There is nothing wrong with being someone who considers other people’s needs.

Being thoughtful, accommodating and willing to compromise are qualities that help us build meaningful relationships. Our families need us. Our children need us. The people we love will sometimes need us to put their needs ahead of our own, just as we will sometimes need them to do the same.

But somewhere between caring for others and continually adapting to them, something can begin to shift.

We may become so accustomed to considering how other people feel, what they need and how they might respond that we gradually stop giving the same attention to ourselves.

We learn to anticipate disappointment, avoid conversations that might create tension and adjust our preferences to make things easier for everyone else. Often, we don’t even realise we’re doing it. It simply becomes the way we move through the world.

And over time, a pattern that may have helped us maintain connection with others can begin to weaken the connection we have with ourselves.

When accommodation becomes automatic

For some of us, accommodating others is something we learned early in life.

Perhaps being agreeable was encouraged while expressing anger or disagreement was discouraged. Perhaps maintaining harmony helped us feel accepted or connected. Or perhaps we grew up in environments where paying attention to other people’s moods and reactions was an important way of navigating relationships.

These experiences can shape how we relate to others, often long before we have the awareness to question them.

While consideration and sensitivity towards others can be valuable qualities, they can also become so automatic that we lose sight of where consideration ends and setting ourselves aside begins.

We might agree to something before asking whether we want to. We might dismiss our discomfort because we don’t want to make a fuss, or find ourselves explaining a perfectly reasonable decision because we’re worried about how someone else will receive it.

Sometimes we don’t even recognise that a boundary has been crossed because we’ve become so accustomed to putting our own feelings aside.

What feels familiar can begin to feel normal, even when it consistently comes at our own expense.

This is why learning to have boundaries can be so much more complicated than simply learning to say no.

Before we can communicate a boundary, we may first need to recognise that we have one. And before we can begin to protect it, we may need to believe that we have the right to.

The cost reaches further than we realise

When we think about boundaries, we often think about how we allow other people to treat us. We think about saying no to unreasonable requests, protecting our time or speaking up when something makes us uncomfortable.

But the impact of a lifelong pattern of accommodation can reach much further than our immediate relationships.

It can shape how confidently we express ourselves, how we make decisions, which opportunities we pursue and how much of our individuality we allow other people to see.

We might have thoughtful ideas but hesitate to share them because someone could disagree. We might soften our opinions, add unnecessary explanations or question what we’ve said long after a conversation has ended.

We might struggle to make decisions without reassurance, not because we’re incapable of making good decisions, but because we’ve become accustomed to looking outside ourselves for confirmation that our choices are acceptable.

We might find it difficult to ask for what we need in a relationship, pursue something that matters to us or express a preference that differs from someone else’s.

And sometimes we become so practised at considering what everyone else wants that we struggle to answer a surprisingly simple question:

What do I actually want?

These experiences may appear unrelated. One affects our relationships, another our confidence at work, another our ability to make decisions or pursue opportunities.

But sometimes they are connected by the same underlying pattern: we have learned to give other people’s needs, opinions and reactions more weight than our own.

The cost isn’t only what we allow others to ask of us. It’s also how much of ourselves we gradually learn to withhold.

Our opinions, preferences, ambitions and needs can become quieter, not because they no longer exist, but because we’ve become less comfortable expressing them. Over time, we may begin to feel disconnected from the person we are beneath all the roles we fulfil and expectations we manage.

When we begin to notice

Awareness doesn’t always arrive through a dramatic moment.

Sometimes it begins with a growing sense of exhaustion, resentment or frustration that we can’t quite explain. We might notice how often we agree to things we don’t want to do, or how uncomfortable we feel when someone is disappointed with us.

We might begin to recognise that certain relationships leave very little room for our own needs, or that we’re constantly adjusting ourselves to avoid conflict.

Sometimes a significant experience brings these patterns into focus. At other times, the realisation develops slowly, through a series of moments that become increasingly difficult to ignore.

We start questioning things we’ve previously accepted without much thought.

Why do I feel guilty when I say no?

Why do I need so much reassurance before making a decision?

Why does expressing a different opinion feel so uncomfortable?

Why do I feel responsible for how other people react?

These questions can be unsettling because they invite us to reconsider patterns that may have shaped our relationships for years.

But they can also mark the beginning of something important.

For the first time, we may begin to recognise the difference between choosing to accommodate someone and feeling unable not to.

We might notice that saying yes feels safer than saying no, even when it comes at our own expense. Or that maintaining harmony has gradually become more important than acknowledging our own discomfort.

Recognising these patterns doesn’t mean we need to judge ourselves for having developed them.

There may have been very understandable reasons why accommodation became our natural response. It may have helped us preserve relationships, avoid conflict or navigate situations where expressing ourselves didn’t feel safe.

We can acknowledge the impact of those patterns while also having compassion for the circumstances in which they developed.

And we can begin to recognise that what once helped us navigate our lives may no longer be serving us in the same way.

Why knowing isn’t always enough

One of the most difficult parts of learning to have boundaries is discovering that recognising a pattern doesn’t immediately make it easier to change.

We might understand intellectually that we have every right to express a need, decline a request or disagree with someone. Yet when the moment arrives, we still find ourselves hesitating.

We worry about sounding selfish or unreasonable. We imagine how the other person might react. We question whether our discomfort is justified or whether it would simply be easier to let something go.

Sometimes we remain silent because we don’t know how to express what we’re feeling. Sometimes we allow frustration to build until our response comes out more abruptly than we intended. And sometimes we communicate a reasonable boundary, only to spend hours afterwards questioning whether we should have said anything at all.

We might wonder why something that seems so straightforward for other people feels so difficult for us.

But learning to have boundaries isn’t simply about finding the right words. It can involve changing deeply familiar ways of relating to ourselves and others.

If we’ve spent years associating disagreement with rejection, disappointment or conflict, expressing a boundary may bring up feelings that seem disproportionate to the situation.

We may feel guilty even when we’ve done nothing wrong, or anxious simply because someone else is unhappy with our decision.

And in some relationships, those concerns may be grounded in real experiences of hostility or retaliation. Not every environment is equally safe for expressing boundaries, and sometimes additional support is needed to navigate those circumstances.

This is why the process deserves patience and compassion.

We’re not only learning a new way of communicating. We’re learning that our needs and opinions can matter even when someone else doesn’t agree with them, that we can care about another person’s feelings without automatically taking responsibility for them, and that someone else’s disappointment doesn’t necessarily mean we’ve made the wrong decision.

These are understandings that often take time and repeated experience to develop.

Making room for ourselves, too

Perhaps one of the most important things to understand about boundaries is that they aren’t about becoming less caring or less accommodating.

There will always be times when we willingly put someone else’s needs ahead of our own, compromise or make sacrifices because something matters to a person we love. Healthy relationships require flexibility, generosity and consideration.

