ourselves. The layers that we peel back, slowly, patiently, hold not just pain but also possibility in their wake; and in the space after each unraveling, we move closer to the wholeness that resides within us all, buried beneath years of survival, and the quiet, fertile ground of presence.
By listening deeply to our body and holding space for ourselves with compassion and presence, we give ourselves permission to unravel and heal. We make room for the truth of what happened, and in doing so, we make room for the truth of who we are beyond the trauma.
I don’t know what the future holds or how many more layers I’ll uncover, but I do know this: A part of me is no longer bracing. That part is here. Present. With all of it. And in this presence, I find the gift of peace.
And maybe, just maybe, that is where true freedom begins.
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What Happened When I Stopped Saying Yes to Everything
“Daring to set boundaries is about having the courage to love ourselves, even when we risk disappointing others.” ~Brené Brown
I used to believe that if someone was in need and I had the ability to help, it was my duty to step in. Whether it was managing caregiving responsibilities for family, fielding crisis calls from friends, or stepping up at work when no one else would, I said yes without hesitation. For me, helping seemed to be the measure of a “good person.”
But what I didn’t realize is that many of us confuse obligation with responsibility.
Obligation feels like it’s inherently ours to do, regardless of choice. Responsibility feels like something we voluntarily take on—sometimes because of what we believe is expected or what others have convinced us is ours to carry. The distinction between the two is subtle, but the effects of misunderstanding them are profound.
The truth is, we’re taught early on that helping others is the right thing to do. And for women, in particular, the world emphasizes that stepping up for others is what defines us as strong, capable, and valuable. So I did. I said yes to nearly every pull on my time, energy, and peace—until my body stopped me.
The Wake-Up Call: The Day My Body Stopped Me
You don’t realize how much you’ve given—how much you’ve carried—until your body asks you to stop.
For me, that wake-up call came in the form of an ulcer. At the time, I couldn’t fathom why my body was failing me. I ate healthily, exercised, and generally lived a balanced lifestyle—or so I thought.
But what I hadn’t realized—what so many of us fail to see—is that ulcers, burnout, and other stress-related conditions don’t come from what we eat. They come from what’s eating away at us.
What had been quietly eating away at me were all the pulls on my time and spirit, pulls I had allowed to continue because of my inability to recognize the damage and deliver an emphatic no. Caregiving, crisis management, being the go-to problem solver—these were the things that slowly consumed me as I ignored the whispers of my body and spirit, telling me to pause.
The ulcer wasn’t just a physical issue—it was a wake-up call. It forced me to confront the weight of my yeses and how they came at the cost of my peace and wellbeing.
The Power of the Pause: How I Learned to Reassess My Yes
Healing took time, and it wasn’t just about recovering physically. It was about rebuilding my habits and, more importantly, my mindset.
I began to understand that every pull on my energy—a friend’s distress signal, a family member’s caregiving need, or even an opportunity at work—wasn’t necessarily mine to answer. I needed to stop operating on autopilot and start responding with awareness. I called this practice the pause.
Before I gave my yes, I learned to pause and ask myself:
- Is this truly mine to do?
- What will this cost me in time, energy, and peace?
- What is motivating me to say yes—guilt, duty, or an honest desire to help?
The pause gave me clarity. Sometimes, the answer was obvious:
- “I’ll think about it and let you know.”
- “I can help with this part, but I won’t be able to take on the rest.”
- “No, I can’t. You should ask around to find someone else.”
Other times, the pause forced me to confront patterns I’d ignored—like over-helping to avoid discomfort or defaulting to yes because I thought no would disappoint someone. Each time I paused, I learned something new about why I was saying yes, and each answer helped me protect my energy more thoughtfully.
The Pull of Expectations: How Societal Conditioning Shapes Our Yes
One of the hardest parts of reassessing my yeses was confronting the power of societal expectations.
Helping others is often framed as the ultimate virtue—that “good people” step up, solve problems, and make sacrifices when others can’t or won’t. For women, this idea takes on an even sharper edge. We’re taught that caregiving and emotional labor come naturally to us, that putting others first is what makes us valuable.
The world celebrates women who “do it all,” often without asking what it’s costing them.
As I reflected on my incessant yeses, I realized how much of this cultural messaging I’d internalized.
I thought of my younger self, watching the women in my life extend themselves without pause—my mother, my grandmother, my mentors. They juggled caregiving, work, and family without ever asking whether it was sustainable. I thought of the messages I’d absorbed as a child, like the idea that refusing to help when you’re able is selfish, or that good people sacrifice no matter the cost.
These beliefs shaped how I approached every ask. It wasn’t guilt that pulled me toward yes—it was the weight of these expectations, handed down through generations without question.
But here’s what I’ve learned: these expectations might shape us, but they don’t have to define us. Balance isn’t selfish—it’s necessary. Redefining responsibility isn’t about rejecting others but about making sure the cycle of overextension stops with us.
Reassessing and Reconnecting: How Thoughtful Yeses Changed Everything
Pausing didn’t just help me recover physically—it reconnected me to what mattered most.
By becoming intentional about my yeses, I was able to show up fully for the people I love without losing myself in the process. Instead of saying yes to everything, I started saying yes to what aligned with my values, what honored my peace, and what made my energy sustainable.
Thoughtful yeses gave me something I hadn’t had in years—balance. And with that balance came clarity, purpose, and freedom. I let go of obligations that weren’t truly mine, found strength in saying no, and started living in a way that felt authentic rather than automatic.
It wasn’t just my time and energy that transformed—it was me.
Closing Reflection: Your Own Litmus Test for Balance
If you’ve ever felt the pull to say yes without pausing first, I want to encourage you to stop—just for a moment. Ask yourself:
- Is this truly mine to do?
