How We Learn to Matter Too

One of the things I see come up most often in my work is what happens when someone has become the strong one.

They are the person everyone calls. The person who knows what needs to happen next. The person who organises the appointments, remembers the details, absorbs the worry, keeps the family going, manages the work, checks in on everyone else and says, when someone finally asks how they are, “I’m fine.”

Often, they are fine. Or fine enough. They are functioning. They are coping. They are doing what needs to be done, and perhaps doing it incredibly well. But somewhere in all that doing, they can begin to disappear.

This is particularly complicated when the people we love are going through something difficult themselves. If your partner is unwell, your parent needs care, your child is struggling, or someone close to you is living through grief, trauma or a major life change, it can feel almost impossible to say: What about me?

Their difficulty might seem bigger. Their needs might feel more urgent. You might look at what they are going through and decide that your exhaustion, sadness, anger, loneliness or uncertainty is somehow less important. You might tell yourself that this is simply what love looks like. You might believe that being strong means being the person who can handle it.

But what happens when you keep telling yourself that it isn’t about you?

---

When “it’s not about me” becomes a way of life

This is the question at the heart of my conversation with Lois Jackson on A Thought I Kept.

In 2017, Lois’s then-fiancé, former professional rugby player Ed Jackson, suffered a life-changing spinal cord injury. Their lives changed almost overnight, and Lois did what came naturally to her: she went into care mode. She booked appointments. She drove Ed where he needed to go. She spoke to doctors. She supported his recovery. When people asked how she was, her answer was simple: “It’s not about me. Ask Ed. I need to look after Ed.”

What struck me in talking to Lois was how little conscious decision there seemed to be in this. She didn’t sit down and decide to erase her own needs. She simply stepped into the role that needed filling, and perhaps the role she had always been good at filling.

I think many of us will recognise this. Losing ourselves rarely happens in one dramatic moment. It can happen gradually, through a thousand reasonable decisions. Someone else needs us more today. This isn’t the right time to bring that up. I can deal with it later. I don’t want to make things harder. I should be grateful. I should be able to cope. And then, one day, we might look at our lives and wonder where we have gone.

For Lois, that realisation came a couple of years after Ed’s accident. From the outside, life had in some ways returned to “normal”, but of course it wasn’t the old normal. Ed was living with the physical and psychological consequences of his injury. His rugby career had ended. Their relationship had changed. Their future had changed.

Lois realised that Ed had changed, their life had changed, but she was still, as she described it, “stuck in old Lois”. She had kept pushing her feelings to the back of her mind because it still felt as though they weren’t relevant.

Eventually, she knew she had to be honest.

---

The strong one has feelings too

This is often the difficult part. It can feel selfish to acknowledge that supporting someone has been hard when what they have experienced seems harder. We can turn suffering into a hierarchy in which only the person going through the most visible difficulty is allowed to have needs. But emotions don’t work particularly well in hierarchies.

You can love someone deeply and feel exhausted by caring for them. You can be grateful for your family and need time away from them. You can understand why someone is struggling and still be affected by the way their struggle changes your life. You can want to support someone and feel angry, lonely, scared or resentful. The presence of your feelings does not cancel out your love.

Lois had been afraid that being honest would hurt Ed. She was afraid of losing him. There was perhaps also something else underneath it: a fear that she might no longer be able to be the strong one who could handle everything.

But, as she told me, she came to understand strength differently. Sometimes the strong thing is not continuing to cope quietly. Sometimes strength looks like vulnerability. Sometimes it is saying the difficult thing carefully and honestly. Sometimes it is admitting that you are struggling too.

Lois began having those conversations with Ed. She also spoke to a relationship counsellor and started putting into words what she had been pushing away. Rather than destroying their relationship, that honesty became part of rebuilding it. She described it as though their relationship was “born again”.

There is something important here for those of us who have come to associate love with endurance. We can believe that protecting a relationship means protecting another person from our feelings. But what happens to a relationship when one person can no longer fully exist inside it?

---

What we suppress doesn’t simply disappear

When we repeatedly decide that our feelings are not relevant, they don’t usually go away. They can become exhaustion, disconnection, irritability or resentment. We might become increasingly frustrated with people we genuinely love, while also feeling guilty for that frustration. We might stop knowing what we want because we have spent so long asking what everyone else needs. Sometimes we end up in lives we never really chose.

This doesn’t necessarily happen because someone else chose them for us. It can happen because we made so many decisions around other people that we stopped including ourselves in the decision-making process.

This is why I think Lois’s thought is so important. After years of saying, “It’s not about me,” she realised something else:

It is about me.

Not only about me. Not me instead of you. Not my needs matter and yours don’t. Me as well as you.

There is a significant difference between putting yourself first all the time and remembering to put yourself somewhere in your own life.

---

Where are you in your own story?

One of the questions I found myself returning to during my conversation with Lois was: Where am I in my own story?

For those of us who are very good at looking outwards, this can be a surprisingly difficult question to answer. We might know what our children need, what our partner is worried about, what is happening at work, what our parents need help with and what is expected of us this week. But ask what we feel, what we need or what we want, and the answers can be much less clear.

Lois now does a lot of work around values, both for herself and with the people she supports. Values can sound like a very abstract idea until we think of them as an anchor: What actually matters to me? What makes me feel alive? What do I want more of? What am I no longer willing to lose?

When we have spent a long time responding to other people’s needs, reconnecting with ourselves may not begin with a dramatic life change. It might begin by noticing.

What am I feeling that I keep dismissing? What do I need that I keep telling myself is unreasonable? Where am I saying yes because I am afraid of what will happen if I say no? What parts of me have become smaller while I have been taking care of everyone else? What would it mean to include myself in the picture?

We may not immediately know the answers. Perhaps the important thing is to begin asking the questions.

---

You don’t have to wait until everyone else is okay

I think this is one of the hardest beliefs to loosen when you are caring for someone else: the idea that your turn will come later.

I will rest when things calm down. I will think about what I want when they are better. I will ask for help when this difficult period is over. I will return to myself eventually.

But sometimes things don’t calm down for a very long time. One difficult period becomes another. Children need us in different ways. Parents age. Work changes. Someone gets ill. Life continues to be life.

If our wellbeing is always conditional on everyone around us being okay, we may be waiting for a moment that never quite arrives.

Lois has learned to notice her boundaries, to lean on other people and to delegate. She has also learned that putting something back into herself does not have to be enormous. At the beginning of our conversation, after ten emotionally demanding days supporting people on a charity walk, she told me she had just had her hair done. It was a small thing, but it mattered. She had recognised that she needed something put back in.

I loved that because caring for ourselves can become another impossible standard. We imagine it requires a retreat, a perfect morning routine or hours of uninterrupted time we simply do not have. Sometimes it might be a walk. A book. Getting your hair done. Asking someone else to take over. An honest conversation. An hour in which nobody needs anything from you.

Lois also reminded me that rest does not have to look the same for everyone. For her, it might be walking slowly through the woods and paying attention to what she can see, smell and hear. Rest can still involve movement. Support can take different forms. The question is less whether we are doing self-care correctly and more whether there is anywhere in our lives where we are being replenished rather than continually depleted.

---

Small changes still count

There is another idea woven throughout Lois and Ed’s story: millimetres to mountains.

During Ed’s recovery, progress could be almost imperceptibly small. A finger moving a little more. A toe beginning to wiggle. Changes that were difficult to see from one day to the next, but became visible when they looked back. I think there is something useful in this for anyone trying to find themselves again.

You do not have to completely redesign your life tomorrow. If you have spent years being the person who copes, asking for help once might be a significant step. Saying what you actually feel might be a millimetre. Letting someone be disappointed in your boundary might be another. Doing something because you enjoy it, rather than because it is useful to somebody else, might be another still.

There may be steps backwards too. Lois is clear about that. Progress is not a neat journey in one direction. But once you have evidence that you can do something differently, you have something to return to.

Perhaps the question is not: How do I become someone who always puts myself first?

Perhaps it is: What would help me matter a little more in my own life today?

---

Maybe being strong was never meant to mean doing it alone

One of the great contradictions of being the strong one is that the more capable you appear, the less likely people may be to realise that you need support. You become the support system rather than someone within it.

But Lois’s work, both through her coaching and through the charity Millimetres 2 Mountains, is deeply rooted in connection. She has seen again and again how much it matters to be around people who understand, to have somewhere you can be honest, and to know that you do not have to carry everything alone.

The same should be true for the supporters. You are allowed to need somewhere to put your feelings. You are allowed to be affected by what is happening to someone you love. You are allowed to want things for your own life even while someone else is struggling. You are allowed to be tired of being strong.

And perhaps strength itself can become something different. Less about holding everything together without complaint, and more about knowing when to let yourself be held too.

---

Listen to my conversation with Lois Jackson

In this episode of A Thought I Kept, How We Learn to Matter Too with Lois Jackson, we talk about being the strong one, supporting someone through life-changing circumstances, honesty in relationships, identity, rest, hope, nature, joy and what happens when we finally realise that our own feelings and needs matter too.

Listen to the full episode and discover the thought Lois kept: “It is about me.”

---

Who supports the person who supports everyone else?

If you are used to being the capable one, the person who holds everything together, it can be difficult to know where to take your own emotions. You may not want to burden the people you love, particularly when they are struggling too, but that does not mean you have to keep carrying everything alone.

An emotions coaching session is a space for you. A place to talk honestly about what you are feeling, including the feelings that seem complicated, selfish or difficult to admit, and begin to understand what they might be asking for.

If you need somewhere to be supported while you support everyone else, you can book an emotions coaching session with me at If Lost Start Here.

How to Rewild Your Summer (Without Adding Another Thing to Your To-Do List)

By June, summer can start to feel less like a season and more like a project.

There are holidays to organise, childcare puzzles to solve, gardens to tame, bbq invitations to accept or decline, and a growing awareness that these long evenings and warm days are somehow supposed to be enjoyed before they disappear again. If you have children, there can be the pressure to create memories. If you run a business, there can be the challenge of keeping things moving while everyone else appears to be on holiday. If you're already tired, summer can feel surprisingly demanding.

We're sold an image of summer as carefree and expansive. In reality, many of us arrive here carrying the same worries, responsibilities, and emotional baggage we had in February, only now we're expected to enjoy ourselves while carrying it.

Perhaps that's why I keep returning to nature at this time of year. Not because I believe it will fix everything. Not because I think everyone should be hiking mountains at dawn or plunging into cold rivers before breakfast. But because nature offers something that feels increasingly rare: a different pace.

Recently I came across a survey from the Wildlife Trusts that found almost 90% of UK adults have happy memories of spending time in nature as children. Reading it sent me back to my own childhood.

Growing up in suburban Manchester, nature wasn't wild swimming and forest bathing. It was annual trips to the Lake District, farm holidays in Devon, climbing shale hills in Yorkshire, and riding bikes across cul-de-sacs to fields that would soon become housing estates. It was picnics amongst gravestones because that was the nearest green space. It was drinking hot chocolate in garden centres with my mum while surrounded by tropical plants.

The details were different, but what struck me was how easily those memories returned.

The survey found something else too: people who remember positive experiences in nature are more likely to seek it out as adults. That feels important because many of us have drifted away from it.

Not necessarily because we don't care about nature, but because adult life has a way of shrinking our worlds. We spend more time indoors, more time looking at screens, more time moving from task to task. We become efficient. Practical. Busy.

Nature, meanwhile, waits patiently in the background.

But before we turn this into another wellbeing prescription, it's worth acknowledging that reconnecting with nature isn't equally easy for everyone.

One in five households in the UK cannot access green space within a fifteen-minute walk of home. Some people live with disabilities or identities that make outdoor spaces difficult to navigate. Some of us carry fears that make nature feel less restorative than wellbeing magazines suggest.