The difference is that we can begin to make those choices while remaining connected to ourselves.

We can recognise what we need, even when we decide to prioritise something else. We can understand our own limits, even when circumstances require flexibility. And we can allow ourselves to have opinions, preferences and feelings that differ from those of the people around us.

Healthy boundaries don’t require us to choose between caring for others and caring for ourselves. They create room for both.

Not necessarily equal attention in every moment, but an understanding that both people matter.

And perhaps this is where boundaries become about something much bigger than learning to say no.

They become part of learning to remain ourselves while being connected to others. To express what we think without needing everyone to agree, make decisions without always looking for permission, and recognise that our individuality doesn’t need to disappear simply because we care deeply about the people in our lives.

Beginning with awareness

If accommodating others has been a lifelong pattern, the thought of changing it can feel overwhelming.

We might imagine that we need to become more assertive, more confident or better at confronting people.

But perhaps the first step is much smaller than that.

Perhaps it begins with noticing.

Noticing when we agree to something before considering how we actually feel. When we hold back an opinion because we’re worried someone might disagree. When we feel uncomfortable but immediately dismiss the feeling, or when we begin explaining a decision before anyone has questioned it.

We don’t necessarily need to respond differently in every one of these moments.

At first, simply recognising the pattern can be meaningful.

It creates a small space between our automatic response and the possibility of making a conscious choice.

And within that space, we can begin asking ourselves different questions.

What do I think about this?

What do I need?

Am I choosing this because I want to, or because I’m afraid of what might happen if I don’t?

Is there room for my perspective here, too?

Over time, we might begin practising small changes in situations where it feels safe.

Expressing a preference without immediately withdrawing it. Allowing ourselves time to consider a request before agreeing. Sharing an opinion even when we’re unsure how it will be received. Or learning to tolerate the discomfort of someone being disappointed without rushing to make it better.

These moments may seem insignificant, but they offer opportunities to build a different relationship with ourselves.

One in which our thoughts, feelings and needs are no longer automatically placed at the bottom of the list.

And perhaps, over time, we begin to discover that we can remain connected to the people we love without losing our connection to ourselves.

Because learning to have boundaries isn’t about making less room for others.

It’s about learning that there is room for you, too.

If you’re beginning to recognise how much of yourself you’ve set aside while caring for others, coaching can offer a supportive space to explore your needs, rebuild self-trust and reconnect with who you are.

The post When Keeping the Peace Means Losing Yourself appeared first on Finding Her.

Sometimes that happens. But often it doesn’t.

Many of the decisions that shape our lives come with competing needs, incomplete information, uncomfortable trade-offs and no guarantee that the choice we make will lead to the outcome we hope for.

Should I stay or leave?

Should I speak or wait?

Should I accept this opportunity?

Should I change direction?

Should I disappoint someone else—or continue disappointing myself?

We can listen carefully, think deeply and seek wise guidance, and still not feel completely sure.

Perhaps self-trust is not the certainty we feel before making a decision. Perhaps it is the relationship we maintain with ourselves while making it.

Why uncertainty can feel so difficult

For some people, making decisions is simply part of life. For others, a decision can feel like a test they must pass.

We search for the option that is unquestionably right. We imagine every possible consequence, ask more people and gather more information. We replay the situation in our minds, hoping that if we think about it for long enough, certainty will eventually arrive.

But beneath the search for the right answer, there may be something else worth becoming curious about:

What would it mean about me if I got this wrong?

The answer will not be the same for everyone.

Perhaps it would mean that you were irresponsible, selfish or careless. Perhaps it would confirm a fear that you cannot trust your own judgement.

Perhaps you believe you should have anticipated every possible consequence—or that making the wrong choice would disappoint someone whose approval matters deeply to you. Perhaps the decision carries practical consequences that genuinely deserve careful thought.

Struggling to decide does not automatically mean that you lack self-trust. But the meaning you attach to “getting it wrong” can reveal why uncertainty feels so difficult to tolerate.

When being right becomes connected to safety, belonging, capability or worth, a decision is no longer simply a choice.

It becomes a judgement about who you are.

Self-trust is not the belief that you will always be right

Trusting yourself does not mean believing that every instinct is accurate. It does not mean refusing advice, ignoring consequences or acting impulsively because something “feels right.”

Our inner voices are not always easy to interpret. Fear can sound like intuition, familiarity can feel like truth, and an old protective pattern can present itself as wisdom.

Sometimes we will misunderstand ourselves. Sometimes we will make choices we later wish we had made differently.

Self-trust cannot depend on never being wrong, because being human makes that impossible. A more sustainable form of self-trust might sound like this:

I will listen honestly to what I think and feel.

I will consider the information available to me.

I will make the best choice I can from where I am now.

And if new information emerges, I will respond without turning against myself.

That is very different from demanding certainty. It allows us to make decisions while remaining thoughtful, open and responsive.

Sometimes we are not looking for guidance—we are looking for permission

There are times when we genuinely need more information or another person’s expertise. But there are also times when we already know what matters to us and continue asking because we want someone else to make the decision feel safe.

We hope they will remove the possibility of regret, reassure us that nobody will be disappointed or confirm that the choice will work out. Sometimes we simply want permission to choose what we want without feeling selfish, irresponsible or foolish.

No one can always give us that.

Other people can offer insight, but they cannot fully inhabit our circumstances. They do not carry our particular energy, responsibilities, history, limitations or longings.

Even good advice can become another way of moving authority away from ourselves when we use it to avoid making our own choice.

Before looking outward again, it may help to pause and ask:

Do I need more information—or am I looking for reassurance?

Is there something I genuinely don’t know?

What am I hoping this person will give me permission to choose?

If nobody could approve or disapprove, what would matter most to me?

The answer may still not be perfectly clear, but the questions bring us back into the conversation.

Self-trust is built after the decision too

We often focus on the moment of choosing, but some of the most important self-trust work happens afterwards.

You make a decision—and then doubt arrives.

You set a boundary—and someone is unhappy.

You turn down an opportunity—and begin imagining the version of your life that might have followed.

You choose one path—and grieve the path you could not choose alongside it.

This does not necessarily mean the decision was wrong. Every meaningful choice closes other possibilities, and sometimes sadness, fear or doubt are not warnings that we have betrayed ourselves. They are simply part of living with the reality that we cannot choose everything.

Trusting yourself means resisting the urge to put every decision on trial the moment it becomes uncomfortable. It means allowing a choice enough time to become a lived experience and noticing what happens without using every difficult emotion as proof that you made a mistake.

If you eventually realise that a choice is no longer right, self-trust also allows you to change direction.

Changing your mind is not always evidence that you failed to know yourself. Sometimes it is evidence that you kept listening.

You can begin with smaller choices

Self-trust is rarely rebuilt through one dramatic decision. It grows through smaller moments in which you stop automatically overriding yourself.

