Editor’s Note This one’s for the tired ones. The ones still standing, barely, because they had to be. I wrote it for the part of me that still thinks asking for help is weakness, even when I know better. It’s not polished. It’s not pretty. But it’s real. For anyone who’s ever had to fight to find their people, this is for you.
These Weary Bones
oh these weary bones that rattle like a snake deceived by a mind that won’t shut up the motormouth spinning stories, dizzying the insides of my head.
I rose from nothing, like a loaf left too long in the oven punched, kneaded, left to burn.
I’m no damn island. more a battered village clinging to a cliffside. fingernails split. hands bloodied. still, holding on.
a stubborn mule clutching pride even as hands reach out. I know I’m not alone.
this world all rage and righteous rot. keep your petty poppycock step the fuck aside if all you bring is cruelty and showmanship.
no space left on this rock for exploding egos and fair-weather saints. I’ve bled too much to share ground with cowards.
The Comfort of a Clan
I’m tired. Not the “I stayed up too late” kind of tired. No, I’m talking about the kind of tired that lives in your bones. The kind that whispers, “you’re doing too much again,” even while you keep pushing. My MS flares love to remind me what happens when I don’t listen.
Still, I keep going. And honestly? I’m not even sure how.
But here’s one truth I know: I am incredibly lucky. I’ve got a clan. A real one. A village. A tribe. A group of humans who love me hard, hold me up, and never ask for anything in return but the truth. I think of the people who don’t have that, who face the grind alone, and my heart breaks a little.
Yes, I feel sorry for myself sometimes. I think that’s normal, especially when your body betrays you. But even then, I remind myself, I am one of the lucky ones. I don’t have to do this alone.
Well, except I often try to.
Because, truth be told, I am a stubborn old bag. Asking for help doesn’t come naturally to me. I’ve been fiercely independent for over 16 years. Before that? I was stuck in a situation where I had no choice but to rely on someone who resented every second of it. It nearly broke me. But I got out. With the help of my family and years of therapy, I found myself again.
So no, I don’t like asking for help. It reminds me of what it used to cost me. But these days, my body doesn’t give me the luxury of pride. And I’m learning, slowly, to trust that help doesn’t always come with strings.
For the first time, I’m in a relationship that feels like home. Not perfect. Not a rom-com. But real. Equal. Honest. Communication is the currency, not control. We walk beside each other, no one dragging the other along. It took me long enough to find this. But god, it was worth the wait.
Here’s something else I’ve learned: Surrounding yourself with the right people? It’s everything.
I’ve trimmed my circle right down in recent years. No room for the energy vampires, the performative friends, the ones who disappear when things get hard. I don’t need a crowd. I need a few solid souls who remind me who I am when I forget. Who challenge me, support me, and never let me shrink.
You don’t have to agree on everything, politics, religion, parenting styles, or pineapple on pizza. What matters is respect. Empathy. The ability to sit across from someone and say, “I don’t get it, but I’m here.”
Imagine a world where that was the norm instead of the exception. Imagine a culture built not on outrage and ego, but on kindness and curiosity.
Yeah, I know. Sounds like a pipe dream. But honestly? I think it starts with us. With our little villages. By refusing to let the world make us bitter. Choosing over and over to love louder than the noise.
It still takes a village. Maybe now more than ever.
And I’m holding onto mine with everything I’ve got.
It’s 2:47 a.m. and I’m scrolling through Instagram, watching strangers toast champagne in Santorini, cuddle golden retrievers, and post “raw” captions that somehow still feel filtered. I’m not sad, exactly. But I’m not okay, either. I’m lonely. And I know I’m not alone in that.
In a world where we can FaceTime across oceans and “like” a hundred photos before breakfast, why do so many of us feel so disconnected? The answer is messy, layered, and deeply human if we’re brave enough to look.
The Digital Age: More Screens, Fewer Souls
We were promised connection. Instead, we got curated highlight reels and dopamine loops. A 2025 Baylor University study found that both passive scrolling and active posting on social media were linked to increased feelings of loneliness over time. Even when we’re engaging, we’re often left feeling emptier than before.
It’s not just the quantity of our interactions that’s changed, it’s the quality. We’ve traded deep conversations for comment threads, shared silences for typing indicators. And in doing so, we’ve lost something vital.