I still don't particularly enjoy walking through isolated country fields alone. Years after reading about attacks on women in rural places, I remain aware of my surroundings. Camping alone with a toddler and newborn didn't make me feel adventurous and free. Mostly it made me feel responsible for keeping everyone alive.

For some of us, nature is associated with discomfort, boredom, loneliness, danger, or exclusion as much as wonder.

Which is why I think rewilding our summer isn't really about becoming more outdoorsy.

It's about becoming more curious.

It's about asking what nature could look like for us.

Maybe it is wild swimming and mountain hikes.

Maybe it's moving your desk so you can see trees instead of a wall.

Maybe it's growing herbs in a window box.

Maybe it's reading a novel in the shade for twenty minutes while your children play nearby.

Maybe it's joining a community garden, visiting a flower farm, taking a slower route home, sitting in a park with a friend, or eating lunch outdoors whenever the weather allows.

Perhaps the goal isn't to become the kind of person who loves nature.

Perhaps it's simply to notice where nature is already waiting for you.

At If Lost Start Here, we often talk about wellbeing as a series of pathways rather than prescriptions. Nature is one of those pathways. Not because everyone needs the same relationship with it, but because so many of us feel better when we experience even small moments of connection with the wider world beyond our own concerns.

Summer offers us more opportunities for that connection than any other season.

Longer evenings.

Open windows.

Unexpected conversations on walks.

The scent of cut grass.

Strawberries that actually taste of strawberries.

A garden that changes week by week.

The first time you notice the swifts have arrived.

None of these moments require us to completely overhaul our lives.

They simply ask us to pay attention.

So rather than creating a summer bucket list or another set of expectations, what if we approached the next few months as an experiment?

What if we became curious about the role nature might play in helping us feel a little more grounded, a little less rushed, and a little more connected to ourselves?

Not because we should.

Not because it will solve everything.

But because there might be something there waiting for us.

---

A Question to Take With You

When you think about being outdoors as a child, what comes to mind first?

And is there a small piece of that feeling you'd like to bring back into your summer?

---

Ready to Explore What Helps You Feel Better?

Sometimes finding your footing isn't about doing more. It's about noticing what helps you feel more like yourself. If you're feeling overwhelmed, disconnected, or unsure where to start, our coaching sessions can help you explore what wellbeing looks like for your real life.

The Things We Avoid and the Things We Ache For

We all have something we've been meaning to deal with.

The email we haven't opened. The text message we haven't replied to. The work project that has been sitting in the corner of our desktop for months. The difficult conversation. The bank statement. The decision.

Sometimes it can feel as though there's a monster under the bed. We suspect it's there. We can hear it scratching around in the dark. But as long as we don't look directly at it, perhaps it can't hurt us.

So we keep our heads down. We busy ourselves elsewhere. We tell ourselves we'll deal with it next week, next month, when things calm down.

But whatever it is hasn't disappeared simply because we haven't looked at it.

And often, that's where the exhaustion begins.

---

What Are We Really Avoiding?

The thing itself is not always the problem.

The unopened envelope might only take thirty seconds to open. The email could take five minutes to answer. The phone call might last less time than we've spent worrying about it.

What we're often avoiding is how we expect we'll feel.

Shame. Guilt. Disappointment. Regret. Anxiety. Self-doubt.

It's rarely just the task.

Many of us tell ourselves we're avoiding something because we're busy, and to be fair, that's often true. Life can feel relentless. There are school runs and deadlines, caring responsibilities and life admin, work demands and household logistics. We are trying to keep a lot of plates spinning at once.

The journalist Brigid Schulte describes modern life as being made up of "time confetti" — little scraps of time scattered throughout our days rather than long stretches of uninterrupted space. We might have five minutes here and ten minutes there, but not the emotional energy needed to climb the hill of something that feels difficult.

So we choose the easier path.

We check our phones. We reorganise the kitchen drawer. We watch another episode. We answer easier emails first.

For a moment, we feel relief.

But avoidance often comes with a hidden cost.

The thing remains. The emotional energy it requires remains. The quiet hum of guilt or dread remains.

And so we find ourselves carrying it around with us anyway.

---

When Avoidance Isn't About Time

Sometimes the issue isn't that something feels difficult.

Sometimes it's that it no longer matters.

We can spend months trying to motivate ourselves towards something that simply isn't aligned anymore. A commitment we've outgrown. A goal that belonged to a previous version of ourselves. A project that no longer reflects what we value.

In those moments, avoidance may not be a sign that we need more discipline. It may be information. A gentle indication that something needs revisiting, revising or perhaps even releasing.

Of course, the opposite can be true as well.

Sometimes we avoid something because it matters deeply.

The novel we want to write.

The business idea we can't stop thinking about.

The course we'd love to take.

The conversation we know we need to have.

The dream that feels so important that we become afraid to touch it.

If it stays in our imagination, it remains perfect. Once we engage with it, it becomes vulnerable to disappointment, rejection or failure.

Avoidance and fear tend to keep each other company.

---

What Helps When We're Stuck

One thing I've noticed is that the things I avoid often become enormous in my imagination.

The task expands. The conversation grows. The consequence becomes catastrophic.

Then I finally look at it and discover it was far smaller than I'd made it.

Not always easy. But smaller.

I've found it helpful to stop asking, "How do I finish this?" and instead ask, "What would fifteen minutes look like?"

The writer Maggie O'Farrell once spoke about writing one of the most painful scenes in Hamnet. Rather than forcing herself through it, she would write for ten minutes, walk around the garden, and then come back. Ten minutes at a time.

Sometimes courage looks less like a leap and more like a series of tiny returns.

I've also found self-compassion matters more than self-criticism. When we're already struggling with something, adding shame rarely helps. Instead, I try to remember that avoidance usually makes sense.

There is often a reason I'm hesitating. A fear. A wound. A protective instinct.

Sometimes I find it helpful to imagine speaking to myself the way I would speak to a friend:

"I know this feels difficult. I know why you're avoiding it. But we'll be okay. Let's take a look together."

Finally, I've learned to notice when avoidance moves beyond procrastination and becomes something else entirely.

There are times when avoidance can be connected to anxiety, depression, burnout or emotional overwhelm. The world becomes smaller. Opportunities narrow. Relationships drift. We stop participating in our own lives.

If that's where you find yourself, it's worth treating that experience with curiosity and care rather than judgment and getting the support that you need to help you move through this.

---

On the Other Side of Avoidance

On the other side of avoidance sits something else. Wanting.

Not wanting in the consumer sense. Not the endless message that we should always be striving for more.

A different kind of wanting.

The quiet question: What do I actually want?

It sounds simple, but many of us struggle to answer it.

We're often very clear on what needs doing. What is expected of us. What other people require from us.

But what do we desire? That's harder.

Perhaps because wanting can feel indulgent. We learn early that practicality is admirable. Responsibility is admirable. Self-sacrifice is admirable. Wanting can feel frivolous by comparison.

And yet some of the most meaningful parts of life begin there.

Because I want to learn a new instrument.

Because I want to travel somewhere I've never been.

Because I want to spend more time with friends.

Because I want to make things.

Because I want to.

The aviator Amelia Earhart famously answered the question of why she flew across oceans with this simple statement:

"Because I want to."

There is something wonderfully freeing about that. Not because every desire should be followed. But because sometimes wanting itself is enough..

---

Following the Threads of Aliveness

I've come to think of wanting as a signal. It points us towards what feels alive. Towards connection. Creativity. Curiosity. Joy. Meaning. Play.

Many of us spend so much time coping that we forget to ask what brings us pleasure.

What delights us.

What energises us.

What makes us feel more like ourselves.

And yet these questions matter. Not because they solve our problems. But because they remind us we're more than our responsibilities.

More than our productivity.

More than our to-do lists.

There is a life beyond coping.

And sometimes our longings help us find it.

---

What Are You Avoiding? What Are You Wanting?

Lately I've been wondering whether I'm spending more energy keeping things at bay or moving towards what matters.

Perhaps that's the question I'm leaving with you too.

What are you avoiding? And what are you wanting?

Sometimes the things we're avoiding contain important information. So do the things we're longing for.

One points towards what feels difficult, uncertain or unresolved.

The other points towards what feels meaningful, alive or true.

Neither needs to be fixed immediately. But both deserve our attention.

---

Explore Emotions Coaching

If you're finding yourself stuck in patterns of avoidance, overwhelmed by difficult emotions, or unsure what you want next, emotions coaching can help you slow down and make sense of what's happening beneath the surface.

Together we'll explore what you're feeling, what's driving your reactions, and how you can respond with more clarity, self-trust and choice.

Because sometimes the next step isn't about pushing harder. It's about understanding what's really going on.

Find out more about emotions coaching and book a discovery call.

---

Thoughts Kept… About Burnout

The first sign was probably the resentment. Just a low, constant irritation that seemed to follow me everywhere. The email arriving five minutes before the end of the day that made my shoulders tense instantly. The friend asking for a favour and my internal reaction feeling disproportionate to the request. Sitting at my laptop already tired before I’d even really begun. Feeling strangely annoyed at tiny inconveniences, while also somehow too exhausted to explain why.

At the time, I wouldn’t have called it burnout. I think I imagined burnout as something more obvious than that, something involving collapse or crisis or the inability to get out of bed. But one of the things I’ve learned from the guests on A Thought I Kept is that burnout often arrives much more quietly than we expect. It can look like functioning. Achievement. Keeping going. Being capable. It can look like replying to emails, meeting deadlines, hosting meetings, making dinner, posting on Instagram, smiling at people in supermarkets, all while feeling increasingly disconnected from yourself underneath it all.

Over the past year of recording conversations for the podcast, burnout has surfaced again and again, sometimes explicitly and sometimes hiding beneath conversations about perfectionism, people pleasing, creativity, ambition, neurodiversity, work, identity, caregiving, or the pressure many of us feel to keep performing wellness while privately struggling to cope with ordinary life.

And the thing that has surprised me most is that very few people describe burnout as simply “working too hard.” Instead, they describe years of overriding themselves. Years of separating achievement from joy. Years of confusing resilience with endurance. Years of not noticing what they needed until their body eventually forced the conversation.

Listening back to these episodes, there are five lessons about burnout that I keep returning to, especially because they say something much bigger about how many of us are living right now.

---

1. Burnout often begins long before we recognise it

One of the most powerful things I’ve learned from these conversations is that burnout is not always obvious while you’re inside it.

Matthew Bellringer described how many neurodivergent people become so used to masking distress and unmet needs that they can function at levels of overwhelm that would feel completely unsustainable for somebody else, until eventually “the system cannot continue doing this.” This explains why burnout can be so difficult to recognise early on. Many people experiencing burnout are still functioning. They are still showing up to work, replying to emails, caring for children, making dinners, meeting deadlines, laughing in meetings, organising birthdays, and keeping everything moving while privately feeling increasingly exhausted, emotionally numb, or disconnected from themselves.

Liana Fricker spoke about realising, after a major burnout in her forties, that she could no longer ignore what her body had been trying to tell her for years. “You can’t fight this anymore,” she said. “You’re going to have to learn new ways.” There was something in that conversation that felt deeply relevant to the moment we’re all living through now, because so many people are trying to cope with a world that feels relentlessly demanding. The cost of living crisis, constant bad news, workplace pressure, caregiving, uncertainty about the future, digital overload, the sense that there is always more to respond to, improve, optimise, manage.

It means burnout symptoms often become normalised. Which is perhaps why so many people only recognise burnout once their body, mind, or emotions become impossible to ignore.

---

2. Burnout is often connected to grief, loss, and emotional overwhelm, not just overwork

One thing I’ve found myself thinking about while making the podcast is how often burnout conversations are really conversations about loss. Not only the loss of energy, but the loss of identity, meaning, connection, certainty, or the version of yourself you thought you were supposed to be.