You notice that you are tired and rest before reaching complete exhaustion. You recognise that you don’t want to attend something and allow that preference to matter. You pause before saying yes.

You express a different opinion without immediately softening or withdrawing it. You choose what is sufficient instead of pursuing what is perfect. You notice discomfort and become curious about it rather than instantly explaining it away.

Perhaps you make a choice without consulting five different people first.

Each moment gives you new information—not evidence that you will always make the perfect decision, but evidence that you can remain present with yourself while deciding.

Slowly, self-trust becomes less about feeling fearless and more about knowing:

I will not abandon myself simply because I feel uncertain.

Remaining on your own side

Some decisions made with confidence will not work out. Others made nervously may lead somewhere beautiful. We cannot always know which one we are making.

No amount of thought can give us complete control over what happens next. But we can decide how we will meet ourselves there.

We can respond to mistakes with curiosity rather than punishment, allow new information to refine our choices and acknowledge regret without turning it into a judgement of who we are.

Perhaps that is where real self-trust lives—not in always knowing or always being right, but in knowing that whatever happens, you will keep listening and responding without abandoning yourself.

You do not have to feel certain to trust yourself.

If you have become so accustomed to questioning yourself, seeking reassurance or placing everyone else’s needs above your own that making decisions feels overwhelming, coaching can offer you a space to hear yourself more clearly.

Finding Her supports women in rebuilding self-trust, understanding the patterns that have disconnected them from themselves and creating lives that feel more aligned with who they are.

Explore coaching with Finding Her

The post You Don’t Have to Feel Certain to Trust Yourself appeared first on Finding Her.

You may be getting everyone where they need to be, meeting deadlines, remembering appointments and responding to the people who rely on you. From the outside, you appear capable. Perhaps you even tell yourself that you must be fine because everything is still getting done.

But functioning tells us only that you are managing the demands of your life. It doesn’t necessarily tell us how you feel inside that life—or how present you are within it.

Disconnection does not always arrive as a dramatic feeling of being lost. Sometimes it develops so quietly that you barely recognise it. You don’t consciously choose to stop listening to yourself.

Often, the process begins with care.

You care deeply about your family. You want to be a good mother, partner, friend, daughter, colleague or business owner. You want to do your work well. You want the people you love to feel supported. You want to be responsible and dependable—to be someone others can count on.

You care about doing things properly.

You care about getting it right.

And because you care, you respond.

You remember what needs to be remembered. You notice what needs to be done. You anticipate what might go wrong. You solve problems, make plans, meet deadlines, carry emotions and keep everyday life moving.

But life can ask too much of one person.

There are meals to make, appointments to remember, messages to answer, forms to complete, problems to solve and people who need something from you. There are practical responsibilities, emotional responsibilities and the invisible responsibility of thinking ahead so that everything continues to work.

Because so much of it feels important, your attention begins to narrow to whatever needs you next.

What do I need to do now?

Who needs me?

What have I forgotten?

What comes after this?

Without necessarily realising it, you enter a kind of tunnel vision. You become increasingly efficient at managing your life, but less able to notice yourself within it.

When all your attention is directed outwards

When all your energy is directed towards responding, there is very little space left for observing.

You may not notice that you are exhausted until you become irritable.

You may not notice that you are overwhelmed until one small request feels unbearable.

You may not notice that you are sad because there has been no time or space to feel it.

You may finally have an hour to yourself and realise that you have no idea what you want to do with it.

You have become very good at asking:

What is needed from me?

But perhaps you have stopped asking:

What is happening inside me?

This does not mean you have stopped caring about yourself. It may mean that everything else has felt more immediate. Your feelings do not usually arrive with a deadline. Your needs do not send notifications. There may be nobody standing in front of you insisting that you pay attention to your own tiredness, frustration or sadness.

So you continue responding to whatever appears most urgent.

And you keep going.

Why “take care of yourself” can feel like another demand

From the outside, the answer may appear obvious:

Slow down.

Ask for help.

Prioritise yourself.

Make time for self-care.

Women hear these messages all the time. And although they may be well-intended, they can feel disconnected from the reality of a life that is already too full.

Where, exactly, are you supposed to fit yourself in?

What should you leave undone—and who might be affected if you do?

How do you take better care of yourself when self-care has become one more thing you are apparently failing to do?

For a woman who already feels responsible for everything, “You need to take care of yourself” can easily become another demand.

Another standard.

Another item on an impossible list.

The difficulty is not always that you don’t understand the importance of caring for yourself. You may understand it perfectly well. The difficulty is that stopping feels as though it will cost somebody else something.

If you rest, someone may be disappointed.

If you say no, you may create inconvenience.

If you don’t complete the task, someone else may need to carry it.

If you step back, something important may be missed.

So you keep going—not because you have decided that you don’t matter, but because everyone else seems to need you more urgently.

Your needs are postponed.

And then postponed again.

Over time, you can become so practised at accommodating everyone else that you gradually unlearn how to accommodate yourself.

You override your tiredness. You dismiss your frustration. You tell yourself that something isn’t a big deal. You become used to saying, “I don’t mind,” “Whatever works for everyone else,” or “I’ll make a plan.”

Eventually, you may no longer know what you want.

This is how disconnection can happen—not as one dramatic act, but through hundreds of small moments in which somebody or something else appears to matter more.

When care becomes an impossible standard

Perfectionism can quietly transform a genuine desire to care well into an impossible demand.

Being a caring mother becomes needing to respond perfectly to every moment.

Being a loving partner becomes continually accommodating another person.

Being a committed worker becomes never disappointing anyone.

Being responsible becomes believing you cannot allow anything to fall.

Being a good person becomes being endlessly available, patient, productive and understanding.

Care is no longer something you offer within the reality of your human capacity. It becomes a standard you must continually prove you can meet. And because the standard is impossible, there is no point at which you can finally say:

That is enough. I have done enough. I can stop now.

There is always something else you could improve, anticipate, organise or give.

You may even begin to measure the success of a day by how much you managed to accomplish and how few people were disappointed—rather than by the quality of your experience within it.

The problem is not that you became capable.

The problem is that capability may have become the only version of you that has permission to exist.

There may no longer seem to be room for the part of you that is tired, uncertain, angry, playful, disappointed, in need of support—or simply unwilling to do one more thing.

The first step is not to do more

When we recognise that we have become disconnected from ourselves, it can be tempting to immediately turn reconnection into another project. We look for the right routine, the right boundaries, the right habits or the right version of self-care. But perhaps the first movement back towards yourself is not action.

Perhaps it is awareness.

Not awareness followed immediately by a plan. Not noticing so that you can identify everything else you now need to fix.

Just noticing. Without judgement.

You might begin to notice how quickly your attention moves towards other people’s needs.

You might notice the moment you override your own discomfort.

You might notice how often you say yes before checking whether you have the capacity.