- What will saying yes cost me?
- What is motivating this choice, and does it align with what I value most?
We’re often told that saying yes is the ultimate virtue. But the truth is, balance is the measure of alignment. It’s not about doing everything; it’s about doing what truly serves both who you are and what the situation requires.
With every pause, you ask the most important question of all: Does this honor the person I’m becoming? And from that space of clarity, your yes—when you give it—becomes not just an answer but a gift.
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How My Mother’s Alcoholism Shaped Me and How I’m Healing Now
“The journey of the perfect daughter is not about perfection; it’s about finding the courage to be imperfect, to be human.” ~Robert Ackerman, Perfect Daughters
Growing up in a home shadowed by addiction is like living in a house with no foundation. The ground beneath you is unstable, the walls feel fragile, and the roof could collapse at any moment. For me, this was my reality. My earliest memories of my mother’s alcoholism are tied to confusion and worry—a child’s attempt to make sense of an adult world filled with unpredictability and silence.
Her moods were erratic, swinging from one extreme to another, I recall. I remember one night, she came into my room, woke me up, and told me not to worry, but she was going back to work. The way she spoke, her entire presence, was off. It wasn’t her usual self. I didn’t understand she was drunk. I just felt pure, childlike concern.
This confusion was only the beginning. As I grew older, the challenges multiplied. The embarrassment of comparing my home life to my friends’, the isolation of a family that never spoke about the elephant in the room, and the lack of safety in my own home left me feeling utterly alone.
I didn’t feel comfortable reaching out to any adult. My dad wasn’t approachable, and my mom wasn’t emotionally available. I felt like I had to solve everything on my own.
The Roles We Play
In the chaos of addiction, children often take on roles to survive. For me, these roles became my identity. I became the peacemaker, mediating between my mother and younger sister. I became a second mother, guiding my sister in ways my mom couldn’t. And I became the “good daughter,” believing that if I loved my mother enough, I could save her.
I thought that by loving her more, investing my attention in her needs, and avoiding confrontations, I could make her feel better. But it was an impossible burden.
My relationship with my father also suffered. I blamed him for allowing my mom to continue her behavior and for not doing anything for us. He became the enemy, and I pushed him out of my life.
The Long Shadow of Childhood Trauma
The impact of my mother’s alcoholism didn’t end in childhood. As an adult, I found myself repeating patterns in friendships and romantic relationships. I’ve struggled with codependency, boundaries, and trust issues. I’ve had manipulative partners and found myself drawn to selfish, narcissistic people.
But my journey toward healing began when I hit rock bottom. I was drinking excessively, showing up to work after long nights out, and even driving drunk. I dated a partner who was emotionally abusive and almost physically violent—and my parents had no idea.
A pivotal moment came during a surprise party my sister organized before I left to study abroad. I arrived hungover and exhausted, and when everyone shouted “surprise!” I had an anxiety attack. It was the first time I realized how many feelings I’d buried—sadness, frustration, anger, and underneath it all, a deep, overwhelming grief I had never allowed myself to feel.
The Path to Healing
Healing didn’t happen overnight. It began with therapy—though my first experience was far from ideal. That therapist was deeply narcissistic, mirroring the types of people I’d been drawn to all my life. But I didn’t give up. I found another therapist, and she’s been my steady guide for seven years.
Through our work, I learned that I was not alone and that I could reach out for help—and trust that help. I also learned to recognize what trust feels like, to move away from extremes, to distinguish love from codependency, and to take responsibility for my part in my experiences. At twenty-seven, I was finally ready to stop blaming others and take accountability—not just for my present, but for all the years I had abandoned myself. I began to reframe my past, not through the lens of a victim, but from the perspective of the self-aware adult I’d become.
One of the most profound breakthroughs came when I decided I was ready to confront my mother. Preparing for that moment shifted everything—it marked the beginning of reclaiming my voice and stepping into my own power.
Support groups like Al-Anon also played a crucial role. When I arrived at Al-Anon, I started crying within minutes. For the first time, I heard people speak openly—almost casually—about having a loved one with alcoholism. I had never experienced that kind of openness in such a “normal” environment.
Listening to the speaker share their story, I realized I wasn’t alone. We were all carrying the same grief, frustration, and helplessness. In that room, I felt seen. I felt like I belonged.
Through therapy, meditation, exercise, and books, I began to rebuild my sense of self. I learned to be with myself in a peaceful, serene way. I stopped looking at my mom as someone weird or lost and started seeing her as someone with a disease. I took off the impossible burden of having to save her.
Surrendering to Hope
One of the most profound lessons I learned was the power of surrender. For me, surrender meant admitting I needed help—that my own resources weren’t enough to handle the situation I was facing at home. It meant being humble enough to admit that this was bigger than me, that trying to fix my mother was not only ineffective but was also destroying me.
In my daily life, surrender meant walking away from arguments, especially when my mother was drinking, letting go of the exhausting mission to make her happy, and accepting that her happiness wasn’t something I could guarantee.
There’s a phrase in Al-Anon that became my mantra: “I didn’t cause it. I can’t control it.” I surrendered my expectations of who I wished my mother would be and allowed myself to grieve the mother I didn’t have. That surrender saved my life.
My journey is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. When you choose to surrender, everything will start feeling better. It’s a leap of faith, and trust me, you’re not alone.
Today, I’m still on my healing journey, but I’m no longer defined by my past. I’m learning to trust myself, set boundaries, and embrace my worth. My story is a reminder that even in the darkest moments, there is hope—and that healing is possible, one step at a time.