In Hiroko Yoda’s episode, she described the period after the death of her mother as feeling as though “the flames of my soul had been snuffed” and “the world had drained of color.” Listening to her speak about grief, spirituality, and slowly finding her way back to herself through nature and ritual made me realise how many forms emotional burnout can take, particularly when we are carrying loss that hasn’t fully been acknowledged.

Similarly, Toni Jones spoke movingly about how much of her life had been spent avoiding her feelings entirely, pushing through burnout during a high-pressure media career before eventually turning toward books, reflection, and self-development as a way of reconnecting with herself. 

I think this matters because burnout is often discussed in incredibly practical terms, as though it can be solved purely through time management or better routines. But many guests described something much more emotional underneath their exhaustion. Grief. Loneliness. Emotional suppression. A life lived too long in survival mode.

And when people search for how to cope with burnout, I think part of what they are often really asking is: how do I come back to myself after a long period of disappearing from my own life?

---

3. Perfectionism and people pleasing are often hiding underneath burnout

Again and again, conversations about burnout on the podcast eventually circled back to approval.

Approval at school. Approval at work. Approval in relationships. Approval online. Approval through achievement.

Matthew described learning early in life to separate what felt intrinsically rewarding from what earned praise and validation from other people.

Liana talked about slowly untangling intuition from perfectionism and people pleasing, laughing as she realised they were “three distinct balls of wool.” 

What struck me listening back was how often burnout seems connected not simply to doing too much, but to becoming trapped inside identities built around usefulness, capability, achievement, or being easy for other people to rely on.

For many people, burnout recovery is difficult because the behaviours that created the burnout were also the behaviours that earned love, praise, security, or success.

And that’s why simply telling people to “rest more” often doesn’t touch the deeper issue. If slowing down makes you feel guilty, anxious, purposeless, or unsafe, then burnout management is not just about changing your schedule. It’s also about understanding the emotional engine underneath the overworking in the first place.

Liana put it beautifully when she reflected on her repeated burnout cycles and asked herself: “What is this internal engine that keeps making me run at full speed, ultimately off a cliff?” I suspect many of us are carrying versions of that same question.

---

4. Burnout recovery is less about becoming productive again and more about rebuilding your relationship with yourself

Something else that comes through strongly in these conversations is that burnout recovery rarely looks like bouncing back quickly into the old version of your life. Instead, many guests described it as a slower rebuilding process that required them to pay attention to themselves in entirely new ways.

Liana spoke about recognising patterns she now calls “burn downs,” smaller recurring cycles of depletion that eventually accumulate into something much larger if ignored. She described reorganising her calendar around her actual energy levels rather than the version of productivity she thought she should be capable of sustaining, deliberately creating more spaciousness during certain periods because she knew her nervous system needed it. 

There was something profoundly compassionate in that conversation because it wasn’t about becoming perfect at wellbeing. It was about becoming more honest. And honesty appears repeatedly across these episodes as one of the real turning points in burnout recovery. Honest recognition of limits. Honest recognition of exhaustion. Honest recognition of what no longer works.

Matthew described burnout recovery not simply as reducing stress, but as “getting something back” again. Joy. Playfulness. Meaning. Intrinsic reward. Time spent doing things that actually feel alive rather than merely productive.

That feels important because many people experiencing burnout are not simply tired. They are disconnected from pleasure, creativity, curiosity, and spaciousness, the very things that make life feel sustainable over time.

---

5. People recovering from burnout are often becoming more curious, not more perfect

Perhaps my biggest takeaway from these conversations is that sustainable burnout recovery seems to involve curiosity much more than self-optimisation.

Not becoming a “better” person.
Not becoming perfectly balanced.
Not finally mastering wellness.

Just becoming more aware.

Aware of patterns.
Aware of emotional needs.
Aware of capacity.
Aware of what depletes you and what restores you.
Aware of the stories you’ve inherited about success, worth, ambition, rest, and productivity.

Liana talked about spending more time in her body rather than only in her rational mind, slowly learning the difference between intuition, perfectionism, and people pleasing.

Hiroko found herself reconnecting with the world again through tiny moments of attention to nature, ritual, and spirituality after profound grief.

Toni’s story explored what happens when we stop avoiding ourselves long enough to really ask how we are living and whether it’s sustainable. 

None of these conversations offered a perfect formula for how to manage burnout, and honestly I think that’s part of why they’ve stayed with me. Because burnout recovery is rarely linear. It is often messy, cyclical, emotional, and deeply personal. But listening to these guests has reminded me that healing doesn’t always begin with dramatic transformation. Sometimes it begins with finally paying attention.

---

If this piece resonated, you might want to listen to our special playlist, The Thoughts I Kept… About Burnout, a collection of episodes from A Thought I Kept exploring burnout, emotional exhaustion, grief, perfectionism, people pleasing, identity, overwhelm, and the complicated process of finding your way back to yourself again.

And if you’re feeling emotionally exhausted, overwhelmed, disconnected, or unsure where to begin, you can also explore our coaching sessions through If Lost Start Here.

Our work is not about helping you become endlessly productive again. It’s about understanding what’s happening underneath the exhaustion, reconnecting with yourself more honestly, and building a version of wellbeing that actually fits your real life.

---

More ways to explore burnout

Finding a Better Way to Well Without Trying to Fix Yourself

I still remember standing in the wellbeing section of my local independent bookshop years ago, holding three different books in my hands and feeling completely overwhelmed by all of them.

One promised confidence. One promised calm. One promised a completely new life if I just followed the steps properly enough. Around me were shelves and shelves of answers. Morning routines. Better habits. Nervous systems. Boundaries. Purpose. Productivity. Healing. Manifestation. Rest. Reinvention.

And underneath all of it was this quiet but persistent feeling: if I could just find the right idea, the right practice, the right way of living, maybe I would finally feel okay.

I think a lot of us arrive at wellbeing from this place now. Not because we’re shallow or self-absorbed, but because life genuinely feels difficult. The world feels loud. Work is relentless. Relationships can be complicated. Many of us are carrying anxiety, grief, uncertainty, burnout or a low-level sense that we’ve somehow drifted away from ourselves. And when you feel like that, it makes sense to go looking for answers.

In my recent conversation on A Thought I Kept with Toni Jones, we talked about what happens when you spend a decade immersed in self-help culture. Toni has read more than 1,000 self-help books. She founded Shelf Help, the world’s first self-help book club, after burnout and a growing sense that something in her life needed to change.

What I loved most about our conversation wasn’t really the books though. It was the gentler, steadier framework underneath them.

Because Toni spoke so honestly about how messy change actually is. Not cinematic. Not linear. Not “new life in seven easy steps.” More experimental than transformational. More human than polished.

At one point we talked about the pressure that can sit underneath wellbeing culture now — the sense that we should always be improving ourselves. That wellness can become another arena where we fail, compare, strive or feel behind. And honestly, I think many people feel exhausted by that version of wellbeing, even if they can’t quite articulate why.

There’s something profoundly tiring about approaching yourself like a constant problem to solve.

What Toni kept returning to instead was curiosity.

Not: “How do I finally become perfect?”

But: “What happens if I try this?”

Not: “I must completely reinvent myself.”

But: “What if I treated this more like an experiment?”

That small shift feels important to me. Because experiments allow room for being human. They allow for bad days, contradictions, changing your mind, getting it wrong, trying again. They soften the harshness that so often creeps into conversations about growth.

And maybe that’s part of finding a better way to well.

Not turning wellbeing into another performance of goodness or discipline or achievement. But allowing it to become something more personal. More playful. More forgiving. Something shaped around your actual life rather than the life you think you should be living.

During the conversation, Toni described reading her first self-help book while completely burnt out and desperate for something to change. It was called Change Your Life in Seven Days. Looking back now, she laughs at the urgency of it. The idea that her exhausted nervous system was searching for a quick fix because she simply couldn’t carry on as she was.

I think many of us recognise that feeling.

The late-night googling. The saving of posts we never quite return to. The hopeful ordering of books. The quiet thought that maybe this next thing will finally help us feel calmer, happier, clearer, more confident, less overwhelmed.

And sometimes those things do help. Books can change us. Conversations can change us. Therapy can change us. Tiny rituals and practices can genuinely support us.

But what struck me listening to Toni was that the deeper shift seemed to come less from finding the perfect answer and more from slowly building a different relationship with herself.

One with more compassion in it.

More honesty.

More willingness to be seen.

More permission to need support.

That feels important too because I think a lot of us have absorbed the idea that wellbeing is something we should master privately. Quietly. Alone. We should hold everything together. Cope beautifully. Be low maintenance. Keep functioning.

And yet the thought Toni brought to the podcast — borrowed from Brené Brown — was this: “We don’t have to do all of it alone. We were never meant to.”

I kept thinking about that afterwards.

Because maybe a better way to well isn’t just about what we do for ourselves. Maybe it’s also about who we let sit beside us while we figure things out.

The friend who notices you’re not okay before you admit it yourself.

The conversation that helps you feel less strange.

The book club where people finally say the quiet parts out loud.

The person who reminds you that you’re allowed to need care too.

The older version of yourself who can look back and realise: things did change, slowly, even when it didn’t feel like they were changing at all.

One of the things I loved most from the episode was Toni talking about how, years ago, she felt desperate for something — anything — to change. Whereas now, after years of reflection and experimentation and self-discovery, she approaches life with more curiosity than panic. More openness than grasping.

Not because she became a completely different person.

But because she became more connected to herself.

I think that’s the part of wellbeing we don’t talk about enough. That perhaps the goal isn’t becoming somebody new entirely. Perhaps it’s becoming more honest about who we already are. Understanding what supports us. Learning what drains us. Allowing our version of wellbeing to look different from somebody else’s.

And maybe that’s why Amanda and I created the If Lost, Start Here wellbeing journal in the way we did. Not as a rigid plan or perfect prescription, but as an invitation into curiosity. Into experimentation. Into asking better questions about what actually helps you feel more alive, connected, grounded or held.

Not wellness as performance.

Not self-improvement as punishment.

Just a steadier, kinder relationship with yourself and your life.

If this conversation resonates, you can listen to my full episode of A Thought I Kept with Toni Jones, where we explore vulnerability, burnout, self-help, friendship, identity, emotional wellbeing and what it means to stop carrying everything alone.

And if you’re feeling a little lost in your own life right now — unsure what wellbeing even means for you anymore — you’re also very welcome to explore my coaching work or the If Lost, Start Here journal. Not as a way to become someone else. Just as a place to begin listening to yourself again.

Stress Isn’t the Problem: When There’s Simply Too Much to Carry

We often think of stress as something that comes from chaos or crisis, but what if it’s also connected to competence.

It can belong to women who are good at things. Women who care. Women who hold the threads of their lives — and often other people’s lives — quietly and reliably. Women who show up, remember birthdays, keep projects moving, make dinners happen, check in on friends, plan ahead, stay present, stay kind, stay capable. Women who are praised for “managing it all,” even as something inside them tightens a little more each day.

If this sounds familiar, you may have wondered — at some point, usually late at night — Why does everything feel so hard when I’m doing everything right?

This is often where stress gets framed as a personal problem. Something to manage better. Something to calm down. Something to fix.

But what if stress isn’t the problem at all?

What if stress is simply the body and mind responding honestly to a life that’s asking too much?

When stress makes sense

Many of the women I work with arrive believing they are stressed because they’re not coping well enough. They talk about poor boundaries, busy minds, anxious tendencies, the feeling that they should be more resilient by now. And yet, when we slow down and gently look at their lives, something else becomes clear.

They are juggling multiple roles that each carry real responsibility. They are doing emotional work that is rarely named or shared. They are living inside systems — workplaces, families, cultures — that still quietly expect women to absorb more, adapt faster, and complain less. They are trying to be present and productive, nurturing and ambitious, grounded and forward-looking, all at once.