You might notice the guilt that appears when you consider leaving something undone.

You might notice how difficult it is to answer a simple question such as, “What do I need today?”

You don’t need to do anything with these observations immediately.

You don’t need to confront anyone or create a perfect new routine.

You are simply beginning to see the pattern you have been living inside.

That matters because we cannot make conscious choices about a pattern we cannot yet recognise.

Before you can include yourself differently, you need to notice where you have disappeared.

And this awareness needs compassion.

This way of functioning may have been the best way you knew to keep everything going. It helped you respond to real demands and care for the people and responsibilities that mattered to you.

You do not need to judge yourself for how you adapted.

You can simply begin to see it.

Slowly making room for yourself again

Awareness does not mean that nothing will ever need to change. It simply means that change doesn’t have to begin with another set of demands. Once you start noticing the pattern, you can become curious about where you might include yourself—just a little—without expecting to transform everything at once.

Where could you pause before automatically saying yes?

Where could you admit that you don’t have the capacity?

Where could “good enough” genuinely be enough?

Where could your preference be allowed to enter the decision?

These may appear to be small choices, but they can feel profoundly uncomfortable.

If you have built your identity around being capable, dependable and good, leaving something undone may not feel freeing at first. It may feel irresponsible.

Saying no may feel selfish.

Allowing another person to be disappointed may feel almost unbearable.

But this discomfort doesn’t necessarily mean you are making the wrong choice.

It may mean you are doing something new.

You are interrupting a deeply practised pattern. You are allowing yourself to discover that something can remain imperfect without everything collapsing—and without it meaning that you have failed.

This is part of how we begin to rewire our understanding of success: by making new choices and learning to sit with the discomfort they bring.

We leave one thing undone and notice the guilt without immediately rushing to complete it.

We express one preference and resist the urge to withdraw it.

We acknowledge a limit without building a case for why we are allowed to have it.

These small moments teach us that including ourselves may feel unfamiliar, but that doesn’t make it wrong.

What if success looked different?

Success may not always be a perfectly managed day in which every task is completed, and everybody is happy with you.

Perhaps success is noticing that you are reaching your limit and choosing not to push beyond it.

Perhaps success is saying, “I can’t manage that today,” and allowing the discomfort to be there.

Perhaps success is letting somebody be mildly disappointed without rushing to repair their feelings.

Perhaps success is sitting beside your child during a difficult moment, even though dinner is late.

The late dinner does not mean you failed to care.

It may mean you recognised where care was most needed in that moment.

When we measure our lives only by how much we complete, manage and hold together, we can miss the quieter forms of care: presence, honesty, rest, responsiveness and knowing when enough is enough.

A different understanding of care

The answer is not to care less. It is to reshape your understanding of what real care asks of you.

Care cannot mean meeting every need, preventing every disappointment and getting every moment right. Care has to exist alongside limits. It has to leave room for mistakes, unfinished tasks, changed plans and ordinary human capacity.

And it has to include you.

Not because caring for yourself will make you more productive. Not because rest will help you return more efficiently to serving everybody else. But because you are also a person inside the life you are working so hard to care for.

Your feelings are part of that life.

Your limits are part of that life.

Your needs, preferences and desires are part of that life.

Real care cannot require the permanent exclusion of the person doing the caring. Perhaps you don’t need to begin by changing anything.

Perhaps, for now, you can simply notice.

Notice the woman who keeps everything moving.

Notice how deeply she cares.

Notice what she has been trying to carry.

Notice where she has stopped including herself.

And meet her there without judgement.

That awareness is not nothing.

It is the first moment in which she becomes visible to herself again.

A gentle place to begin

If you recognise yourself in these words, you don’t need to have all the answers—or know exactly what needs to change.

Sometimes the first step is simply having a space where you can slow down, hear yourself more clearly and begin making sense of what has been happening beneath all the functioning.

I’m Jen, an identity and self-connection coach for women navigating disconnection, identity shifts and the feeling that they have lost touch with themselves somewhere along the way.

Through gentle, reflective coaching, I help women understand where they are, reconnect with what they feel and need, and begin finding a way forward that feels more like their own.

If you would like support, you can learn more about working with me or book a free 30-minute discovery call.

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The post When Functioning Hides Disconnection appeared first on Finding Her.

There is advice for almost every part of being human.

How to parent.
How to heal.
How to communicate.
How to build confidence.
How to set boundaries.
How to regulate your nervous system.
How to find your purpose.
How to become the best version of yourself.

We can listen to podcasts, follow experts, read books, scroll through thousands of opinions and now, increasingly, ask AI almost anything we want to know.

And much of this is incredibly valuable.

But I wonder whether, somewhere amongst all this information, we are developing another problem.

We are becoming very good at finding answers and less practised at hearing ourselves.

For women, I think this can be particularly complicated.

We already live amongst so many messages about who we should be.

Be ambitious, but present.
Be a devoted mother, but don’t lose yourself.
Take care of yourself, but make sure everyone else’s needs are met.
Set boundaries, but be kind.
Trust your intuition, but listen to the experts.
Work hard, but don’t burn out.
Heal yourself. Improve yourself. Optimise yourself.

Even the language of personal growth can sometimes become another collection of expectations we are trying to live up to.

And eventually, beneath all that noise, there is a quieter question:

What do I actually think, want and feel?

Not what I’ve been told I should think.
Not what the expert says.
Not what my family expects.
Not what social media tells me is healthy.
Not even what the version of myself I learned to become would automatically choose.

What is true for me?

When we keep looking outward, we can lose our internal reference point

The problem isn’t simply that there is too much information.

It’s what can happen when we become accustomed to looking outside ourselves for the answer to almost everything.

What should I do?
What is the right way to parent?
How should I handle this relationship?
Should I be working harder – or slowing down?
Should I push myself – or practise self-compassion?
Is this a boundary – or am I being unreasonable?
Am I listening to my intuition – or avoiding something difficult?

There will almost always be someone with an answer. Often, several people with completely contradictory answers.

And when we repeatedly look outward to determine what is right for us, something subtle can begin to happen.

We stop consulting ourselves.

Not because we don’t have thoughts, feelings, preferences or values of our own, but because the voices around us can become louder and more authoritative than the one within us.

We become so focused on finding the right answer that we lose contact with the person who ultimately has to live with the answer.

For women, this can sit on top of patterns that may already make self-reference difficult.

People-pleasing can teach us to consider everyone else’s needs before our own. Perfectionism can convince us there is one correct choice and that getting it wrong says something about us. Overthinking can keep us searching long after we already have enough information.

Years of adapting to roles and expectations can make a question as simple as “What do I want?” surprisingly difficult to answer.

Add an endless stream of expert advice, social comparison, self-improvement and now AI-generated answers to that, and looking outward can become almost automatic.

The answer isn’t to stop learning.

It’s to stop confusing information with instruction.

