This is one example of a theme in my life that’s been weaving itself in and out of my motherhood, with origins in my past. This idea that mess, mistakes, process, hard seasons, flaws, and imperfections signify that there is something wrong. And supporting that is deep shame because as hard as I tried...

There are moments, big and small, in my life that have me smiling, feeling encouraged by a sense of healing, greater capacity and depth, that not long ago would have had the opposite effect.

Something I have grown to cherish, though, is that my life feels deeply shaped by the privilege to feel and be connected to what moves me. And so I’ve come to believe a healthy nervous system isn’t calm all the time.

We often think of self-care as a list: take a bath, meditate, journal, go for a walk. And while these things can be nourishing, if we aren’t ready to truly receive them, they won’t quite satisfy. The noise underneath will only grow louder as we keep brushing against the surface of our needs.

This journey has brought me to my knees more times than I can count. I went the spiritual route, believing I just needed to pray harder or trust more deeply. I tried mindfulness, hypnotherapy, meditation. I sought help from naturopaths, kinesiologists, chiropractors, and…

It is a kind of oxymoron, a weird, squiggly journey, to start with such an adverse concept of self, only to find that love and wholeheartedness are about coming home to your own body, thoughts, emotions, and process… to own your story.

What If We Started With Compassion? Connection doesn’t begin with control. It begins with empathy. The work of connection is acceptance of the human experience, including our own.

I remember becoming aware of my own patterns of perfectionism long before I understood them as a survival response. At the time, I still believed I needed to be fixed. So I approached this as a problem I had to solve…

I recognized this voice. It belongs to the part of me that seeks control in order to avoid something. As I stayed with her, I sensed what was behind the bracing. A wounded part that is so very afraid. The desire to avoid made sense, because her pain is overwhelming. The pain of not being enough, of rejection and criticism, of grief, and of self-abandonment.

The part of me that feels anxious… she’s allowed to be here. When I feel critical, she’s allowed to be here. When I feel scared, she’s allowed to be here. The girl that feels shame in a memory that visits me, she’s allowed to be here. This memory is allowed to surface and show me these parts of myself that I’m still learning how to hold.

But there’s another way of listening. One that doesn’t replace the story, but gently expands the space we’re listening from. A more honest and regulating way. It is when we invite our attention to how the experience is felt in the body. Nothing needs to be pushed away or replaced. As we widen our listening to include sensation…

After a lifetime of hyper-vigilance, it feels almost strange to notice that my default is slowly, gently shifting toward rest, joy, and peace. This journey began the moment I was conceived, but it came into conscious focus after the birth of my second child, my wonderful boy Jace; when being the “perfect” mom was no longer possible.

What I eventually discovered is that self-abandonment never leads to healing or love. When I stopped trying to fix myself and instead practiced presence with my pain, my limits, and the way my body, heart, and soul meet the world, growth could begin. But it required me to slow down.

I often think of resilience like going to the gym and realizing that a certain muscle group has been over-activated. It’s been working incredibly hard to keep things moving and functioning, compensating for an underlying imbalance. To correct this, we don’t shame those muscles, cut them out…

Curiosity has become one of the most powerful tools in my healing. Approaching myself with questions instead of judgment softens my inner world and reconnects me with the parts of me that fear being seen.

What I didn’t realize at the time was how my response to these sensations shaped their intensity. In trying to oppose them, push them away, or force a different experience, they only intensified, getting stuck in the body. Any peace I grasped at felt temporary, a kind of escape rather than true ease.

This old programming runs on an endless search for validation. The belief that I must keep proving, striving, and shaping myself in order to survive while the life I long to flourish in remains just out of reach.

First, acceptance meets the original wound: the moment or pattern that taught the nervous system it wasn’t safe. When the body feels seen instead of corrected, it no longer has to defend itself constantly.