There comes a day — usually after you’ve held your breath for way too long — when something inside you just snaps. You don’t faint. You don’t scream. You don’t run away. You decide.

You decide you’re done performing. Done being the strong one. The peacemaker. The overachiever. The woman who holds it all together while quietly falling apart. And if you’re anything like me, that moment doesn’t come with clarity.

It comes with rage. And grief. And a voice inside whispering: “I don’t want to live like this anymore.”

We don’t always hear the first warning. Or the second. Or the hundredth.

Because women — especially the high-functioning, get-sh*t-done, never-ask-for-help kind — are experts at pushing through.

We keep working when we’re exhausted. We keep smiling when we’re unraveling. We keep saying “I’m fine” when our body is screaming, You’re not.

There was a time in my life when I’d open my eyes and my very first thought was: When can I get back in bed? I wasn’t sick. I wasn’t physically injured. I just didn’t want to be awake. I didn’t want to “do the day.” I wasn’t living — I was enduring.

There’s a moment that hits — sometimes like a whisper, sometimes like a punch in the gut — when you realize:

You’ve been going through the motions.

You’ve been checking the boxes.

You’ve been living on autopilot.

There’s a story many of us were raised with — one that says life has to be hard, that healing only counts if it hurts, and that ease is a luxury reserved for people with fewer responsibilities. But what if that story is a lie?

There’s a moment in nearly every journal I’ve created where the real shit hits the page. It’s the moment you stop editing your truth. The moment you write the thing you swore you’d never say out loud. And I know—because I’ve lived it.

There comes a moment when the discomfort of staying quiet outweighs the fear of speaking your truth.

I’ve lived it — both personally and professionally. As a clinician, I’ve sat across from women unraveling decades of conditioning, women terrified of disrupting the peace, of being labeled “too much,” “too emotional,” or “too complicated.” And as a woman myself, I’ve made the decision to walk away from relationships, patterns, and expectations that were crushing my spirit.

Let’s get one thing straight — self-care isn’t bubble baths and candles. Real self-care is hard. It’s fierce. It’s unapologetic. It’s turning your phone off when the world gets too loud. It’s saying no to things that don’t feel right — even when people don’t like it. It’s choosing rest without guilt. Choosing nourishment over punishment. Choosing truth over people-pleasing.

I’ve worked with hundreds of women who have told me the same thing in different ways: “I’m scared that if I tell the truth about how I really feel, everything will fall apart.”

Here’s the thing: sometimes it does. But sometimes — everything finally falls into place.

As a therapist, I’ve worked with women who seem to have it all together. They’re smart, successful, organized. On paper, everything looks shiny.

But here’s what I’ve learned:

Looking good on paper doesn’t mean shit if your soul is exhausted.

Let’s be honest — most of us already know the answers. We just don’t want to say them out loud.

Not yet.

Not until we’re ready to deal with what those answers might unravel.

As a therapist, I’ve worked with women who look like they have it all together on paper — the job, the kids, the partner, the house. But shiny on paper doesn’t mean shit when your soul feels empty. Behind the scenes, they’re unraveling. Anxious. Overwhelmed. Disconnected from who they really are. Trying so hard to keep everything running that they forget to check in with themselves. And the scariest part? They know something has to change — but don’t know where to begin.

Let’s clear this up: Burnout isn’t a buzzword. It’s a full-body, full-life shutdown. And no — you’re not lazy, unmotivated, or broken. You’re exhausted. You’re carrying too much. And you’ve probably been doing it for way too long.

I’ve sat across from hundreds of women who tell me they feel like they’re failing — at work, at home, in their relationships. But what I see is someone who has been functioning at an unsustainable pace, meeting everyone else’s needs but her own.

Burnout doesn’t just happen overnight. It builds — in the silence, in the pressure, in the pretending. And here’s what I know: Burnout doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you’ve been strong for too long without enough support.

I work with people every single day who are in the middle of a battle they never expected. A divorce. A relapse. A wake-up call. A breakdown that doesn’t look anything like it does in the movies — it’s quieter. It shows up as complete exhaustion, avoidance, numbing, snapping at the people you love, hating your job, forgetting what joy feels like, and asking questions like: How the hell did I get here?

It’s Daily Rituals — Not a Pedicure Every Month

Let’s set the record straight. Self-care isn’t what most people say it is.
It’s not a monthly massage. It’s not a cucumber eye mask. And it’s definitely not a pedicure you squeeze in every few weeks while answering work emails.

There’s a moment — sometimes quiet, sometimes loud — when you realize you’ve been living someone else’s version of your life. That moment is sacred. It’s terrifying. And it’s where everything begins to shift.

There were moments I felt like I was unraveling. Like I was drifting so far from who I used to be, I wasn’t sure how to find my way back. And when I didn’t have the answers, I wrote.

There’s a reason I took the job at the psychiatric hospital. I knew it would be the hardest work I’d ever do — and I said yes anyway. Because not long before that, I lost my dad. And after that, everything changed.

I’m a licensed clinical social worker, journal creator, and founder of STG Wellness. I’ve been doing this work for over 25 years — and I still love it just as much as the day I started.