Reconnection isn’t about rejecting outside wisdom

I don’t believe the answer is to stop listening to experts, throw away the parenting books or decide that every instinct we have must be right.

Self-trust isn’t the same as unquestioning certainty.

We need information and other perspectives. Sometimes we need people who know considerably more than we do. And sometimes our own fears, beliefs and old protective patterns can distort what we hear inside ourselves.

The work of reconnection is therefore not about shutting out the world.

It is about developing discernment.

The ability to receive information without automatically surrendering authority over yourself.

To listen to advice and ask:

Does this resonate with me?
Is this actually right for my circumstances?
Am I choosing this because it feels true, or because I’m afraid of getting it wrong?
Is this my voice, or an old expectation?
Is this intuition, or is this fear trying to create certainty?

Those aren’t always easy distinctions. They require us to know ourselves.

Discernment also means choosing what you will not carry

There is another difficulty in living with so much information: much of the advice we encounter may actually be good.

Exercise. Sleep enough. Eat well. Be present with your children. Nurture your relationships. Build financial security. Maintain friendships. Rest. Heal. Learn. Grow. Set boundaries. Make time for yourself. Pursue meaningful work.

None of these things is necessarily wrong. The problem is that a human life cannot hold every good thing, every opportunity, every recommendation and every possible version of who we could become.

At some point, we have to choose.

Not every good idea has to become something you do.
Not every piece of good advice belongs in your life.
Not every opportunity needs to be taken.
Not every version of yourself needs to be realised.

A meaningful life requires choices – and every real choice means something else is left unchosen.

Sometimes discernment is knowing what matters enough to give your limited time, energy and attention to – and allowing the rest to remain undone without turning that choice into guilt.

Perhaps part of self-trust is learning to make those choices without constantly returning to the world to ask whether we chose correctly.

Maybe self-trust is something we build

We often speak about self-trust as though some people simply have it and others don’t.

But perhaps self-trust is built through experience.

We notice what we feel.
We listen.
We make a choice.
We see what happens.

We discover that we can tolerate being wrong. We learn that someone can disagree with us and we can remain ourselves. We set a boundary and discover that we can survive another person’s disappointment.

And slowly we collect evidence:

I can listen to myself.
I can make decisions.
I can handle uncertainty.
I can change my mind when I learn something new.
I don’t need everyone else to agree with me in order to trust what I know.

Reconnection isn’t necessarily one profound moment where you suddenly rediscover yourself.

It may happen through hundreds of small moments in which you stop automatically abandoning your own experience.

This may become even more important in an AI world

We are entering a time when we can receive extraordinarily sophisticated answers almost instantly.

That has enormous potential.

But perhaps it also makes our relationship with our own internal wisdom more important, not less.

Because having access to more answers doesn’t necessarily tell us which answer belongs to our life.

Technology can give us information.
Experts can offer knowledge.
Other people can give us perspective.

But there are questions no one outside us can ultimately answer.

What matters to me?
What kind of life feels meaningful?
What am I willing to give my limited time and energy to?
What am I willing to leave undone?
What am I no longer willing to abandon in myself?
Who am I becoming?

The world is unlikely to become quieter. If anything, we may have more information, more possibilities and more voices telling us what we could or should be doing.

So perhaps the challenge of the future won’t simply be knowing how to find good information.

It will be knowing ourselves well enough to discern what to listen to, what to choose, what to question and what to let go.

Finding your way back

Reconnection doesn’t require you to have all the answers.

In fact, sometimes it begins when you stop demanding an answer from yourself.

Slow down.
Notice.
Listen.

Become curious about the moments when you automatically reach outside yourself for certainty.

Ask what matters here, in this life, with these circumstances, with the time and energy you actually have.

And practise trusting yourself enough to choose.

Give yourself enough quiet to hear what remains when everyone else’s voice becomes a little softer.

Because underneath the expectations, advice, possibilities and noise, there is still a relationship worth rebuilding.

The relationship you have with yourself.

And perhaps one of the most important skills we can cultivate in a world overflowing with answers is simply this:

The ability to recognise ourselves amongst all the noise.

If you have become so accustomed to meeting expectations, carrying responsibilities or looking outside yourself for answers that you can no longer clearly hear your own voice, coaching can offer you a quiet space to reconnect.

Finding Her supports women in rebuilding self-trust, understanding the patterns that have shaped them and creating lives that feel more aligned with who they truly are.

[Explore coaching with Finding Her]

The post Can You Still Hear Yourself Amongst All the Noise? appeared first on Finding Her.

It senses who your people are. What you can trust. What brings you alive. What no longer feels right, even when it still makes sense on paper.

It notices the relationships in which you can soften and become more fully yourself. It feels the difference between the choices that deplete you and those that awaken something within you. It recognises the paths that belong to you, sometimes long before you can explain why.

This is your intuition—your inner North Star.

Martha Beck writes that “your intuition has a more refined understanding of your right life than any other part of your consciousness.”

There is something deeply reassuring in the idea that a part of us already understands what our right life feels like.

Not the life we are supposed to want. Not the life that earns the most approval. Not necessarily the life that appears most sensible, successful or secure from the outside.

Our right life is the one in which we can recognise ourselves.

It is the life that feels truthful and meaningful to us. The one that allows us to become more fully who we are.

And our intuition helps us find our way towards it.

What does intuition feel like?

Intuition is rarely loud.

It does not always arrive with a clear sign, a detailed explanation or complete certainty about what you should do next. It may not be able to give you the evidence your rational mind wants before it is willing to believe.

Often, intuition speaks through subtler forms of knowing.

It may be the quiet unease that remains even after you have tried to convince yourself that everything is fine.

It may be the unexpected relief you feel when you finally admit what you want.

It may be the energy that rises when you speak about something that matters deeply to you—or the heaviness that appears each time you move further away from yourself.

It may be the feeling of being at home with certain people. The desire that keeps returning. The idea that will not leave you alone. The sense that something has already ended within you, even though your external life has not yet changed.

Your intuition may not show you the entire path.

Sometimes it only reveals the next thing that feels true.

How we lose connection with our intuition

We do not usually lose connection with our intuition all at once.

It happens gradually, through the many moments in which we learn to dismiss what we feel.

Perhaps you sensed that something was wrong but were told you were being too sensitive.

Perhaps you knew what you needed, but worried that needing it made you difficult or selfish.

Perhaps something inside you said no, but belonging required you to say yes.

Perhaps you felt drawn towards a different path, but you could not justify it through achievement, security or other people’s approval.

Life itself can disconnect us from these inner parts.

Responsibility, stress, trauma, caregiving and the need to cope can leave us living almost entirely inside our minds.

We analyse. We anticipate. We compare. We try to predict every possible outcome. We look outside ourselves for the right answer and ask other people to tell us what we should do.

Our minds become so loud that we can no longer hear the quieter parts of ourselves.

