For most of my life, I believed I was a nuisance—that people would eventually get tired of me. I didn’t realise then that this belief would become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Because I carried that thought, I ended up pushing people away—sometimes by walking away myself, other times by clinging too tightly until they left. And when they did, I used it as proof that I was right. Each example reinforced my belief that I was worthless, that I didn’t deserve to take up space, and that I was only someone to be pitied.
I never understood why people were mean to me. I was made fun of, talked down to, and shamed. I was told I was wrong for what I said or did, and I started to feel like I couldn’t do anything right. I was scared to try, knowing I’d just be shot down again. Deep down, I believed I was here to take abuse—that as a woman, I was meant to sacrifice myself for everyone else, even if it hurt me.
I kept all this to myself. I didn’t feel safe talking to anyone, and I felt like I was alone. So, like many of us, I put on a smile and tried to fake being happy while I kept my head down and stayed out of the way.
I didn’t know it then, but I was living in survival mode. All I knew was the pain and the cycle I couldn’t seem to escape.
What I longed for was simple: to be understood. To be loved. To be free.
So I prayed. I prayed for God to fix me, to guide me, to help me. I prayed for a miracle, because I didn’t know how else I’d ever overcome the anxiety, depression, self-loathing, and shame. I was told by spiritual leaders that if I prayed harder, read my Bible more, and let Jesus take over, my pain would vanish and I’d be transformed. I would finally be free. So I prayed, I read, I believed—and I waited.
But I didn’t just wait. I stayed open. I wanted to learn and grow. I read books, listened to programmes, and became fascinated by the deeper layers—why we do what we do, how trauma shapes our bodies, and how our past experiences shape the way we see ourselves.
I also learned that I had a choice. I could start to choose love instead of re-living shame. Shame had lived in my body for years. It showed up in the weight I carried and in how I kept myself small and hidden. But little by little, as I peeled back the layers, questioned my beliefs, and replaced harmful ones with healing ones, I began to change.
Real change, I’ve discovered, begins with openness: being willing to see yourself and your patterns honestly. From there comes awareness: noticing your thoughts, beliefs, and behaviours, and learning from them. Then comes action: taking those small steps toward what you want to create. And the cycle repeats, because there are always deeper layers to uncover if we choose to keep exploring ourselves.
For me, that action meant doing things that scared me and stretched me. I got up on stages to sing, even when my voice shook. I signed up with the John Maxwell Team to learn to become a coach and speaker. Each step felt terrifying at first, but it was also liberating because every time I put myself out there, I discovered more of myself and realised that I did have strength to continue.
I just knew I wanted a different life. I wanted to know myself. I wanted to feel better.
And you know what really helped me heal? Love. Compassion. Empathy. And validation of my experiences—rather than toxic positivity that tried to bypass my pain. The people who gave me those things made all the difference. And over time, I started giving them to myself, too.
What I had been doing since childhood was judging, belittling, and hating myself. And because I treated myself that way, I allowed others to treat me the same. I had been taught to heap shame upon myself, and until I recognised that I was repeating the cycle, I couldn’t break free from it.
This is why I talk so much about empathy and hope. Our experiences are ours. Even if others don’t understand them, that doesn’t make them less real. They shape who we are and where we are. Empathy means meeting people where they are, without judgement, and seeing their pain without dismissing it. Hope means knowing we can move forward—that we are not our past, and that we can step out of survival mode into a new future.
As a mentor, guide, and bridge builder, I hold space for people right where they are. I listen without judgement, and offer clarity or perspective when needed. One of the most important things we can offer each other is autonomy—the freedom to be ourselves, not a list of “shoulds”. I learned this from a few coach friends of mine, who will ask, “I have a different perspective that might help—would you like to hear it?” That respect and permission stayed with me.
If I can leave you with one thing, it’s this: Your experiences are valid, but they do not define you. Don’t give up hope. There is a bigger world waiting for you. Stay open. Take the steps—small ones if you need to. There is no perfect way. Each step, no matter how small, leads you closer to the new you.
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