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I’ve been thinking a lot about what I want to write — and for whom. Today I realised, finally and very clearly, that I write for people who once believed that sensitivity was a flaw. The ones who learned early that it was safer to be brave — who covered tenderness, softness with competence, independence, self sufficiency and an “I can do it” attitude.
Over the years of self-discovery I realised that pattern began as protection. Somewhere along the way, complex trauma taught me that being exactly who I am wasn’t enough — that love had to be earned by being helpful, strong, or endlessly capable. Vulnerability felt like weakness, and competence became a way of belonging.
But the body remembers what the mind tries to manage. The exhaustion, the tension, the constant alertness brought me to where I am now. It’s not a flow, it’s the body’s way of saying, “I’ve been holding too much for too long.”
I wanted to heal but realised during painful and long journey that healing isn’t about fixing who I am. It’s about learning to feel again — to move through emotions instead of organising my life around them. It’s about finding safety inside my own body, connecting from the heart, and letting relationships feel softer, more mutual.
It’s a journey from fear to flow.
And also I’ve just noticed writing this - flaw and flow are only one letter apart.
Maybe where healing begins: in the smallest shift, when I stoped seeing my sensitivity as a flaw and start realising it’s the very thing that connects me to life.
Over the years of self-discovery I realised that pattern began as protection. Somewhere along the way, complex trauma taught me that being exactly who I am wasn’t enough — that love had to be earned by being helpful, strong, or endlessly capable. Vulnerability felt like weakness, and competence became a way of belonging.
But the body remembers what the mind tries to manage. The exhaustion, the tension, the constant alertness brought me to where I am now. It’s not a flow, it’s the body’s way of saying, “I’ve been holding too much for too long.”
I wanted to heal but realised during painful and long journey that healing isn’t about fixing who I am. It’s about learning to feel again — to move through emotions instead of organising my life around them. It’s about finding safety inside my own body, connecting from the heart, and letting relationships feel softer, more mutual.
It’s a journey from fear to flow.
And also I’ve just noticed writing this - flaw and flow are only one letter apart.
Maybe where healing begins: in the smallest shift, when I stoped seeing my sensitivity as a flaw and start realising it’s the very thing that connects me to life.
November 2025
For a long time, I believed that being able to do many things at once made me strong… and in many ways, it did — multitasking helped me survive, stay useful, and keep everything together. But over time, I started to see another side of it. The constant doing, fixing, and organising began to pull me away from myself. I was tending to everything and everyone — except myself and my own needs.
I see this pattern in many of the people I work with too. What often appears as capability is, in truth, a survival strategy — a way to feel safe, loved, or seen. When that pattern runs for too long, the body begins to speak through fatigue, stress, and anxiety.
When I talk about adrenal fatigue, I also look through the lens of Chinese medicine, where the adrenals rest on top of the kidneys — the organs associated with fear. Stress, hurry, and constant striving often grow from this deep, unacknowledged fear that lives in the body.
I’ve learned — both through my own journey and through supporting others — that healing begins with recognition. Not by pushing through, but by gently meeting what’s here. The moment I stopped telling myself “you shouldn’t be scared” and instead said, “of course you’re scared,” something inside me began to soften.
This is the essence of my work — supporting people as they learn to slow down, listen to their body’s signals, and move toward healing at their own pace. It’s about allowing and acknowledging emotions rather than resisting them. A practice of gentleness as strength, sensitivity as power, and awareness as medicine.
As we move into winter — the season of the kidneys and the water element — nature invites us to rest, replenish, and come home to ourselves. Today really came to me, especially after busy weekend mentoring on BBTRS training “What if this season, instead of doing more, we simply allowed ourselves to be held by stillness?”
Untangling and Connecting
When I was a little baby, apparently I could untangle all the little knots in my bed. There was a net on one side meant to keep me secure, and somehow I managed to undo every single knot. Later at school, I was the one organising games where everyone had to untangle the most complicated knots I’ve made out of yarn.
Over the years, this tendency showed up in other ways. I loved detective books and films where twisted stories were slowly unravelled. I enjoyed maths, where my mind worked hard to solve complicated exercises. All of this eventually led me to working with people and supporting them as they untangle their stories and life paths.