Stress, in this context, isn’t a failure of mindset. It’s information. It’s the nervous system saying: this is a lot.

---

A quieter kind of burnout

This kind of stress doesn’t always look dramatic. There may be no breakdown, no obvious crisis. Instead, it shows up as a low-level hum: tight shoulders, shallow breaths, a short fuse, constant tiredness, the sense that even rest requires effort.

You might still be functioning — showing up, delivering, caring — but with less joy, less ease, less connection to yourself.

This is why so much stress advice misses the mark. When the message is “slow down” or “do less” or “think differently,” it can feel tone-deaf. As if the reality of your life hasn’t been fully seen.

Because often, there is no simple “less.” There is just what needs doing, and the quiet knowledge that if you don’t do it, it may not get done at all.

---

The question we rarely ask

Instead of asking, How do I get rid of stress? A more honest question might be: What is my stress responding to?

When we treat stress as the enemy, we turn against ourselves. We add another layer of pressure — to be calmer, better regulated, more together — on top of an already full life.

When we treat stress as a signal, we begin to listen. And often, what we hear isn’t a demand to change who we are, but an invitation to relate to our lives more honestly.

You don’t need to be less sensitive, less caring, or less capable. You may need more support, more honesty, and more permission to stop carrying everything alone.

This isn’t about lowering standards or giving up on what matters to you. It’s about recognising that sustainability is not the same as endurance.

A life can be meaningful and still be too heavy. You can be strong and still need support. Both can be true.

---

Small ways to begin listening to stress

Rather than offering a long list of things to do (because that’s rarely helpful when you’re already overwhelmed), here are a few gentle places to start:

You might try reflecting on one or two of these, slowly, over time:

• Notice where stress shows up first. Is it in your body, your thoughts, your energy? This isn’t about changing it — just noticing earlier.

• Name what feels genuinely full. Not everything. Just one area of life that feels particularly heavy right now.

• Ask yourself what support would actually look like. Not in theory, but in real, practical terms. Less advice. More presence? Fewer expectations? Shared responsibility?

• Pay attention to self-blame. When stress appears, do you turn it into a story about what you should be doing better? What happens if you pause that story, even briefly?

These are not tasks to complete. They are ways of standing beside yourself with more kindness.

---

A different way forward

If stress is not the problem, then the work is not about erasing it. The work is about changing your relationship to it — and, often, changing the conditions that keep it alive.

This can include practical changes, yes. But it also includes deeper questions about worth, responsibility, and the quiet agreements many women have made with the world about what they will carry without complaint.

This is not work that needs to be rushed. It’s work that benefits from patience, warmth, and support. And it’s work you don’t have to do alone.

Stress doesn’t have to be something you battle in private. Emotions coaching offers a place to slow down, make sense of what you’re carrying, and explore more sustainable ways of living — without pressure to fix yourself or have it all figured out.

If you’re curious, you can find out more about working together through one-to-one coaching, where we gently untangle stress, responsibility, and support in a way that fits your real life.

How We Learn to Cope Without Alcohol

Rethinking emotional regulation, drinking, and the stories we inherit about coping

There are moments in life when something quietly stops working.

Not dramatically, not all at once, but gradually, almost imperceptibly. A glass of wine at the end of the day that once felt relaxing begins to feel necessary. A way to soften the edges of stress, to slow a racing mind, to take a brief step away from the feelings that have been gathering in the background.

For many people, alcohol becomes woven into the way we cope with everyday life. It sits comfortably in the rituals of the evening, the social rhythms of weekends, the celebrations and the commiserations. It promises relief, connection, relaxation — and often, at least for a while, it delivers.

But sometimes there comes a moment when the question begins to surface: Is this actually helping?

That question was at the heart of a recent conversation on my podcast A Thought I Kept with sober coach and writer Ellie Nova. Ellie spent more than a decade feeling trapped in a relationship with alcohol that was increasingly tangled up with shame and self-judgement. And the thought that ultimately helped her begin to step away from it was surprisingly simple:

There is nothing wrong with you.

At first glance, that might not sound like a thought powerful enough to change a life. But the more we talked, the clearer it became just how radical it can be.

Because when people begin to question their relationship with alcohol, the story they often tell themselves is one of personal failure. Why can everyone else seem to drink normally? Why does this feel so difficult for me? Why can’t I control myself?

But what if alcohol was never really the problem in the first place?

What if, instead, it had simply become a way of coping with emotions that felt too big to hold?

---

The quiet role alcohol plays in emotional regulation

One of the things Ellie and I explored together was the role alcohol can come to play in regulating our emotional lives. Not because we consciously choose it as a coping strategy, but because many of us grow up without ever being taught how to sit with difficult feelings.

Anxiety, loneliness, grief, pressure, shame — these emotions can be uncomfortable and confusing, especially if we’ve learned, consciously or unconsciously, that they are not entirely welcome. Perhaps we were told we were too sensitive, or that we needed to toughen up, or that certain feelings were inappropriate in certain situations.

Over time, many of us become quite skilled at pushing emotions aside. We distract ourselves, we stay busy, we find ways to numb what we’re feeling just enough to keep moving.

In that context, alcohol can begin to make a certain kind of sense. It offers a socially acceptable way to soften emotions that feel sharp, to quiet thoughts that won’t settle, to step briefly outside of the intensity of being human.

And because alcohol is so culturally embedded — in celebrations, socialising, relaxation, and even self-care — it can take a long time before we start to question the role it’s playing.

---

When drinking stops feeling like relief

For some people, that questioning begins when alcohol stops delivering the relief it once promised. The drink that once helped take the edge off anxiety begins to bring its own kind of discomfort. The sense of escape becomes tangled up with regret, exhaustion, or a quiet awareness that something isn’t quite right.

At that point, it can be tempting to interpret the problem as one of discipline or willpower. Perhaps I just need to be stronger. Perhaps I need more control.

But Ellie’s experience — and the experiences of many of the women she now supports — suggests something quite different.

If alcohol became a coping strategy, it likely did so because something inside needed support. Something needed soothing, or understanding, or simply space to be felt.

And when we begin to look at our relationship with alcohol through that lens, the conversation shifts.

Instead of asking What’s wrong with me?, we begin asking more curious questions.

What am I actually feeling?
What have I been trying not to feel?
And what might help me cope in a way that truly supports me?

---

Learning to cope without numbing

Letting go of alcohol can feel daunting not simply because it is a habit, but because it has often been doing important emotional work behind the scenes.

Without it, many people suddenly find themselves face to face with feelings that have been carefully managed for years — anxiety, grief, loneliness, stress, even the quieter emotions like disappointment or regret that are easy to push aside in a busy life.

Learning to cope without alcohol, then, is rarely just about stopping drinking. More often, it becomes a process of learning a new relationship with our emotional lives.

That might involve recognising emotions earlier, before they gather into overwhelm. It might involve paying attention to the physical sensations that accompany anxiety or stress in the body. It might mean finding other ways to regulate ourselves — movement, conversation, rest, time in nature, creative expression.

But perhaps most importantly, it involves replacing judgement with curiosity.

When we stop seeing emotions as problems to eliminate and begin to understand them as signals, something shifts. The very feelings we once tried to escape can begin to feel more manageable, even informative.

---

A different understanding of self-care

In our conversation, Ellie and I also reflected on the way self-care is often presented as a form of escape — a brief pause from the pressures of life, a small indulgence designed to help us get through the week.

But real emotional care often looks quieter and deeper than that. It might mean slowing down long enough to notice what is actually happening inside us. It might mean allowing feelings that are uncomfortable rather than immediately trying to distract ourselves from them.

Sometimes it means asking for support.

For many people, learning to cope without alcohol becomes part of a broader shift toward self-trust — a growing sense that our emotions are not something to suppress or manage away, but something to understand.

And that shift often begins with a simple but powerful idea.

There is nothing wrong with you.

---

Listen to the conversation

If this perspective resonates with you, you can listen to the full conversation with Ellie Nova on the podcast A Thought I Kept.

In the episode How We Break Free From Alcohol, Ellie shares her own experience of stepping away from alcohol and the thought that helped her begin to see her emotions, and herself, in a different way.

Looking for support with your emotions?

If you’re navigating emotional overwhelm, anxiety, or simply trying to understand your feelings more clearly, you might also find our emotions coaching sessions helpful.

These sessions offer a calm, thoughtful space to explore what you’re feeling and to develop ways of working with your emotions that feel supportive rather than overwhelming.

You can learn more about emotions coaching with Claire here.

How to Create an Everyday Retreat at Home: Small Ways to Care for Yourself Each Day

Retreats, holidays, or even a quiet weekend away can be wonderful and exactly the reset we need. And for a little while everything softens. We sleep more deeply. We notice things again. We remember what it feels like to move through the day without quite so much pressure.

And then we come home. The inbox fills up again. The washing basket mysteriously multiplies. Work, care, responsibilities and the endless small decisions of modern life return to their usual volume.

That contrast can make wellbeing feel like something that lives somewhere else. Somewhere beautiful, slower, quieter — somewhere we occasionally visit rather than something that belongs inside our real lives. But what if the question isn’t how to recreate retreat conditions perfectly at home? What if it’s simply about making a little more room for ourselves inside the life we already have. Not through grand gestures or perfect routines, but through small moments that gently interrupt the pace of the day.

Sometimes that might look like taking a few breaths before you open your laptop in the morning. Or stepping outside for ten minutes of air and sky between meetings. It might be writing a few lines in a notebook before bed, or sitting in the quiet of the house before everyone else wakes up.

None of these things are dramatic. But they are ways of reminding ourselves that our days can hold small pockets of steadiness, even when life is full. At If Lost Start Here we often think of this as an everyday retreat. Not something that requires travel, time off, or a perfect environment, but something we create in ordinary spaces — kitchens, gardens, desks, walks around the block.

Moments where we pause long enough to reconnect with ourselves. Because wellbeing rarely arrives all at once. More often it grows slowly through the small ways we choose to care for ourselves inside the lives we’re already living.

One way to think about an everyday retreat is simply this: small moments of care woven through an ordinary day. The kind of day where the alarm goes off earlier than you’d like, the kettle needs refilling again, and someone has already asked you a question before you’ve even had your first sip of coffee.

Sometimes the retreat begins there. A few slow breaths before you open your email. A page of journaling while the house is still quiet. Or simply drinking your tea without doing three other things at the same time.

Later in the day it might appear as a small corner of calm. Not a perfectly styled meditation space, just a chair by the window, a step outside the back door, or five minutes sitting on the edge of the bed before the next thing begins.

Technology tends to follow us everywhere now, so another small act of care can be letting parts of the day remain screen-free. Leaving your phone on the kitchen counter while you walk around the block. Eating lunch without scrolling. Letting your mind wander for a few minutes rather than filling every space with information.

And then there are the tiny resets that help us keep going when the day becomes full again. A stretch between meetings. Fresh air after too long indoors. A quick walk where you remember that the world is larger than your to-do list.

By the evening, when the house is quieter again or the day finally loosens its grip, another small moment can appear. Writing a few lines about the day. Noticing something that went well. Letting yourself acknowledge that you carried a lot and made it through.

None of this is dramatic. It’s simply a way of remembering that wellbeing doesn’t have to live somewhere else. It can move with us through the ordinary, messy, human shape of our days.

Over time, these small daily actions will build up to create lasting wellbeing. You’ll feel more grounded, less overwhelmed, and better able to handle life’s challenges. It’s about making wellbeing part of your everyday life.

Want help making these changes stick? Join the Everyday Retreat, where we’ll explore these practices together through daily lessons and community-meet ups.

When Everything Feels Like Too Much: A Different Way to Think About Wellbeing

There are moments when life begins to feel louder than we expected. Not necessarily dramatic or catastrophic moments — although those exist too — but the quieter accumulation of things. Too much information. Too many expectations about what we should be doing with our lives. Too many messages about how we should be improving ourselves.

