My Story

There was a time when rest felt unbearable—as if stillness made it easier for fear to find me. I longed for ease, but the moment I slowed down, anxiety would be waiting around the corner, reminding me that something bad could happen at any moment.

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I grew up in a home where love and care existed alongside moments of struggle, confusion, and hurt.

That unpredictability shaped the landscape of my inner world: I learned to keep moving, keep striving, keep proving my worth. Because in motion, I felt in control. But underneath the doing was a nervous system on high alert, carrying the unspoken belief that if I stopped, it would all fall apart.

That same hypervigilance followed me into relationships.

I learned to overfunction, to give more than I had, and to silence my needs. If I love hard enough, I’ll feel safe and chosen, I told myself. But beneath that hope lived a quiet fear—of rejection, of loss. My nervous system had embodied an old story: that love had to be earned, that people couldn’t be trusted, and that showing up authentically wasn’t safe.

For a long time, I tried to make sense of it all by naming patterns and telling my story. But healing didn’t begin until I turned inward—until I slowed down enough to feel. I began listening to the body I had long ignored, to the tension I carried like armor, and to the grief I had swallowed whole. In that slow unraveling, I found something I hadn’t known I was missing: self-compassion. A love that wasn’t performative or earned. A sense of trust that lived inside me, even when the world felt uncertain.

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I believe that healing begins when we feel safe enough to stop running—and safe enough to finally come home to ourselves… when we honor both the stories we speak and the ones etched quietly into our bodies.

So I invite you to slow down, to listen inward, and gently make space for what’s been hidden and unheard.