But recently, I realised that this is only part of what I do. Untangling alone isn’t enough. There’s another side to it: a side that’s more about connecting. My favourite hobby, crocheting, reminded me of this. From twists and turns and things that seem unrelated, something new and meaningful can take shape. And when I look back, this part has always been there too: the old 80s game “Dots,” detective stories that were about connecting clues, listening to people and helping them find their own solutions. Untangling and connecting - both have always been present.
This reflection helped me understand my work more clearly. I don’t just support people in loosening what feels tight or overwhelming. I also help them discover the connections - between body and mind, past and present, fear and possibility, so their story begins to make sense in a new way. It’s not only about untying the knots. It’s about what becomes possible once there’s space for something new to be woven. My work sits in the space between opposites - disconnecting and connecting, untangling and weaving, letting go and letting in. Like the natural rhythm of breathing in and breathing out, both sides matter.
Boundaries
There is something strange about boundaries for me; for so long, I thought I understood them because I could say no, protect my time, and politely step back when I didn’t have capacity or just walk away. I truly believed that was all boundaries were. But I’ve observed something more powerful recently that rocked my world, Emotional and energetic boundaries are something else entirely - deeper, quieter, and far more powerful. They determine what I absorb and what I allow to pass through me. They decide whether I remain anchored in myself or get swept into someone else’s storm.
It is easier in theory to do things in the physical world to step back, to say no, or even to walk away than to sit with the guilt that rises when I set boundaries on an emotional or energetic level. That silent guilt-tripping, whether coming from others or echoing from old experiences, is powerful. But I can feel that I am reaching the point where the last internal battle has begun: the part of me that once survived by caretaking is now learning that caretaking is no longer the path forward.
When I looked closer, I saw how easily I used to slip into the emotional-caretaker role I’ve learned in childhood, where empathy meant opening my whole body to the weight of others. People felt lighter after talking to me, soothed and understood and I walked away carrying what they didn’t want to hold and I was surprised why I feel exhausted. I thought that was my strength, and sometimes it is. But when someone unloads their pain without any desire to understand, grow or change, that same strength becomes a quiet drain I only notice when I’m already empty.
And I got to the point that sometimes in life I need to place a glass door between myself and others - not to shut them out, but to observe without being consumed. Because without that space, there is a chance to be pulled into the drama and chaos of those around us, especially the people closest to us, those who might drain our energy simply because they have never learned to regulate their own nervous system. I’ve lived this pattern with partners and family members who unintentionally tried to pull me into their world, not looking for solutions, just wanting someone to share the weight with them. And for years, I stepped into that role without realising the toll it took.
So I’m learning the real meaning of boundaries: they are not about saying no with my voice; they are about saying no with my energy, my presence, my nervous system, and the parts of me that were conditioned to over-give. It’s quite funny because I need to set the boundaries with myself not to take on things from the outside world. They are about knowing the difference between helping and absorbing, holding space and losing myself, compassion and self-abandonment. It’s massive and I understood that it’s not about rejecting someone, their pain or suffering, I always have a listening ear but I keep returning to the simple truth: protecting my emotional space is not selfish. It’s essential. It’s what allows me to stay whole, stay connected to myself, and offer support that is grounded instead of draining. It’s what turns care into something sustainable - for me and for the people I’m here to serve. And it takes a lot of courage and strength to go against the conditioning from my upbringing.
Without strong boundaries, I cannot be the kind of therapist who leads people back to their own power. If I carry their burdens for them, they will never learn to carry themselves. It’s like a mother tying her child’s shoes - if she keeps doing it for forty years, the child never learns the movement, the strength, or the confidence to do it alone. And in the same way, if I am constantly absorbing the pain of others, if I’m fixing, rescuing, or even forcing my perspective instead of guiding them toward their own wisdom, I’m not guiding them - I’m disabling them. Boundaries are needed and they’re neither walls, not total detachment; they’re the flexible space where I can witness someone’s struggles without drowning in them. They’re the structure that allows me to stay present without becoming responsible for what is not mine.
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