If you spend any time in the world of wellbeing advice, you’ll know the feeling. The promise is always that if we just find the right system, the right routine, the right mindset, things will click into place. We’ll feel calmer. Clearer. More certain about the path ahead.

But many people arrive here feeling the opposite. They’ve tried the advice. They’ve listened to the podcasts, read the books, followed the practices — and instead of clarity they feel more overwhelmed. As though wellbeing has become another task on the list.

Recently on the podcast A Thought I Kept, I spoke with occupational therapist Josephine Dolan-Dufourd about a line that has stayed with her for many years. It comes from the early twentieth-century designer Elsie de Wolfe:

“I’m going to make everything around me beautiful and that will be my life.”

At first, it can sound almost frivolous. Beauty can feel like a luxury — something decorative, something that sits on the edges of life rather than at its centre. But as Josephine talked about it, the idea began to shift. Because beauty, in the way she understands it, is not about perfection or aesthetics. It’s about attention.

Josephine’s work as an occupational therapist centres around what she calls “meaningful doing” — the everyday activities, rhythms, and choices that help us live with more ease and connection. And what she has seen again and again, working with people navigating illness, burnout, and major life change, is that wellbeing rarely arrives through grand reinventions of ourselves. More often, it begins in the smallest places.

The cup of coffee you drink in the morning, taken slowly rather than hurriedly.

The walk through your neighbourhood where you notice the flowers instead of only the things that frustrate you.

The moment of choosing clothes that make you feel like yourself.

These things are not solutions. They don’t solve life. But they change how we experience it.

One of the examples Josephine shared during our conversation has stayed with me. She once worked with a client who was deeply irritated by something very ordinary: dog mess in the streets of the village where she lived. If you went looking for it, you could see it everywhere. It became the thing that defined every walk. So Josephine began gently redirecting her attention.

Look up, she suggested. Look at the buildings. Look at the flowers. Look at the people passing by. Yes, the dog mess is still there — life will always contain the irritating, messy parts — but it doesn’t have to be the only thing you see.

This might sound like a small shift, but in many ways it’s a radical one. Our brains are naturally wired to notice what is wrong. Psychologists call this the negativity bias — the evolutionary tendency to scan our environment for threats and problems. It kept our ancestors alive.

But in modern life, surrounded by constant news updates, social media feeds, and endless comparison with other people’s lives, that same instinct can make the world feel far heavier than it really is. We begin to believe the story that everything is broken. That we are behind. That everyone else has figured something out that we haven’t.

Josephine’s perspective offers a different orientation.

Life will always contain difficulty. Illness, uncertainty, setbacks, grief — none of us escapes those parts of the story. Josephine herself has lived through many moments that could easily have led her to a much darker outlook.

When she was sixteen, her father experienced a life-changing brain injury in a car accident. It was during that time that she first encountered occupational therapy — and saw how meaningful activities could help people find dignity and purpose even in the most difficult circumstances.

Beauty, in this sense, is not the absence of hardship. It is something we learn to notice alongside it.

Later in her career, after seventeen years working in forensic psychiatric settings, Josephine reached a point of deep burnout. She realised she had lost her sense of zest for life. What helped her recover was not another professional breakthrough or productivity system, but something much simpler: a change of environment, a slower rhythm of living, and a renewed attention to what actually mattered in her day-to-day life.

That idea — that our lives are shaped by what we notice — feels particularly important right now. We live in a culture that constantly asks us to optimise ourselves. To become more productive, more disciplined, more impressive.

But perhaps another question is worth asking.

What if the work is not to become someone new?

What if the work is to notice more carefully the life you already have?

Josephine described beauty as something that can be created almost anywhere — in the way you arrange a room, the way you prepare a meal, the way you spend time with the people around you. It’s not about escaping the realities of life, but about refusing to let them define the whole picture.

And when you begin to approach life this way, something subtle shifts. You stop waiting for the future version of your life to begin. Instead, you start to realise that your life is already happening — in these ordinary moments that will one day feel strangely precious when you look back on them.

None of this removes uncertainty. You might still feel unsure about your direction. You might still be navigating change, loss, or the quiet sense that something in your life needs to move or evolve. But you may discover that steadiness doesn’t come from fixing yourself. Sometimes it comes from learning how to look. From noticing what is already here. And from asking, quietly and without pressure:

What might it mean, in my own way, to make the world around me a little more beautiful?

---

If this idea resonates with you, you can listen to the full conversation with Josephine on the podcast A Thought I Kept.

And if you’re looking for more support finding your footing — emotionally, practically, or simply as a human being navigating life — you can explore our coaching sessions and resources here.

When Midlife Feels Like More Than You Expected

For many women, midlife can arrive with a sense that life isn’t quite as straightforward as it once was. The responsibilities we’ve carried for years — at work, within families, in our friendships and community roles — haven’t disappeared, and yet something in the background changes. Sleep feels less restorative. Thoughts feel a little foggy. Tasks that once felt manageable now feel heavier. It can be hard to put a name on it, but you feel it: a sense that there’s more to life than you can easily juggle, even when nothing obvious has fallen apart.

A recent survey of women aged 50 and over in Britain has given words to many of these experiences. Almost two in three women in this age group say they are struggling with their mental health as they navigate the changes that come with midlife — from menopause and sleep disruption to relationship shifts, caring for ageing parents and adjusting to children leaving home. For many, this is accompanied by anxiety, poor sleep, “brain fog” and a loss of the zest for life they once took for granted.

Perhaps most striking is how quiet this struggle often is. The survey found that almost nine out of ten women dealing with these challenges don’t seek help. Many feel they have to cope alone, or minimise how they’re feeling because the idea of asking for support feels somehow like giving in — even when the weight of it all is real.

What’s Underneath Overwhelm

This isn’t just about menopause. It’s about transitions that happen gradually and simultaneously: shifts in our bodies; shifts in our roles; evolving relationships; changes in energy and emotional resilience. Each of these on its own can feel manageable, but woven together over years they can create a deep and exhausting pressure that’s easy to overlook until it becomes hard to ignore.

Many women simply don’t talk about this. Society still tends to treat emotional struggle — especially in midlife — as something that should be handled quietly, or something to “power through”. But the survey reminds us that these experiences are common and human, not a personal failing.

The Cost of Keeping It Quiet

When emotional strain isn’t acknowledged, it doesn’t disappear — it accumulates. It affects sleep, concentration, relationships and the simple joy of everyday moments. It becomes harder to notice when you’re depleted, because you’ve become accustomed to pushing through. And without space to reflect on what you’re actually feeling and why, it’s easy to blame yourself rather than understand that what you’re experiencing is a response to real emotional load.

That’s why finding the right kind of support matters.

What Support Looks Like — Beyond a Quick Fix

For some women, support might be practical — medication, hormone therapy, lifestyle adjustment, or changes in work or caregiving arrangements. For others, it’s about having someone to talk things through with — not someone who offers quick answers, but someone who helps make sense of experience and emotion in a grounded, non-judgmental way.

This is where emotions coaching can fill a gap that many traditional services overlook. It isn’t therapy in the clinical sense, and it isn’t a promise to “fix” everything overnight. Instead, it’s a space designed to help you:

• notice what’s been building beneath the surface

• make sense of emotional patterns rather than dismissing them

• recognise what’s reasonable to expect of yourself — and what isn’t

• develop a clearer sense of how you’re feeling rather than just that you’re overwhelmed

For women whose lives are woven with responsibility and care — often for others — having someone who listens deeply and reflects back what you’re actually experiencing can offer clarity and grounding rather than pressure to perform better or be more resilient.

You’re Not Alone in This

The survey’s findings are a reminder that many women are living with these feelings — often quietly and without support. That doesn’t make your experience any less valid. It makes it human.

If this resonated, you might like our occasional reflections and conversations on emotional life, wellbeing and what it really feels like when life feels like a lot.

And if you feel ready to explore your feelings with someone — not to fix you but to understand your experience more clearly — learn more about emotions coaching and how I might support you through midlife.

Why Everything Feels Like Too Much

Often it isn’t one big thing that tips us into feeling overwhelmed. It’s the accumulation of many small, reasonable demands, layered one on top of another, until life begins to feel heavier than it looks from the outside. You’re still doing what needs doing. You’re still showing up. And yet, there’s a sense that everything takes more effort than it should, that coping has become something you have to consciously work at rather than something that happens naturally.

This is usually when people start questioning themselves. Not in a dramatic way, but in the background of everyday life. Why does this feel so hard? Am I just not very good at coping? Is this just me? We tend to assume the explanation must be personal — a flaw, a lack, a resilience gap we haven’t quite closed yet.

But very often, what’s going on has less to do with who you are, and more to do with capacity.

Capacity isn’t one single thing you either have or don’t have. It’s layered, changeable, and deeply affected by the conditions of your life. And when we talk about feeling overwhelmed, we’re often really talking about several kinds of capacity being stretched at once — even if we haven’t named them that way before.

There’s work capacity, for example. This isn’t just about hours or workload, but about responsibility, pressure, decision-making, and the emotional labour that so often comes with work — particularly in caring roles, leadership positions, or people-facing jobs where you’re expected to hold others as well as yourself. Then there’s mental capacity: the ability to concentrate, plan, remember, and problem-solve without every small decision feeling draining. When this is stretched, even simple choices can begin to feel surprisingly heavy.

There’s emotional capacity too — how much feeling you can hold, not only your own, but other people’s as well. Supporting children, partners, parents, colleagues, friends. Anticipating needs. Managing tension. Smoothing things over so life keeps moving.

Alongside this sits energy capacity: sleep, health, recovery time, and the overall load on your nervous system. This is often the first capacity to dip, and the one we’re most likely to ignore or override.

And then there’s life capacity — the background weight of life itself. The admin, the finances, the relationships, the uncertainty, the changes, the griefs and transitions that don’t always announce themselves loudly but still take up space.

You can be coping well enough in one area while another is quietly depleted. And when several kinds of capacity are stretched at the same time, it can feel as though something is deeply wrong, even when nothing obvious has changed. This is often why advice about slowing down or prioritising yourself can feel oddly out of reach. When capacity is already full, there isn’t spare room to rearrange things — there’s just more being asked.

For many people, doing everything isn’t about control or perfectionism. It’s about necessity. It’s about being the one who notices what needs doing and steps in because otherwise it won’t happen. It’s about holding together the practical and emotional threads of a life that relies on you more than feels fair. In that context, exhaustion isn’t a failure — it’s a natural response.

And yet, this is often where self-criticism creeps in. Why can’t I cope better? Why does everyone else seem to manage? Why does rest feel so far away for me? Overwhelm becomes something to judge ourselves for, rather than something to listen to.

Capacity isn’t something you fix by pushing harder or organising yourself more efficiently. It’s something you work with. And that often begins by telling the truth — not in a way that demands immediate change, but in a way that simply names what’s real. What’s taking the most from you right now. Where there isn’t really a safety net underneath. How tired you are, not because you’re weak, but because you’ve been carrying a lot for a long time.

When people begin to understand their experience through this lens, something softens. The constant questioning eases. The pressure to justify how they feel begins to lift. Not because everything suddenly changes, but because the story they’ve been telling themselves does.

If you’ve been wondering whether the way you’re feeling is justified, it probably is. Overwhelm is rarely random. It’s often a sign that too much has been resting on you for too long. Learning to listen to that — without rushing to fix yourself — can be the start of a steadier, kinder relationship with your own limits.

If this piece resonated, you might like to hear from us occasionally. Our newsletter shares thoughtful reflections and gentle guidance for navigating everyday life when things feel like a lot.

And if you’re feeling overwhelmed, confused by your emotional responses, or questioning why things feel the way they do, our 1:1 emotions coaching sessions can help you make sense of what’s happening.

