“I can take care of myself first. I can take care of my dreams first,” I find myself whispering in the shower.

The inner work never ends, and it never ceases to amaze me. There is always more to unlock, understand and release. Each layer brings me closer to freedom, until something else gently asks to be seen.

But it gets easier.

My inner technology becomes more sophisticated. The insights land more quickly, and the shifts become bigger. I have learnt that when there is clarity and awareness, we are more than halfway towards transforming what once felt like a problem.

I have also learnt that I do not get to decide the timing of healing. But I do get to decide that I will keep showing up for it. I can keep doing the work, even when I do not know when the next shift will come.

Today, I saw a much bigger picture of my journey over the past twenty years.

And I realized something important about my nervous system and my body: it has not been failing me.

It has been working incredibly hard to keep me alive.

For a long time, I had to keep going. I had to respond, make things happen, face frightening situations and survive. There were real threats. My body was called into action again and again, and there was not always time to process what I was feeling.

Even though I made space for myself, learnt ways to regulate and built a strong relationship with my body, some feelings simply had to wait. They had nowhere to go at the time, so they stayed with me.

I experienced them as tension, discomfort, frustration and obstacles in my muscles, joints, fascia and tissues. And for the longest time, I blamed my body. Really, I blamed myself.

I thought I simply was not moving well enough, resting well enough, regulating well enough or taking care of myself well enough to stay on top of my life.

I did not yet understand what I understand now about the nervous system.

🦭Selkie says: “Your body is not holding you back, it is asking you to listen.”🦭🦭

What has been happening in my body is not necessarily proof that something is broken. It may actually be evidence of how well my body learnt to protect me. It did what it needed to do when life was unsafe.

And now that the bigger threats have passed, there is finally space for something else to happen.

My body can begin to soften. It can slow down. It can listen.

It can finally bring forward some of the things there was no time to feel before.

I have noticed this particular kind of reaction at some of the biggest turning points in my life, before giving birth and before stepping onto a stage to perform my own work.

My temperature drops. My stomach twists. I feel nauseous and faint. My teeth tremble.

My whole system can feel as though it is shutting down.

And yet, somehow, I have still given birth.

I have still walked onto that stage, sung, danced and shared my work.

Sometimes I think: how is that even possible?

How can my body feel as though I am dying, and I can still do something so extraordinary?

Recently, I have been preparing for a bigger shift in my life. I have been cleansing, decluttering and healing with intention, trying to get closer to the root of my fear.

Then these sensations came again. They felt enormous, almost as though my body was responding to a life or death situation.

But I was not in danger. I was preparing to make some of my bigger dreams real.

And this time, I could see something I had not seen before.

When my body senses something that feels like life or death, my mind does not necessarily have time to sort everything out. There can be a huge jumble of thoughts, memories, old imprints, expectations, fears, stories from society, perhaps even things passed down through generations.

But in that moment, I may not be able to distinguish any of it.

I just feel the fear.

The body takes over.

There are sensations. Overload. Trembling. Nausea. Faintness. A whole storm of information moving through the system before the mind can decide what is true and what is not.

Knowing this changes the experience completely.

Instead of assuming the fear means something is wrong, I can recognise that my body is trying to protect me.

And perhaps my body has learnt to associate creative expression with the ultimate creative act, giving birth.

Giving birth taught me something about creativity that I do not think I could have learnt anywhere else.

The miraculous way something comes into existence. The beauty. The power. The vulnerability. The pain. The fear.

You are literally moving through an experience that can feel like a delicate line between life and death, and somehow you bring something new into the world.

So no wonder being visible in my creativity can feel so big.

No wonder using my voice, my body, my expression and my art to create support and success can activate something very deep inside me.

No wonder my nervous system might put up enormous blocks when I am getting close to something that matters deeply to me.

Maybe what I have sometimes called self sabotage is actually protection.

My nervous system is not trying to stop my dreams, although it can certainly feel that way. It is trying to keep me safe.

And there is another layer to this.

For many years, I became very good at being brave. Very good at being independent. Very good at doing things myself.

I had to be.

During separation and divorce, I had to step up. I had to manage things, protect myself, keep going and fight for my power. I could not afford to collapse.

So I became capable. I became strong. I became independent.

And when the fear of being alone surfaced, I would quickly turn it around. I might write a song or paint a picture, give myself a moment, and then move on.