The Health Toll: Loneliness as a Silent Epidemic
Loneliness isn’t just a feeling; it’s a health crisis. The U.S. Surgeon General has equated the health risks of chronic loneliness to smoking 15 cigarettes a day. It increases the risk of heart disease, stroke, dementia, and premature death.
Mental health suffers, too. Lonely individuals are more prone to depression, anxiety, and suicidal ideation. The emotional pain of isolation can be as real and as damaging as physical pain.
The Vicious Cycle: Social Media and Loneliness
It’s a cruel irony: we turn to social media to feel connected, but it often leaves us feeling more isolated. A longitudinal study among Chinese college students found a bidirectional relationship between loneliness and problematic social media use—each feeding into the other over time.
The more we scroll, the lonelier we feel. And the lonelier we feel, the more we scroll. Breaking this cycle requires conscious effort and, often, a reevaluation of our digital habits.
The Generational Divide: Gen Z and the Loneliness Surge
Gen Z, the first generation to grow up entirely in the digital age, is experiencing unprecedented levels of loneliness. A 2025 report revealed that one in four young Australians reports loneliness as a daily stressor. Social media, while offering avenues for connection, often exacerbates feelings of isolation among youth.
The constant exposure to others’ curated lives can lead to feelings of inadequacy and exclusion, further deepening the chasm of loneliness.
The Illusion of AI Companionship
In an attempt to address the loneliness epidemic, tech leaders like Mark Zuckerberg have proposed AI companions as a solution. While AI can offer temporary comfort, it cannot replace the depth and complexity of human relationships. Overreliance on AI risks diminishing the value of genuine human interaction and may lead society to neglect essential social infrastructure.
True connection requires vulnerability, empathy, and shared experiences—qualities that AI, no matter how advanced, cannot authentically replicate.
Reclaiming Connection: Steps Toward Healing
Addressing loneliness in the digital age requires intentional action:
Digital Detox: Set boundaries for screen time. Designate tech-free zones and times to foster real-world interactions.
Community Engagement: Participate in local events, volunteer, or join clubs to build meaningful relationships.
Mindful Technology Use: Use social media intentionally. Engage in content that uplifts and connects rather than isolates.
Seek Support: If loneliness becomes overwhelming, reach out to mental health professionals or support groups.
By taking these steps, we can begin to rebuild the social fabric that technology has, in some ways, unraveled.
A Personal Reflection
I remember a time when I felt truly connected—not through likes or comments, but through shared laughter and unfiltered conversations. It was messy, imperfect, and real. In our pursuit of digital perfection, we’ve lost sight of the beauty in imperfection.
Let’s choose to be present. To look up from our screens and into each other’s eyes. To embrace the awkward silences and the unfiltered moments. Because in those spaces, true connection thrives.
There’s something about autumn that feels like a deep exhale.
Maybe it’s the way the trees let go of their leaves without resistance or how the light softens, casting everything in a golden glow. In Stellenbosch, autumn isn’t just a season; it’s a full-body experience. The streets are lined with trees turning fire red, the vineyards stretch out in amber and gold, and the mountains stand quietly in the distance, cloaked in shifting light.
For those of us navigating trauma recovery, this season offers more than beauty. It mirrors the process of emotional healing: the letting go, the slowing down, the quiet preparation for what comes next.
The Science of Letting Go: Nature’s Blueprint for Recovery
As the days shorten and temperatures drop, trees begin conserving energy. They stop producing chlorophyll, revealing the reds and oranges that were there all along. This isn’t about decay. It’s about wisdom. About trusting the cycle.
Just like the trees, we too need seasons of rest. Healing from trauma or chronic stress requires periods of pulling back—of turning inward, conserving energy, and allowing space for repair.
Letting go doesn’t mean failure. It means preparing the soil for growth.
Grounding Practices Inspired by Autumn
In trauma recovery, grounding practices help bring us back to the present moment, to safety and stability. And autumn is rich with grounding sensory experiences:
Sight: Fire-coloured leaves, long shadows, golden sunsets.
Smell: Earthy moss, fallen leaves, woodsmoke.
Touch: Crisp air on your cheeks, the texture of bark, the crunch of leaves underfoot.
Sound: Wind whispering through the trees, migrating birds, footsteps on gravel.
These sensory cues are more than poetic; they’re therapeutic. They help anchor our nervous systems, soothe our overstimulated minds, and reconnect us with the world.