Wellbeing Doesn’t Have to Be Hard: A Manifesto for Doing It Differently

What if wellbeing didn’t feel like a job?

There’s something tiring about the way wellbeing is often presented to us, as a series of things we’re meant to be doing properly: routines to get right, habits to keep up with, versions of ourselves we’re encouraged to move towards. Even when it’s well intentioned, it can start to feel like pressure dressed up in pastel colours, another place where we’re measuring ourselves and wondering why it doesn’t seem to land in the way it’s supposed to.

At If Lost Start Here, this comes up again and again in conversations with the people we work with and hear from. It’s not that people don’t care about wellbeing or aren’t trying. It’s that trying to do it right can begin to feel like work in itself, and sometimes like another quiet way of feeling you’re falling short.

So this manifesto begins with a gentler question. What if your wellbeing wasn’t something to chase or optimise, but something you could return to, slowly and with a little more kindness, in ways that actually fit the life you’re living right now?

This piece grew out of the threads we’ve been following in our own work over time: conversations that stayed with us, notes scribbled in the margins of notebooks, moments where we wished someone had said, more clearly, that you’re not doing this wrong. Again and again, we come back to the same idea, which feels both simple and surprisingly difficult to hold onto: your wellbeing doesn’t need to be perfect, it just needs to be yours.

Not an idealised version of you, and not a future version either, but the one that exists here and now, with all its changeability, contradictions, and constraints. When we start from there, wellbeing stops being about keeping up and starts to feel more like listening, noticing, and responding to what actually matters to you in this moment.

We all need small, grounding reminders of that from time to time, especially when life feels loud or uncertain. Words that help us exhale rather than strive, sentences that soften the sharp edges of the day and bring us back to ourselves. That’s what this manifesto is intended to be. It isn’t long, it isn’t prescriptive, and it isn’t another thing to add to your list. It’s simply a list of lessons we’ve learned that you can return to, whether you pin it to your wall, tuck it inside a journal, or come back to it on the days when wellbeing feels like too much to hold.

You don’t need fixing, and you don’t need better habits in order to be worthy of care. What many of us are really longing for is more space to feel like ourselves again, without the constant sense that we should be doing more or doing it differently.

This manifesto doesn’t offer solutions or strategies. Instead, it offers something quieter and, we hope, more sustaining: reassurance, permission, and a reminder that wellbeing can be personal, creative, relational, and shaped by what matters to you and what helps in the here and now, rather than by someone else’s idea of what it should look like.

So take what you need from it and leave the rest.

Which line speaks to you most today, and which one might be worth carrying with you into the week ahead?

• You don’t need to be your best self. Just your kindest self.

• Wellbeing isn’t a destination. It’s an ongoing relationship with yourself.

• You’re allowed to start again. And again. And again.

• The smallest things — a song, a sentence, a coffee drunk warm — can restore you.

• Books, podcasts, art and beauty aren’t luxuries. They’re lifelines.

• Your feelings are not flaws. They’re vital messages of what matters

• You don’t need to fix yourself. You need space to feel like yourself

• Messiness and detours; They’re part of being human.

• Language matters. Speak to yourself like someone you deeply love.

• Connection is wellbeing. You were never meant to do this alone.

If this resonates and you’re curious about exploring what might help you in the here and now, you can find out more about our wellbeing sessions here.

A Better Way to Well: Why Personalised Wellbeing Matters

There comes a point where trying to “look after yourself” starts to feel strangely exhausting.

You’re doing the things you’ve been told are good for you. You’re walking more. You’re resting when you can. You’ve read the articles, listened to the podcasts, saved the posts. And yet, instead of feeling steadier or more supported, you’re left with a sense that you’re somehow falling short.

If this sounds familiar, it’s not because you’re doing wellbeing wrong. It’s because the way we’re often encouraged to approach wellbeing doesn’t leave much room for real life.

Most wellbeing advice assumes we’re all starting from the same place, with the same needs, energy, and capacity. But we’re not. We’re living different lives, carrying different histories, responding to different pressures. What helps one person feel calmer or clearer can leave another feeling overwhelmed or inadequate.

At If Lost Start Here, this is something we return to again and again. Not because we have a neat fix, but because we keep hearing the same story.

People aren’t resistant to wellbeing. They’re tired of advice that doesn’t meet them where they are.

We live in a moment where wellbeing information is everywhere. We know more than ever about our nervous systems, emotions, habits, and mental health. That knowledge can be genuinely helpful. But it also creates a strange pressure — the sense that if we just chose the right tools, followed the right routine, or tried a little harder, we’d finally feel okay.

Instead, many people end up feeling more lost than when they started.

So we’ve been asking a different kind of question.

Rather than “What’s the best way to well?”
We ask: “What matters to you right now and what might actually help?”

A personalised wellbeing prescription starts there.

It’s not a generic plan or a set of instructions to follow. It’s a thoughtful way of reconnecting people with what matters most to them — their values, interests, curiosities, relationships, and needs — and then exploring what could support them in the here and now.

Not in theory. Not in an ideal version of life. But in the life they’re actually living.

This kind of approach recognises that wellbeing isn’t static. What you need during a period of uncertainty, grief, overwhelm, or quiet dissatisfaction will be different from what you need when life feels steadier or more expansive. A personalised prescription adapts as you do.

It also leaves room for creativity and play. Instead of focusing solely on what’s wrong or what needs fixing, we look at what might gently reintroduce energy, meaning, and connection. That might be through nature, creativity, culture, conversation, reflection, or small, everyday rituals that help you feel more like yourself again.

The emphasis isn’t on doing more — it’s on doing what makes sense. Optimism, here, doesn’t come from adding another habit or chasing a better version of yourself. It comes from feeling understood, supported, and reconnected to what already matters to you.

A personalised wellbeing prescription offers a way to cut through the noise and make sense of what might help now. It gives shape and direction without pressure. It supports agency, curiosity, and choice — not compliance.

And importantly, it doesn’t treat wellbeing as something separate from life. It weaves support into your days in ways that feel realistic, human, and sustainable.

If you’re feeling lost, overwhelmed, or dissatisfied with the way wellbeing is presented to you, this is your reminder: you’re not behind, broken, or failing.

You might simply be ready for a different way of being supported.

At If Lost Start Here, our personalised wellbeing prescriptions are designed to help you reconnect with what matters, explore what helps in this moment, and build a more supportive relationship with your own wellbeing — one that feels creative, playful, and personal.

You don’t need fixing. You don’t need perfect habits. Maybe you just need an approach that starts where you are.

Struggling With Comparison? Rethinking Confidence and Self-Trust

This is how it might go. You’re scrolling, or reading, or listening to a podcast, and you notice a flicker of feeling when someone else shares good news. A promotion. A book deal. A confident post about work they love. You’re pleased for them — genuinely — and yet something tightens. A question forms that you don’t quite want to look at too closely.

What does this mean about me?

Moments like this don’t usually come with drama. They’re small, everyday, easy to brush past. But they can linger. And over time, they shape how we see ourselves, how we show up at work, and how much space we allow ourselves to take.

This week on A Thought I Kept, I spoke to Nicky Denson-Elliott, and she brought a thought that disrupted that familiar inner pattern:

In order for me to win, no one else has to lose.

It’s one of those ideas that seems obvious when you first hear it and then quietly radical the longer you sit with it.

Because so much of our inner landscape has been shaped by the opposite belief. That success is scarce. That confidence belongs to certain people, not others. That if someone else steps forward, there’s less room for us. These ideas don’t usually announce themselves as beliefs. They show up as feelings: comparison, jealousy, self-doubt, hesitation.

Nicky spoke about how deeply this conditioning runs, especially for women. How it can shape our relationship with money, confidence, and visibility. How it influences the way we price our work — often not based on its value, but on what feels safe. How it quietly sets women against one another, even when connection and solidarity are what we most want.

What’s important here is that none of this is a personal flaw. These are not thoughts we invented. They’re learned. Reinforced. Picked up over time in workplaces, families, schools, media, and culture. When they surface, they can feel intensely personal but they rarely originate there.

And when life already feels full or uncertain, carrying these inherited ideas can make everything heavier. You might notice it in how hard you are on yourself. In the way you second-guess decisions. In the tension you feel around confidence — wanting it, distrusting it, worrying what it might cost.

One of the most grounding parts of the conversation with Nicky was her refusal to replace one set of rules with another. There was no invitation to be bolder, louder, or more confident in a performative sense. Instead, she talked about noticing. About recognising when a familiar reaction appears and asking, with curiosity rather than judgment: Is this actually mine?

That question alone can create a shift.

Because when we start to see that some of our thoughts are inherited rather than chosen, we don’t have to wrestle with them in the same way. We don’t have to argue ourselves out of feeling jealous or small or unsure. We can simply recognise the pattern, and loosen our grip.

This matters not just for our inner world, but for how we move through everyday life. Especially work. Especially relationships with other women. Especially moments where confidence feels like something other people have access to, and we’re still figuring it out.

Letting go of the myth of competition doesn’t mean pretending everything is fair or easy. It doesn’t mean denying ambition or discomfort. But it does open up a different orientation — one where someone else’s success doesn’t automatically diminish our own, and where confidence can be something we grow into, rather than something we perform.

For many of us, this kind of rethinking doesn’t arrive as a neat turning point. It shows up gradually. In small pauses. In moments where we choose not to rush to judgment — of ourselves or others. In the realisation that uncertainty doesn’t mean we’re failing; it often means we’re paying attention.

If you’ve been questioning old ideas about success, money, confidence, or what it means to be doing “well” in life, you’re not behind. You may simply be noticing that the old maps don’t quite match the terrain anymore.

Nicky’s thought offers a steadier way of orienting. It reminds us that life isn’t a zero-sum game. That generosity — toward ourselves and others — isn’t naïve, but grounding. And that self-trust doesn’t come from fixing or perfecting ourselves, but from recognising which beliefs were never designed to support us in the first place.

You don’t need to know what comes next. You don’t need to replace every thought at once. Sometimes it’s enough to notice which ideas make life feel smaller, and to wonder — without urgency — what it might be like to set one of them down.

If this resonates, listen to the full conversation with Nicky on A Thought I Kept.

And if you need help exploring some of the feelings you have around comparison — jealousy, self-doubt, hesitation — or what confidence even means to you, explore our emotions coaching sessions.

When Overwhelm Turns Into Procrastination (And What Your Mind Is Really Trying to Tell You)

There’s a feeling that many of us might know too well right now.

You sit down with every intention of making a start — on the email, the project, the idea that’s been nudging you for weeks. The kettle’s just boiled, your notebook is open, and you’ve even set the nice pen aside, the one that’s supposed to make you feel organised and capable.

And then… nothing.

Your mind fogs, your chest tightens, and suddenly the task you could do becomes the task you can’t. So you get up. Put a wash on. Scroll for a bit. Reorganise a drawer you didn’t care about an hour ago. And all the while, the quiet fear begins to creep in:

Why can’t I just get on with things?

What’s happened to my energy/mind/motivation?

What’s wrong with me?

If this feels familiar, you’re not alone — and you’re not failing.

You’re overwhelmed. And your procrastination is not the enemy.

It’s a message.

What Overwhelm Really Is (And Why It Feels So Big)

We tend to think overwhelm is about having too much to do. But the science tells a slightly different story: overwhelm is what happens when the demands on your mind and body exceed the resources you currently have.

It’s not a character flaw. It’s a capacity mismatch.

When your nervous system feels under-supported — too many tabs open in your brain, too many emotional pulls, too little rest — your body responds as if something unsafe is happening. Clarity disappears. The thinking brain goes a little offline. Everything feels urgent or impossible.

And procrastination?

That’s simply your mind stepping in to protect you.

---

Why Overwhelm Turns Into Procrastination

Procrastination is often painted as laziness or lack of willpower. But psychologically, it’s something much more useful: a coping mechanism.

