Somewhere in the middle of all this movement, I caught myself feeling something that didn't feel quite right. It was that creeping sense that the world was rushing past me, that I was hanging onto the edge of it, that I had somehow lost my say in how things were unfolding. Everything felt urgent. Everything felt like too much.

Spend any time in a leadership program, personal development workshop, or even a local book club on self-growth, and one pattern quickly emerges: the room is often filled with women. Curious, engaged, and eager to learn, they are embracing growth with remarkable energy. Men, by contrast, are frequently underrepresented or arrive through encouragement from their partners, friends, or colleagues.

Have you ever noticed how some thoughts come back like ghosts? They drift in quietly at first, a whisper of doubt, a flicker of fear, until suddenly, they’re front and centre, convincing you they’ve been here all along. They’re not the kind of ghosts that rattle chains or slam doors. They’re the quieter kind, the ones that speak in familiar voices.

I was a pragmatist at heart, the kind of person who got things done and didn't stop until the job was finished. On paper, it sounded great: dependable, calm, organised, and consistent. The light side of those traits was stability and reliability. The shadow side told a different story. Beneath the calm was anxiety. Beneath the order, control. I was risk-averse, overloaded, and, truth be told, a bit of a people pleaser.

Most of us say we want healthy boundaries. But often, what we're actually building is a defence, a line in the sand drawn in frustration, not clarity. We say things like I'm not working late anymore, or I'm done with people taking advantage of me, but those lines rarely hold. Not because we're weak, but because the boundary was built to block, not to serve.

A couple of weeks ago, something happened to me. I sat at my desk staring at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard but not typing, not really doing anything. I felt physically stuck, my body wouldn’t move, my head was spinning, thoughts racing like they were chasing each other in circles: “I can’t do this. I’m not good enough. I’m so tired. I should know better. I don’t look great. I don’t feel great. I am failing at everything”

Focusing on what we do not want is an avoidance tactic. It is comfortable because it does not require much of us. We do not have to imagine anything new or stretch ourselves. We simply point to what exists (or what we fear might happen) and reject it.

I have always been described as an extrovert. I get involved in conversations, laugh, and tell stories, but what the outside world doesn't see is my internal narrative. This battle goes on when I am going to meet people I don't fully know, join a networking group, or go into a place I haven't been before.

It's a strange thing to step back into your life and feel slightly like a guest in it. Nothing's wrong on the surface. But there's an internal mismatch. A quiet discomfort that's hard to name. It's a familiar pair of shoes. Same shoes, same colour, same size. But feels like I'm wearing the left shoe on the right foot, and the right shoe on the left.

The lunch tin isn't just a container of food. It's a mirror. Of our intentions. Our pressures. Our need to nourish, yes, but also to prove that we have 'done it', that we are good, that we are enough.

I know what it’s like to hold everything so tightly that you start to lose your shape. To smile and say, “I’ve got it,” when really bits of you are leaking out quietly in the form of snappy words, heavy sighs, evil glances at your partner, or that ever-growing feeling of resentment of life you don’t want to admit.

Stress shows up in tense shoulders. Anxiety lives in a clenched jaw. Anger tightens the fists. Love flutters through our tummies, and adrenaline makes our hearts pump. The body has always spoken for us. Even when we didn't realise it.

Sometimes, healing doesn't look like crying on the bathroom floor. Sometimes, healing looks like realising you've been holding your breath for 18 years and didn't know it.

There has been an interesting feeling around. I hear many describe it as "let's just get through this", while others feel a sense of the unknown, the question of "what will ever happen next?" tends to be the tone.

This week I got pissed off, and I mean really pissed off. I've been listening to incredible women who are strong, fiery, and just bloody amazing, and they're feeling caught up in knots and twists. They're unsure, worried, panicked, and they feel like their only option is maybe to leave something they've worked so hard for. Their confidence is low. They can't focus.

Jorge and I have been married for 16 years and have been together for 22. Some of you reading this might think, that's baby love! While others might wonder how we even got here. But over the last two weeks, I've been reflecting on love and what it all means. Perhaps it's the conversations I've been having with friends and clients that brought it up and made me wonder: what does it all mean?

This week, I’ve been sitting with a word. It’s not a big or fancy one, just a simple four-letter word that has been with me more times than I can count. HOPE.

Fifty weeks of showing up to the page and myself. Fifty weeks (fifty lessons) of sharing the tangled thoughts, hidden fears, messy contradictions, and quiet revelations that come with being a woman, a mother, a partner, a coach, and most of all… a human.

I wonder if we’re part of the problem and if we are the ones creating the drama and the mental "comparison chaos" in our heads?

So, when did the innocence of our internal language shift? When did it go from cuddles, milk, fairies, and pretend lands to: Am I good enough? Why don’t they like me? How could I have been so stupid? They know I didn’t know the answer, now I feel terrible… Come on, don’t be so lazy