The more often we override our emotions, dismiss our physical responses and mistrust our own perceptions, the harder it becomes to recognise the language of our intuition.

It does not necessarily stop speaking.

We simply stop believing that we are allowed to listen.

Your body may know before your mind understands

Intuition is deeply connected to the body and emotions.

Our bodies often register our experiences before our conscious minds can fully make sense of them.

We may contract around something that does not feel safe. We may soften in the presence of someone we trust. We may feel unexpectedly alive when we encounter an idea, person or possibility that resonates with something essential within us.

This does not mean that every uncomfortable feeling is a warning or that every strong emotion is an instruction.

Fear, past experiences and protective patterns also live within the body. Sometimes anxiety pulls us away from something that is deeply right for us precisely because it requires us to become visible, take a risk or enter unfamiliar territory.

Trusting your intuition is therefore not about treating every feeling as unquestionable truth.

It is about rebuilding a relationship with your inner experience.

It means learning to pause before dismissing what you feel. Becoming curious about your responses instead of immediately explaining them away. Noticing which feelings pass and which truths continue to return.

It is learning to recognise the difference between the urgent voice of fear and the quieter, steadier voice beneath it.

Your mind was never meant to be your only guide

The mind is not the enemy.

It protects us, plans for us and helps us make sense of our experiences. But it was never meant to be the only part of us included in the conversation.

When we try to make every decision through thought alone, we exclude some of the most important information available to us.

Reconnection means bringing our thinking, emotions, body and deeper knowing back into conversation with one another.

It means asking not only:

What makes the most sense?

But also:

What feels true for me?

Where do I feel most at home?

What brings something alive within me?

What am I continually trying to talk myself out of knowing?

If I did not need to explain or justify this yet, what would I admit to myself?

The answers may not come immediately.

If you have spent years adapting, performing, keeping the peace or prioritising what everyone else needs, your own voice may initially feel very quiet.

But intuition is a relationship. And like any relationship, trust is restored through attention.

Finding your way back to yourself

Reconnecting with your intuition may begin in very small ways.

It might mean noticing which conversations leave you feeling more like yourself.

It might mean allowing yourself to acknowledge what you want before deciding whether it is practical.

It might mean paying attention to what expands you, what drains you and what repeatedly creates conflict within you.

Each time you listen without immediately dismissing yourself, you strengthen that connection.

Each time you honour a small no, move towards an authentic yes or take your emotional and physical responses seriously, you offer yourself a new piece of evidence:

I am here. I am listening. What I know matters.

Over time, your own inner language becomes more familiar.

You begin to recognise the difference between a choice that merely looks right and one that feels right for you. You become more aware of the places where you abandon yourself—and more willing to remain beside yourself instead.

Perhaps finding your way is not always about discovering an answer.

Sometimes it is about restoring your relationship with the part of you that already knows.

If you have lost touch with your own voice and no longer recognise yourself within your life, you do not have to find your way back alone. Finding Her coaching offers a space to reconnect with what you feel, what you need and what is true for you.

The post The Part of You That Already Knows – Reconnecting with Your Intuition appeared first on Finding Her.

I’ve been thinking a lot about mothers lately.

Not because motherhood is difficult—that much we already know.

But because I wonder if we still don’t fully understand how difficult it can be.

What are mothers carrying that we still don’t see?

There is a phrase we hear often now: the mental load.

We speak about remembering appointments, buying groceries, packing lunches, organising birthdays, washing school uniforms and noticing when the milk is running low.

Those things matter.

But I wonder if the mental load of motherhood runs even deeper than that.

Because there is a kind of responsibility that cannot really be handed over.

Even in the most supportive partnerships.

Even when someone else is helping.

A mother is often carrying something invisible that rarely leaves her.

She is constantly scanning.

Is everyone okay?

Who needs me next?

Have I forgotten something?

Will this decision affect them later?

What are they feeling?

What am I missing?

The list changes every hour because children change every hour.

Motherhood isn’t simply a collection of tasks.

It’s an ongoing state of awareness.

A landscape that shifts from one day to the next, requiring a woman to continually adjust, respond and anticipate.

Some days she carries it with joy.

Other days she carries it while exhausted.

While grieving.

While working.

While trying to remember who she was before everyone needed something from her.

And perhaps this is the part we struggle to see.

Not because people don’t care.

But because so much of motherhood happens inside a woman’s mind.

Invisible work rarely receives visible recognition.

Yet it still consumes energy.

It still asks something of her nervous system.

It still shapes the way she moves through the world.

I sometimes wonder what would change if we became more curious about the inner landscape of mothers rather than only the visible outcomes.

Perhaps part of what makes matrescence so profound is that motherhood isn’t simply something we do—it changes the landscape of our inner world.

Instead of asking why she’s overwhelmed, perhaps we could ask what she has been carrying for so long.

Instead of assuming she should cope because this is what mothers do, perhaps we could recognise that constantly holding responsibility for another human being changes something inside you.

Motherhood is beautiful.

It is deeply meaningful.

And it can also be profoundly demanding.

Those truths are not opposites.

They exist together.

Perhaps one of the greatest gifts we could offer mothers is not another piece of advice.

Perhaps it is understanding.

Not because understanding removes the weight.

But because carrying something heavy feels different when someone finally sees that you’re carrying it.

Perhaps that’s where compassion begins.

The post The Weight We Rarely See: The Invisible Mental Load of Motherhood appeared first on Finding Her.

I think it happens in moments we don’t even realise.

I think we lose ourselves gradually—in conversations where honesty begins to feel risky, in families where keeping the peace feels safer than expressing our needs, in friendships where rejection teaches us to become smaller, and in relationships where love feels easier to keep when we become easier to love.

It happens so slowly that we hardly notice it. One small adjustment. Then another. Until one day we quietly wonder,

How did I get so far away from myself?

The Human Need to Belong

Long before we know who we are, we learn that we need connection. We need acceptance. We need to feel safe.

Belonging is one of our deepest human needs.

As children, our survival depends on remaining connected to the people around us. We naturally begin paying attention to what brings us closer to others and what creates distance. We notice what is welcomed, what is criticised, what is rewarded, and what feels unsafe. Without even realising it, we begin to adapt.

Children don’t consciously decide to abandon themselves.

They aren’t asking,

“How can I stop being who I am?”

They’re asking a much simpler question:

Who do I need to be to stay connected?

What do I need to do to be accepted?

What do I need to do to feel safe?

Adaptation isn’t the problem.

It’s the strategy.

Belonging is the need underneath it.

Most of the time, adaptation is healthy. We are all shaped by our families, our communities, and the cultures we grow up in. We learn kindness, empathy, respect, and consideration for others. These experiences help us grow.

But sometimes adaptation begins to cost us something.

Sometimes we begin changing not because we’re growing, but because we’re afraid of losing connection.

We become quieter.

Smaller.