When a task feels too big, too unclear, too emotionally charged, or simply beyond your current energy levels, your brain moves you toward something that feels safer.

It’s a self-protective pause.

And the moment you understand procrastination this way, something can begin to shift. You realise you’ve been blaming yourself for a very human biological response.

This reframing alone can bring enormous relief.

---

How to Support Yourself When You’re Overwhelmed and Procrastinating

Below are some gentle, practical steps that can help you understand what’s happening and begin to find a calmer, more sustainable rhythm.

1. Name what you’re feeling

Before you do anything else, take a moment to acknowledge your emotional state.

Try asking yourself:

• “What’s the emotion underneath my procrastination?”

• “Where do I feel this in my body?”

Giving your feelings a name — overwhelm, worry, fear of getting it wrong — helps calm the nervous system. Research shows that naming emotions reduces the intensity of what you feel.

Start there.

2. Reduce the load your mind is carrying

When everything is swirling in your head, even the smallest task feels enormous. Try externalising your thoughts:

• Make a list of the things weighing on you

• Circle the ones that genuinely matter this week

• Cross out the ones that belong to someone else’s expectations

Sometimes clarity isn’t about doing more. It’s about seeing clearly.

3. Shrink the task until it feels human-sized

Most of us don’t procrastinate because we don’t care. We procrastinate because the task feels too big.

Ask yourself:

• “If this were 10 times smaller, what would the first step be?”

• “Could I spend 2 minutes beginning?”

Two minutes is all you need to break the freeze.

4. Match the task to your energy

Not all tasks are for all moments. If you’re exhausted, scattered or emotionally stretched, your brain simply isn’t ready for high-focus work.

Try asking:

• “What kind of energy do I have right now?”

• “What task fits this energy? What would be a compassionate win?”

We make better progress when we stop fighting our natural rhythms.

5. Ask: What is this procrastination protecting me from?

Sometimes procrastination hides a deeper fear:

• What if I fail?

• What if I succeed?

• What if it’s not perfect?

• What if I disappoint someone?

There is almost always something else going on beneath the delay. Try to see what would happen if you listen to what’s behind it.

6. Create a sense of safety before you begin

If overwhelm is a nervous system state, your first job isn’t action — it’s support.

Try one of these:

• A slow exhale (longer out-breaths calm the body)

• A walk around the block

• A glass of water and a stretch

• Asking someone to co-work with you for 10 minutes

• Putting on music that makes your shoulders drop

When your body feels safer, your mind follows.

---

You Are Not Behind. You Are Overwhelmed.

We often blame themselves long before we recognise that we are depleted.

But procrastination isn’t a moral failure — it’s a sign your system needs support, tenderness, and time.

Burnout doesn’t happen because you’re weak.

It happens when you’ve been strong for too long without enough nourishment.

But your system can recover. You can feel steady again.

If you’ve recognised yourself anywhere in this, coaching can give you space to breathe, think clearly, and rebuild confidence in a way that feels gentle and grounded.

In our emotions-focused coaching sessions, we help you:

• understand your overwhelm with compassion

• work with your emotions rather than against them

• soften procrastination so you can move forward with ease

• prevent burnout before it begins

• create a wellbeing plan that actually supports your real life

If you’re ready to feel more resourced and less alone, you can book a free discovery call or explore coaching options here:

Start your journey toward emotional steadiness today.

How to Handle Your Emotions When You’re Feeling Lost or Overwhelmed

There’s a moment many of us might recognise.

You’re trying to make a decision, move something forward, or simply get through the day — and your emotions feel louder than you’d like them to be. Anxiety edges in. Frustration bubbles up. Self-doubt has an opinion. And suddenly it feels harder to think clearly, trust yourself, or know what the next step might be.

When that happens, it’s easy to conclude that the problem is your emotions. That you’re feeling too much, or handling things badly. That if you could just calm down, be more confident, or stop overthinking, everything would be easier.

But what if the issue isn’t having emotions — it’s that most of us were never taught how to handle them well?

This question sat at the heart of a recent conversation on our podcast A Thought I Kept, with Isabelle Fielding. Isabelle works with individuals and organisations navigating change and uncertainty, and her work is grounded in a simple but often overlooked idea: emotions are part of being human, and learning how to relate to them is a skill — not a personality trait.

One of the key ideas Isabelle shared was this: Where there’s pain, there’s purpose. Not pain as something to glorify or push through, but pain as a signal. An indication that something matters, that a value is being touched, that attention is needed.

For many people who arrive here feeling lost, this is already a reframe. Because when emotions feel uncomfortable, our instinct is often to control them, deny them, or move away from them as quickly as possible. We tell ourselves we shouldn’t feel this way. We judge the feeling. We add a second layer — frustration, shame, self-criticism — on top of the original emotion.

Very quickly, things escalate.

Isabelle spoke about how emotions often stack like this. You feel anger, then feel ashamed of feeling angry. You feel anxious, then criticise yourself for being anxious again. Before long, it’s hard to know what you’re actually feeling — just that it’s too much.

Handling emotions better doesn’t mean stopping that first feeling from arising. It means learning how not to pile everything else on top.

In the conversation, Isabelle used an image that makes this easier to picture. Imagine being in the sea, trying to hold a beach ball underwater. It takes constant effort. Your arms ache. And eventually, no matter how determined you are, the ball bursts back to the surface — often catching you off guard. That’s what it can be like when we try to suppress or ignore our emotions. They don’t disappear; they resurface later, often louder and harder to manage.

A more sustainable approach is to let the ball float.

To allow emotions to be present without pushing them away — but also without letting them take over. Isabelle described this as learning to carry emotions lightly, rather than holding them right in front of your face. They’re there, but they don’t get to drive every decision.

This is where handling emotions becomes less about control and more about relationship.

Instead of asking, How do I get rid of this feeling? we might ask, Can I notice this without being overwhelmed by it?

Instead of assuming emotions make us unreliable, we can start to see them as information — not instructions.

Anxiety might be signalling uncertainty that needs time. Frustration might be pointing to a boundary or a mismatch. Self-doubt often appears where we care deeply about doing something well. None of these emotions tell us exactly what to do next but they can help us understand what’s going on inside us.

For people feeling lost, this can be grounding. Because it means you don’t have to wait until you feel calm, confident, or certain before you’re allowed to move forward. You don’t need to change who you are to begin handling things better.

Another important distinction Isabelle made was between experiencing an emotion and becoming it. Feeling anxious is not the same as being an anxious person. Feeling unsure doesn’t mean you can’t be trusted. Emotions are states — they come and go — even when they feel sticky or familiar.

Learning to handle emotions better often starts with noticing this difference.

It might mean pausing long enough to name what you’re feeling, without immediately reacting or analysing it. It might mean recognising when a second emotion — shame, irritation, self-judgment — has joined the first. It might mean allowing yourself to feel something without demanding that it resolve straight away.

This isn’t about emotional mastery. It’s about emotional steadiness.

At If Lost Start Here, we often talk about finding your footing rather than finding answers. About orientation rather than certainty. Learning to handle your emotions is part of how to navigate life. Not because emotions give you a perfect map, but because they help you stay connected to yourself as you move through change.

You may still feel unsure. You may still feel conflicted or overwhelmed at times. But handling emotions better doesn’t mean eliminating those experiences — it means being less knocked off course by them.

And that can make a real difference when you’re trying to move forward gently, in your own way.

If you’d like to explore this further, the full conversation with Isabelle Fielding is now available on our podcast A Thought I Kept.

And if you’re feeling lost or unsure and want support in understanding and handling your emotions, explore our coaching sessions.

The Thoughts That Stayed When the Year Felt Hard

Some years are easy to summarise.

They arrive with neat headlines: “the year everything changed”, “the year it all came together”, “the year of big decisions".

And then there are the other years. The ones that feel harder to pin down.

This has been one of those years for many of us.

A year where you might not have clear answers. Where you feel more tired than triumphant. Where you’re still carrying questions about work, identity, relationships, or simply how to feel okay in the everyday.

When we started the podcast A Thought I Kept, we weren’t looking for big breakthroughs or polished wisdom. We asked a much simpler question:

What’s the thought that stayed with you — when everything else fell away?

As the year draws to a close, those are the thoughts we keep returning to. Not because they fixed everything, but because they helped us navigate life just that little bit better.

Here are some of the ideas that stayed — especially when the year felt heavy, overwhelming, or uncertain.

When Thinking Harder Wasn’t the Answer

One of the strongest threads running through this year’s conversations was the idea that clarity doesn’t always come from effort.

In our conversation with Katie Driver, we talked about how thinking clearly often begins with paying attention, not pushing for solutions. That sometimes the most helpful question isn’t “What should I do next?” but “What am I noticing right now?”

For anyone ending the year feeling mentally overloaded, this idea might help you create space for, rather than force, clarity.

That might look like fewer inputs. Quieter mornings. Walking without headphones. Letting your thoughts arrive without interrogating them.

When life feels hard, this kind of attention can be grounding — a way to feel less lost without needing a map.

Listen to the episode with Katie Driver on A Thought I Kept.

---

Learning to Trust Yourself Again (Slowly)

Another thought that stayed came up in conversations about self-trust.

Not the confident, decisive version of self-trust we often imagine — but a quieter kind. The kind that grows when you stop overriding yourself.

Several guests spoke about moments where they realised they had been ignoring their own signals for years: exhaustion, resentment, numbness, restlessness. And how wellbeing didn’t begin with adding more practices, but with listening.

If this year left you feeling unsure of yourself, this matters.

Self-trust isn’t rebuilt by grand declarations. It’s rebuilt in small acts:

• pausing before saying yes

• noticing what drains you

• letting your feelings be information, not obstacles

That idea alone — my feelings are trying to tell me something — was one many of us kept.

Explore episodes on emotions, attention and self-trust wherever you listen to A Thought I Kept.

---

Overwhelm Isn’t a Personal Failure

Overwhelm came up again and again this year. Not as something to eliminate, but as something to understand.

In conversations about work, creativity and leadership, guests reflected on how overwhelm is often a signal that our systems — not our selves — need adjusting.

If you’re ending the year feeling overwhelmed, anxious or behind, this thought matters:

Overwhelm isn’t proof you’re failing. It’s information that’s pointing to too much noise, too many expectations, too little rest, or too little support. And noticing that is already a form of progress.

This is especially important at the end of the year, when reflection can quietly turn into self-criticism. These conversations reminded us that kindness — toward ourselves — is not a soft option. It’s a stabilising one.

---

You Don’t Need to Fix the Year to Learn From It

One of the most reassuring ideas to come out of the podcast this year was this:

You don’t need to tidy the year up to take something meaningful forward.

You can let it be unfinished.

Many guests spoke about learning through living, not through tidy conclusions. About carrying insights forward even when situations hadn’t resolved.

For anyone feeling lost or disconnected right now, that’s an invitation to stop forcing meaning — and trust that some understanding unfolds later.

Sometimes the thought you keep doesn’t explain everything.

It simply keeps you company.

---

Keeping these Thoughts Close

As we reached the end of the year, we realised something else: these ideas are easy to forget when life gets loud again.

That’s why we gathered the thoughts that stayed into a printable poster designed by Amanda — a way to live with them, not just read them once. Something to glance at on a difficult day. Something to remind you that you’re not alone in these questions.

You can shop the printable poster here — a collection of thoughts kept from the first year of A Thought I Kept.

And if any of these reflections resonated, we’d love for you to explore more.

Listen to A Thought I Kept — conversations about wellbeing, emotions, work, identity and self-trust, because when the year feels hard, sometimes the most helpful thing isn’t a plan — it’s a thought worth keeping.

Feeling Held in a World That Keeps Asking for More

There’s a particular kind of overwhelm that doesn’t come from doing too much — but from holding too much.

