From Overwhelm to Alignment: My Story

For most of my life, overwhelm didn't come as a thunderclap. It was quieter than that—a cluttered mind that never stopped racing, the weight of trying to keep everyone else happy, and the nagging fear of letting people down.

I grew up knowing how much my parents had sacrificed, how proud they were of my achievements, and I built my life around protecting their happiness. Inside, I rebelled in secret—scribbling sad poetry, nursing hopelessness. Decisions were torture. I'd second guess myself to avoid being wrong, or worse, disappointing someone I loved.

There were moments I knew I couldn't keep going like this. When I switched from education to psychology at university, it felt selfish—my parents were both teachers—but I had to follow the pull to understand myself. Later, every tear-soaked goodbye at the Maltese airport made me feel torn in two: stay rooted in family, or fly toward the life I was building with the man who is now my husband.

The Turning Point

I tried to quiet my mind in a thousand ways—books, work, food, even the occasional binge—but nothing stuck. Then, during my first pregnancy, sleepless nights forced me to admit my brain needed more than numbing. I signed up for a Reiki course, and later angel healing. Meditation wasn't humming cross-legged on the floor for me—it was learning how to hold the reins of my mind, like adjusting a volume button.

Motherhood deepened the lesson. Letting go wasn't just a hashtag anymore—it was survival. My old ways were draining my marriage. I reached the point where I told myself: either isolate and shrink away from everyone, or face the mirror. So I chose therapy.

It wasn't neat or easy. I knew all the theory from my own training, and that made me hold back. I was afraid my therapist would see me weak. Still, I kept showing up. Coaching helped, too. And when my father passed away in 2023, something shifted. I stopped whining, stopped circling, and chose to live—healthy, present, awake.

The Messy Middle

Healing worked quickly—when I stuck with it. The trouble came when I stopped. Old patterns rushed back: silence, panic attacks, headaches from holding my breath. I wasn't always honest, not even with myself. I judged that I wasn't "broken enough" to need weekly therapy.

That's when my husband became my mirror. He knows my "cave mode." He finds me, presses my shoulders down, and hugs me until I exhale. That sigh turns into release—sometimes tears, sometimes words. It's messy, but it's real.

And every day still brings 'people-pleasing' temptations. Folding laundry the boys could easily fold themselves. Closing my laptop mid-flow because someone wants to say something important and urgent like "Can I have an apple?". 

I even have a sticky note on my laptop that just says: breathe. Some days that's the only thing that works.

Now

Alignment, for me, isn't perfection—it's rhythm. I know when my body is slipping because brain fog clouds my head, or stomach pains and aching feet remind me I'm ungrounded. Movement saves me. You won't see it on social media, but behind closed doors I punch, kick, and lift heavy weights until my body releases what my mind clings to. After a hard workout, I feel more like myself—clearer, lighter, open.

My rituals keep me anchored: splashing cold water on my face each morning, saying good morning to the beatbox that is my heart; coffee and balcony stares; reminders on my phone to look up, breathe, drink water.

My relationships have shifted too. With my husband, there's more flow, more truth. With my mother, whose dementia makes her both familiar and not, I've learned to close my eyes, hold her hand, and let childhood memories wash through me like comfort.

And when overwhelm creeps back, I don't always notice it first. It's the sighs that give me away. Then, from across the room, one of my three boys—two sons and their dad—will call out, "Hey, you okay?" That simple question is my loudest reminder: alignment is not a place I arrive, but something I keep choosing, day after day.