Easier.

Not because we’re becoming more ourselves, but because we’re becoming less visible.

The Meaning We Quietly Make

Our experiences shape us.

But so do the conclusions we quietly reach about ourselves because of them.

A harsh comment.

Being left out.

Feeling different.

Repeated criticism.

Bullying.

Rejection.

The message isn’t always spoken aloud, but somewhere inside we begin drawing our own conclusions.

Maybe I’m too much.

Maybe I should be quieter.

Maybe I shouldn’t cry so easily.

Maybe it’s safer if I don’t need anyone.

Maybe if I achieve enough, I’ll finally be enough.

These aren’t conscious decisions.

They’re conclusions we reach before we’re old enough to question them. Over time, those conclusions become beliefs. Those beliefs shape our behaviour. Our behaviours become patterns. Eventually, those patterns become so familiar that they simply feel like our personality.

We stop remembering they were ever adaptations at all.

My Own Story

Looking back now, I can see this happening in my own life.

When I was ten years old, I was a vibrant, enthusiastic little girl with a constant smile on my face.

As I grew older, something in me slowly began to change. I became quieter. More cautious. Little by little, I lost my voice.

Looking back now, I understand that after experiencing rejection, jealousy, and bullying, I quietly made a decision.

Not consciously.

Not deliberately.

But in the way children so often do when they’re trying to make sense of painful experiences they cannot yet understand.

Somewhere inside me I decided,

If I hide who I am, I’ll be safe.

And so began years of adapting.

I became skilled at reading the room, sensing what other people needed, and becoming who I believed I needed to be in order to belong.

Like a chameleon, I learned to shape myself around the world around me. I took on roles. Met expectations. Became accommodating. Became capable. Became easy.

With every adaptation, I moved a little further away from myself.

Yet even then, there was one place where something authentic remained.

Dance.

Ballet became my refuge. It was one of the few places where I wasn’t trying to become someone else. I wasn’t performing a role. I was simply expressing something that already existed within me.

It has taken me many years to understand that the deepest sense of belonging doesn’t come from fitting in.

It comes from belonging to yourself first.

How Adaptation Can Show Up in Adulthood

Perhaps your story looks different to mine.

Maybe you weren’t bullied.

Maybe your adaptations happened so gradually you’ve never thought of them this way.

Perhaps you’ve always believed,

“I’m just the responsible one.”

“I’m just shy.”

“I’ve always been independent.”

“I don’t like conflict.”

“I’m easy-going.”

“I’m the one everyone relies on.”

“I always put other people first.”

“I hate asking for help.”

“I don’t want to be a burden.”

“I’m fine.”

Perhaps these really are parts of your personality.

Or perhaps…

some of them began as ways of staying connected.

Ways of staying accepted.

Ways of staying safe.

Sometimes our adaptations become so familiar that we stop recognising them as adaptations at all.

We simply call them who we are.

Awareness Comes Before Change

The goal isn’t to judge yourself.

The goal isn’t to immediately change.

The invitation is simply to notice.

Notice the moments you become smaller.

Notice the moments you automatically say yes before checking in with yourself.

Notice the moments you apologise for taking up space.

Notice the moments you become the version of yourself that feels safest.

Not to criticise yourself.

Simply to understand yourself.

Because understanding comes before change.

And awareness is often where the journey back to yourself begins.

Reflection

Perhaps the question isn’t whether you’ve lost yourself.

Perhaps you’ve simply spent so long adapting that you’ve forgotten what it feels like not to.

Who did you have to become to feel accepted?

And what has it cost you?

Perhaps today isn’t about finding the answers.

Perhaps today is simply about beginning to notice.

Because the deepest sense of belonging doesn’t come from fitting in.

It comes from belonging to yourself first.

Reflection Questions

• Where in your life have you learned to adapt in order to feel accepted?
• Which parts of yourself feel effortless, and which feel like performance?
• What beliefs about yourself might have been shaped by experiences you were too young to fully understand?
• When do you feel most like yourself?
• What might belonging to yourself look like today?

The post Who Did You Have to Become to Feel Accepted… and What Has It Cost You? appeared first on Finding Her.

I’ve been thinking about how easily we recognise grief when something tangible is taken away.

The end of a relationship.

The death of a loved one.

A job loss.

A move.

We understand that these experiences come with sadness, longing, and a period of adjustment.

But change often carries grief too.

We just don’t always call it that.

Perhaps because nothing appears to have been lost.

A woman becomes a mother and gains a child, yet grieves the freedom she once had.

Someone leaves a career that no longer fits and feels relieved, while also mourning the identity they spent years building.

A relationship improves after years of difficulty, yet there is grief for the years spent surviving instead of living.

Even growth can bring grief.

Because every becoming requires a letting go.

I wonder if part of the reason we struggle to recognise grief in change is that we have been taught to focus on what is next.

To stay positive.

To be grateful.

To look forward.

And while these things have their place, they can make it difficult to acknowledge what is ending.

Why We Struggle to Acknowledge Grief

Yet grief does not only belong to loss.

It belongs to transition.

It belongs to the spaces between who we were and who we are becoming.

It belongs to dreams that no longer fit.

Roles we have outgrown.

Versions of ourselves that carried us through one season but cannot accompany us into the next.

Many life transitions carry this kind of invisible grief.

A grief that is often mistaken for confusion, uncertainty, or disconnection.

Sometimes what feels like confusion, restlessness, or being stuck is actually grief asking to be acknowledged.

Not because something has gone wrong.

But because something mattered.

The Part We Often Skip

The difficulty is that grief cannot be processed if it remains unnamed.

When we don’t recognise grief, we tend to fight with the symptoms instead.

We try to think our way out of the discomfort.

We push ourselves to move on.

We judge ourselves for not feeling more grateful, more certain, or more excited about what lies ahead.

But grief asks for something different.

It asks to be acknowledged.

To be witnessed.

To be felt.

Not rushed.

Not fixed.

Not explained away.

Just recognised.

There can be a quiet relief in simply saying:

“Of course, I feel unsettled. Something is ending.”

Even if that ending is invisible to everyone else.

Following Grief Through

Martha Beck writes in Finding Your North Star:

“People who follow grief through its whole course emerge stronger and healthier, more able to cope with the inevitable losses that affect every human life. In the end, they become sources of wisdom and compassion for themselves and everyone around them.”

I have always found comfort in that idea.

Not because grief is pleasant.

But because it reminds us that grief is not something to overcome.

It is something to move through.

When we allow ourselves to acknowledge what has been lost, what has changed, or what is ending, we create the possibility for something new to emerge.

Not immediately.

Not neatly.

But naturally.

The irony is that many of us try to avoid grief because we believe it will keep us stuck.

Yet often it is the refusal to acknowledge grief that keeps us stuck.

Grief is not the obstacle to moving forward.

Sometimes it is the path.