Holding work.

Holding family life.

Holding emotions, expectations, plans, worries.

Holding it all together, often quietly.

It’s something that came up again and again in my recent conversation with Lauren Barber on the podcast A Thought I Kept. We didn’t set out to talk about overwhelm directly, but as we spoke, it became clear that this sense of being unheld — of carrying more than feels sustainable — sits beneath so many of the feelings people describe as stress, burnout, anxiety, or simply feeling lost.

What does it mean to feel held?

When we talk about being held, we often imagine something external: support from others, community, care, someone stepping in. And that matters — deeply. But Lauren spoke beautifully about another layer of holding too: the ways we hold ourselves when life keeps asking for more than we feel we have to give.

In the episode, she shared how anxiety has been a long-term companion for her — not always loud or dramatic, but often living quietly in the body. In the gut. In the mornings. In the constant background hum of hypervigilance. That feeling of being alert even when things are technically “fine”.

What struck me was how she described mistrusting good feelings. How, when you’ve spent a long time braced for difficulty, calm can feel unfamiliar — even unsafe. Ease doesn’t always land as relief; sometimes it lands as something to be suspicious of.

Many of us recognise this, especially when we’re overwhelmed. We might know what would help — rest, space, gentleness, support — and still struggle to let ourselves receive it.

---

Overwhelm isn’t always about doing too much

One of the ideas that stayed with me from this conversation is that overwhelm isn’t always about volume. Sometimes it’s about imbalance.

We’re holding a lot — but not being held in return.

Lauren talked about motherhood as a clear example of this. There are things in life that drain us simply because they have to be done. Meals, logistics, care, responsibility. We don’t always have the option to step away from them. And in those moments, the question isn’t “how do I escape this?” but “how do I support myself within it?”

Lauren spoke about counterbalancing — about finding small, everyday ways to bring nourishment back in. Not as a fix to the problem we can’t yet get to, but as a quiet form of care.

Putting music on while making breakfast.

Going for a walk, even when it’s inconvenient.

Wearing a favourite pair of earrings on an ordinary day.

These aren’t grand gestures. But they matter. Because they help the body feel a little safer. A little less alone. A little more held.

---

The quiet cost of never being held

So many people we speak to at If Lost Start Here tell us they feel disconnected — from themselves, from their energy, from what they want. Often, that disconnection isn’t because they don’t care, or don’t know. It’s because they’ve been holding so much, for so long, without anywhere to rest.

When you’re constantly in that state, your nervous system doesn’t get the message that it’s okay to soften. Even moments of rest can feel uncomfortable. Even joy can feel fragile.

Lauren shared how somatic practices — working with the body, not just the mind — have helped her rebuild a sense of safety from the inside out. Not by forcing calm, but by meeting what’s there with compassion. By learning, slowly, that feelings move. That sensations pass. That being held can be something you practise, not something you wait for.

---

Feeling held as a practice, not a destination

One of the most grounding ideas from this episode is that feeling held isn’t a one-time experience. It’s not something you achieve and then move on from. It’s a rhythm. A return.

It shows up in how you treat yourself when you’re tired.

In how you respond to anxiety rather than fighting it.

In whether you allow yourself small moments of care without earning them first.

This feels especially important at times of year when everything speeds up — when expectations multiply and space shrinks. When we’re told to reflect, plan, connect, celebrate, and keep going, all at once.

In those moments, being held might look less like changing everything and more like asking a quieter question: “What would help me feel supported right now?”

---

Work, energy, and being held

At the heart of Lauren’s story is a thought she’s carried since her early twenties: “Life is too short to do work that you do not enjoy.”

Lauren spoke about learning to notice when her work drains her energy — when she feels flat, depleted, disconnected. And how those sensations have become signals rather than something to push through.

For many people, changing work isn’t immediately possible. But even then, the episode offers a gentler invitation: to notice where energy is leaking, and where it might be replenished. To bring more of what you need into your days, even when the structure stays the same.

Feeling held, in this sense, is about staying connected to yourself — even in imperfect conditions.

---

A gentle invitation

If you’re feeling overwhelmed, unheld, or quietly disconnected right now, you’re not failing. You’re responding to a world that often asks for more than it gives back.

My hope is that this conversation with Lauren offers a pause. A moment of recognition. Perhaps even a small sense of being held — enough to help you take the next gentle step.

Listen to the full episode of A Thought I Kept: How We Learn to Feel Held with Lauren Barber — available on Spotify, Apple, or wherever you listen to podcasts.

And if you’d like more thoughtful reflections, tools, and ideas for everyday life, especially for those moments when you feel lost or overwhelmed, join our mailing list. You don’t have to hold everything alone.

The Thought That Changed How I End the Year

Every year around this time, I feel a quiet tension building.

It’s not just the pressure to finish things, though that’s part of it — the projects left undone, the goals half-met. It’s something deeper. A low-grade noise, humming underneath the productivity tools and Pinterest-perfect vision boards.

That voice that says:

“You should be reflecting.”

“You should be setting goals.”

“You should be figuring out how to make next year better.”

And often, if I’m honest, I try to oblige. I sit down with the journal. I make the lists. I try to “get clear.”

But I don’t always feel clear. I just feel… tired.

So this year, I’m trying something different. Something softer.

And it started with one sentence from a conversation I had with coach and facilitator Katie Driver:

“The mind works best in the presence of a question.”

It landed so gently, I almost missed it. But the more I sat with it, the more it felt like a key — not just to better thinking, but to a better ending.

What if clarity doesn’t come from pushing — but from asking?

Katie’s work centers around helping people think for themselves — particularly those who feel like their minds are “buffering” or stuck in mental noise loops. In our episode of A Thought I Kept, she talks about the value of attention, the importance of quiet, and what can shift when we stop trying to force insight, and start trusting the questions.

As someone who has historically tried to think my way to control — to logic, list-make, or out-journal the overwhelm — this idea felt like an exhale. What if I didn’t need the answer yet? What if I didn’t need a 12-step plan? What if I just needed the right question?

So I tried one.

---

The question that helped me end the year differently

On a particularly messy-feeling day, I sat down with this:

What would make this a good ending — for me?

Not a successful one. Not a productive one. Not an impressive one.

A good one. For the person I actually am.

And quietly, without fanfare, an answer rose:

Letting go of something I never really wanted.

Finishing one small thing I care about.

Taking a walk in silence, no headphones.

Choosing presence over performance.

Not exactly a 10-point strategic vision. But honest.

True. Grounded. And — perhaps most importantly — doable.

---

Another question I’ve come to love:

“What do I need right now?”

It’s one Katie shared in the episode, and I’ve returned to it often.

When the list is long. When my brain feels foggy. When I’m tempted to sink into distraction instead of meeting myself gently.

Sometimes the answer is small — a cup of tea, a stretch, a text to someone I love. Sometimes it’s “nothing right now.” But just asking reminds me I have needs, and they’re worth listening to.

In a season that often prioritizes output — what did you accomplish, what are you planning next — this simple question helps me reorient inward. To listen. To care. To remember that ending well isn’t always about tying everything up. Sometimes it’s about releasing what no longer fits.

---

A better ending is possible. But it starts with presence, not pressure.

So if you’re feeling behind or burnt out or like your brain is caught in a loop —

If you’re wondering how to reset without overhauling everything —

Here’s what I learned:

You don’t need to fix it all.

You don’t need to reinvent yourself.

You don’t even need to reflect perfectly.

You just need one honest, open question.

And a little space to answer it.

Listen to the episode: What to Do When You Can’t Think Straight with Katie Driver

---

And if you need the space to think then explore our online and in-person coaching sessions. You can still book for the end of this year, or get a session in your calender for the start of 2026.

How to End the Year with Intention (Before the New One Begins)

December is often framed as a finish line: A final push. A test. A moment to evaluate everything and rework yourself before the clock strikes midnight. But what if we made space for something different?

• What if the end of the year wasn’t a judgment point but a waypoint?

• A natural pause to notice, gather, and begin again, without rushing?

This isn't though about anticipating resolutions. It’s more about recognising what this year asked of you and how you met it. It’s about taking stock of what mattered, what’s changed, what still hurts, and what you want to carry forwards (or quietly leave behind).

So here’s an invitation to end the year on your terms, whatever that means to you.

Step 1: Reflect Without the Pressure to Perform

This time of year can stir up all kinds of emotions — joy, grief, gratitude, burnout — often tangled together. So the first thing to do is simple:

Pause and notice. Instead of listing wins or judging what you “did enough of,” try asking:

• What did I learn about myself this year?

• Where did I feel most like me?

• What surprised me, softened me, challenged me?

These are the kinds of reflections that grow self-trust, rather than self-criticism.

You could:

• Write a “reverse bucket list” — things you experienced, even if small, that mattered

• Map your year by seasons or quarters and list one lesson or moment from each

• List three things you coped with or made space for, even if they don’t “look impressive” on paper

Growth isn’t always visible. This is the season to witness it anyway.

---

Step 2: Begin Again Without Reinventing Yourself

January can come with a lot of noise. New habits. Fresh starts. Big goals. But most meaningful change is quiet and ongoing.

So instead of asking, “What do I need to fix about myself?”, try this:

• What do I want to protect, grow, or honour more in the year ahead?

A few questions that can help:

• What helped me feel steady this year and how can I make space for more of that?

• What small boundary, rhythm or mindset actually worked?

• What’s something I’m curious about right now?

And one of our favourite ideas:

• Choose a word — not as a resolution, but as a companion. Something that gently anchors your direction, without pressure. Words like ease, play, curiosity, rooted, or enough can be guideposts.

Yours doesn’t need to be “clever”. It just needs to feel like a hand on your shoulder, reminding you of what matters.

---

Step 3: A Gentle Reflection Practice (That Won’t Overwhelm You)

If you’re unsure where to start, try this 10-minute reflection ritual:

→ Write a letter to yourself from the end of next year.

Write as if it's already happened.

• What moments are you grateful for?

• What did you let go of?

• What surprised you in the best ways?

• What would you thank yourself for doing (or not doing)?

This isn’t about setting fixed goals. It’s about listening to what your life might want to become.

You can keep the letter, hide it in a book, or revisit it this time next year.

---

Or Try This: Your End-of-Year Clarity Toolkit

If journaling isn’t your thing, try choosing one of the following prompts to explore this December — in a voice note, a walk, or a conversation with a friend:

• What are you proud of that no one else saw?

• What helped you come back to yourself this year?

• What do you know now that you didn’t in January?

• Where did your energy feel most alive and how can you follow that in 2025?

Sometimes clarity doesn’t come through strategy but through honesty.

---

When This Season Feels Tender

Not everyone loves this time of year. For some, December brings exhaustion. Loss. Isolation. Or the sense that you’re not where you “should” be.

So here’s your permission slip:

• You don’t have to optimise December.

• You don’t have to write a perfect wrap-up post or choose a guiding word.

• You are allowed to be in progress — unfinished, unsure, still becoming.

A different year is coming. But you don’t need to earn it. You only need to arrive in it as yourself.

This year has already shaped you. You’ve likely grown in ways you didn’t expect. And the new year? It’s not a blank slate you have to earn — it’s just the next page.

Take what you need from this season. Leave the rest. You’re already enough to begin again.

---

Want to Step into the New Year With Support?

If you're ready to approach 2025 with more clarity, confidence, or simply a better relationship with yourself, I’m now opening up a small number of coaching spots for the new year.

This isn’t about fixing you. It’s about creating space to explore:

• What you actually want next — beyond the noise

• How to hold boundaries without guilt

• How to reconnect with energy, meaning and emotional steadiness

• And how to live your life in a way that works for you, not just around you

We’ll work at your pace, with tools and reflections tailored to you.

If that sounds like something you're curious about, you can read more here and book a free discovery call here or drop me a message with any questions.