Be brave.

Be happy to be independent.

Keep going.

I did not dwell in a story about being afraid of being alone.

How could I? I had things to do. My Children to raise.

But today, something in me finally had enough space to speak. I guided myself through the sensations with long, slow breaths. I used water to soothe myself. I found the ground.

Literally.

I curled into the fetal position and allowed the shaking, faintness and discomfort to move through me without judging the fear.

🦭“Time has a way of revealing what the heart could not yet understand.”🦭🦭

As I stayed present, images and insights began to come.

I remembered a photograph from before my wedding, more than twenty five years ago. In it, I was curled up in the fetal position, and my soon to be husband was beside me, also curled up and holding me.

Returning to that position today, all these years later, I suddenly realized:

I have been alone in my foetal position for a very long time.

There was a part of me that was still scared of being alone, and that part had been there all along.

I just did not have the space to fully listen to her.

Today, I gave her that space. I let her speak. I let her be held.

And I told her:

You are not alone.

You do not have to do this alone.

Not this creative project.

Not this life.

Something released.

I could feel old tension leaving my body, tension I did not even know was connected to that story.

And I felt such tenderness for the part of me that had carried that fear so quietly.

She deserves to know that I love her. She deserves to know that I accept her.

She deserves to know that she does not have to overwhelm me in order to stop me from taking a brave step towards a bigger life.

Maybe we can become friends now.

Maybe we can do things differently.

I do not have to choose between safety and expansion.

I can create. I can be visible. I can use my voice. I can allow my creativity to support me.

And I can still slow down when my body asks for love. I can lie on the floor. I can let the earth hold me. I can curl up when I need to. I can breathe. I can listen.

I can remind the part of me that is afraid that she does not have to do everything alone anymore.

There is something about the image of the foetus that feels important to me now.

We begin curled up, protected, inside another body. Then eventually, we have to leave that protected space.

We cannot stay there forever. At some point, we have to break through and meet the world.

Perhaps this is another kind of birth.

The birth of a life that is bigger than survival.

The birth of a creative life.

A visible life.

But I do not need to force the breakthrough.

I do not need to push myself out of the egg before I am ready.

Perhaps this is part of what I am learning now: returning inward does not necessarily mean separating from what is out there. It does not mean disconnecting from the world in order to feel safe.

Contraction is part of expansion.

One is contained within the other.

There is a movement between reaching outward and softly returning inward, between opening and gathering myself back in. Like breathing, they are not opposing forces. They belong to the same movement.

I can turn inward without leaving the world.

I can expand without abandoning myself.

Maybe this is what that little part of me has been asking for all along. Not to stay hidden inside. Not to be pushed out into the world before she is ready. But to know that she can move between the two, to reach outward, come back in, rest and open again.

To know that she is held.

To know that she is not alone.

And perhaps, with enough love and attention, the boundary between “in here” and “out there” begins to soften.

I do not have to choose between protecting myself and living fully.

I do not have to choose between safety and expansion.

There is a wholeness that can hold both.

I can take care of myself first.

And I can take care of my dreams first.

A conversation across time

In 2018, this drawing emerged from my subconscious with the words: “Let me out. Let me, let me out.” At the time, I answered her: “We are safe. We are free.” I understand now that her plea held two opposing energies. She wanted to be released from the small, isolated place where she felt trapped and alone—and yet stepping fully into the world felt terrifying too. So she was caught between wanting out and being afraid to go out.

I know that feeling of stuckness very well. It has appeared throughout my life, often when I have been standing at the threshold of change. Recently, my body brought me back into the same fetal position. This time, the message was: “You are not alone. You don't have to do this alone. Not this creative project. Not this life.”

Perhaps healing is not about choosing between leaving the small, protected place and staying inside it. Perhaps it is about learning that we can step into the world while still carrying safety, tenderness and belonging within us. Like breathing, it is a continuous dance.

And perhaps, with enough love and attention, we eventually discover there is no real “out there”. That small part of me can return to the whole, where she was never truly alone.

When you’re ready to explore this magic more deeply, come join me inside the Selkie Sanctuary. It’s a space for women who are ready to reconnect with their rhythm, release old stories, and rise through sound, movement, and creative ritual.

🦭 "The tide is turning, love, come swim with it!" 🦭🦭🦭