An Invitation

If you find yourself in a season of uncertainty, perhaps the question is not:

“Why do I feel so unsettled?”

Perhaps the question is:

“What am I being asked to let go of?”

What dream?

What expectation?

What identity?

What version of yourself?

Because often the path forward begins when we stop trying to return to who we were and make space to honour who we have been.

And perhaps that is what grief is really asking of us.

Not to hold on.

But to honour, release, and make room for what comes next.

Work with me

The post Why Do We Often Recognise Grief in Loss, But Not in Change? appeared first on Finding Her.

For much of my life, I wasn’t even aware I was doing it. I just knew that my mind was constantly busy — thinking, analysing, and trying to make sense of things.

The hidden pattern behind overthinking

Looking back, I can see there was a part of me that believed everything needed to fit neatly into place before I could relax.

As if I needed to gather all the information, tick all the boxes, understand every angle, solve every possible problem, and organise everything into neat mental categories.

Only then could I feel okay and calm.

At the time, I didn’t recognise this as overthinking or anxiety.

It just felt like my normal way of functioning.

Overthinking as a form of internal control

But when I started to slow down and become more aware of what was happening internally, I began to understand something deeper.

My overthinking wasn’t really about finding answers.

It was about creating safety.

A part of me was trying to internally control uncertainty in order to feel safe.

If I could think through every possibility and prepare for every outcome, then nothing would catch me off guard.

It felt like I was staying ahead of life.

It felt like progress.

But it wasn’t actually clarity.

It was control disguised as thinking.

The cycle of overthinking that never ends

I’ve realised something important.

This cycle never actually finishes.

It just keeps renewing itself.

As soon as one set of thoughts feels “complete,” another set appears.

Different scenarios.
Different problems.
Different things to figure out.

And the mind keeps going.

At the time, it feels like progress.

But often it’s just mental activity that never settles into clarity or peace.

How overthinking creates emotional disconnection

While my mind was working hard to protect me, it was also creating distance between me and myself.

The busier my mind became, the harder it was to notice what I was actually feeling.

I wasn’t present.

I wasn’t connected to my emotional experience.

And despite all the thinking, I often wasn’t really moving forward in my life.

Instead, I was looping through the same thoughts, searching for certainty that never fully arrived.

Overthinking and self-trust

Eventually, I became quiet enough to notice the pattern.

When I stepped back and observed my thoughts instead of becoming them, I could see that this wasn’t all of me.

It was a part of me — a part that was trying to help and protect me.

Instead of fighting it or trying to stop it, I began to relate to it differently.

With understanding instead of resistance.

Learning to work with the overthinking mind

It was almost like reassuring a worried part of myself:

• You don’t need to have everything figured out right now.
• You don’t need certainty to be okay.
• It’s safe not to know everything.

The more I could acknowledge this part of me, the less it needed to take over.

What happens when overthinking softens

As the mental noise softened, something important changed.

I became more present.

More aware of my feelings.

More connected to myself.

Not because I found more answers — but because I stopped abandoning myself inside my own mind.

Final insight: overthinking and emotional safety

Sometimes overthinking isn’t about needing more answers.

It’s about needing safety in uncertainty.

And often, the real shift isn’t learning how to think better…

It’s learning how to come back to yourself.

Not through control.

But through awareness and self-trust.

Reflection

What if the part of you that keeps searching for certainty isn’t broken or difficult?

What if it is simply trying to protect you in the only way it knows how?

And what might change if you met that part of yourself with understanding instead of resistance?

The post Why Do I Overthink Everything? Understanding Overthinking, Anxiety, and Why You Still Feel Unclear appeared first on Finding Her.

Of all the emotions we experience, shame is the most useless. It gives us nothing valuable and it steals from us. It is explained in the dictionary as an unpleasant self-conscious emotion often associated with negative self-evaluation; motivation to quit; and feelings of pain, exposure, distrust, powerlessness and worthlessness.

We all experience sadness, anger and grief. It’s often clear why we feel those emotions and there are concrete things we can do to feel better, yet shame takes on a different form and often creeps into our consciousness without noticing. It silently walks with us, dragging us down. But more so, it almost seems to be a part of being a woman. Ouch! Like shame is just something we do as women and that men don’t feel this as often as we do.

From our conversations we discussed how shame shows up in our lives.

• Limiting beliefs or lies we believe about ourselves making us love ourselves less
• Perfectionism and trying too hard to get it all right
• Societal pressure about who and what we should be or have in certain times in our lives
• Social media and the online world causing more comparison to what others have that we might not have or setting unrealistic expectations for our lives that we can’t necessarily meet
• Our innate nature to give to our world around us and the shame we put on ourselves for not being there enough for others or putting others before ourselves yet still feeling like we fall short and there is more we should be giving or being
• Mothers who experience guilt to be the best mom they can be yet also hold a job and not being able to do it all the way they expect themselves to
• Anxiety or depression that might be rooted in unnoticed shame
• Shame placed on us by the perspectives of others or our culture. If they see me as less than then how can I be more? How other’s perspectives or judgements of our lives influence our judgement of our own lives.

In the context of our other emotions shame really doesn’t have anything to offer us besides making us feel powerless and worthless. In comparison, anger tells us that we are being wronged, or our boundaries are being crossed, sadness tells us there is something that needs to be acknowledged and felt and grief tells us we loved something so deeply it hurts. In the context of this there is no good reason for us to hold onto shame. And yet, we seem to coexist with it.

So how do we de-shame our lives then?

First of all, we need to notice it. Shame has a way of dressing itself up as guilt, anxiety, fear or just and overall feeling of heaviness. If we don’t notice it for what it is, we might make it about something else and when shame hides itself in other emotions it becomes toxic.

Secondly, name it for what it is. See it and acknowledge it. It’s ok to feel shame, it’s a problem when we hold on to it and make it a part of our identities.

Thirdly hold yourself in a different perspective. De-shaming comes from ‘seeing’ ourselves in a different light. Not without the shame, but with the shame not attached to us. That we are not our shame, and we should never look at our lives through the lenses of shame.

Looking at the list above of what often makes women experience shame, I think it is only realistic to say that we can’t cut shame out of our lives, it comes with sometimes the heavy load that just lands on women, but we can notice it, acknowledge it, name it and choose to not make it part of our identities.

How can you hold yourself in a different perspective today? Whatever it is that caused you to feel shame, whether you know the root of it or not, you are not your shame and your identity as a woman is so much more than that.

I will confidently say this to myself today. “Hi shame, I see you, I don’t know exactly where you came from or what made you show up in my life, that is irrelevant, BUT I am not you and you are not me. I will go ahead and be the fabulous me today, even if you choose to hang around”

My name is Jen, I coach women, and my focus is on supporting women to be their best, most authentic selves. Book a time to talk with me Contact – Finding Her

The post Let’s talk about shame! appeared first on Finding Her.