Stellenbosch in Autumn: A Sanctuary for Mental Health
Stellenbosch is a balm this time of year. The oak-lined streets feel like old friends. The vineyards are dressed in their autumn best. Jonkershoek Nature Reserve offers trails lined with gold and crimson, each step a gentle meditation.
There’s something profoundly healing about walking through this fire-hued landscape. Whether you’re sipping tea on a quiet stoep, journaling beside a vineyard, or watching the light shift through red leaves, autumn in Stellenbosch invites you to slow down. To breathe. To feel.
Even a single mindful walk, a moment of awe, or a pause under a tree can become a healing ritual.
Emotional Healing Through Seasonal Shifts
Autumn gives us permission to change. To soften. To stop performing resilience and simply be.
It reminds us:
That shedding isn’t weakness.
That pausing is productive.
That healing is not linear.
So if you’re feeling the pull to retreat, to reflect, to let go of something you’ve been carrying too long, trust it. The season is holding space for you.
Enjoying the blog? Please consider sending me a cuppa to keep the engines running.
Anyone with ADHD or OCD will tell you, overthinking isn’t some quirky personality trait; it’s a full-contact sport. My brain is like a hamster on a cocaine bender in a wheel made of existential dread. Once it gets spinning? Good luck stopping it.
I’ve overanalyzed texts, tone of voice, facial expressions, past convos, future convos, and whether or not the barista actually wished me a good day or was just being polite. If overthinking burned calories, I’d be shredded.
But because I like to function (and not spiral into a puddle of what-ifs every time I misread a text), I’ve cobbled together a little overthinking survival kit. Not foolproof. Not therapist-approved. But it’s kept me afloat.
1. Puzzle Games
Word puzzles. Moving blocks into tiny spaces. Anything that demands just enough brainpower to hold my attention without tipping into frustration. When I’m doing a puzzle, my mind finally has something useful to chew on instead of gnawing on my own self-esteem.
There’s something weirdly soothing about finding the right fit, solving the next word, and clicking the piece into place. It gives my brain the satisfying illusion of control and resolution, which is all it really wants.
2. The “Fuck It” Timer
This one’s weirdly effective. I set a timer for 20 minutes and give myself permission to obsess the hell out of whatever I’m spiralling about.
I go full doom mode. Google things I probably shouldn’t. Rant in my notes app. Make imaginary arguments in the shower.
And when the timer goes off? That’s it. My brain had its tantrum. Time to rejoin humanity.
3. Walking My Dog in Nature
It’s not just the fresh air or the trees. It’s the rhythm. The leash in my hand. My dog sniffing the same patch of grass like it’s a holy relic. It’s ordinary, grounding, and so gloriously not about me.
Sometimes we walk in silence. Sometimes I talk to him like he’s my therapist with four legs. Either way, being outside with him resets something in me. It reminds me I have a body, a world, a life beyond my noisy head. It’s one of the most grounding ADHD coping tools I have.
4. Writing It Out (Usually in Poem Form)
When the mental noise is too loud to ignore, I write. Not a to-do list or a journal entry. I write poems. It’s like turning the chaos into something beautiful, or at least something shaped.
The structure, the rhythm, the hunt for the right word; it all forces my brain into focus. By the time I’m done, whatever had its claws in me has usually loosened its grip. It’s how I calm an anxious mind when nothing else is working.
5. One Person Who Gets It
Not someone who will fix it. Not someone who will say “just let it go.” Just someone who will go, “Yep. That sucks. I do that too.”
Sometimes we don’t need a solution. We just need to not feel like a lone freak in a sea of normal.
None of this is magic. My brain still spirals. But now I don’t spiral alone. I have tools. I have touchstones. I have a way back.
So if your mind is a loud, relentless bastard sometimes too? Welcome. You’re not broken. You’re just thinking real hard in a world that rarely makes sense.
If you don’t have someone to vent to, I’ve set up a Facebook group for people to safely come and let off steam, share their stories, and talk to the ether without judgment. Join the Kate & Ginger Mental Health Circle on Facebook
Let me tell you a secret. I’ve danced with every damn diet under the sun; keto, intermittent fasting, Banting, and that unholy grapefruit cleanse that basically turned me into a bloated, vitamin-deficient rage monster. Spoiler: I didn’t find health. I found constipation. And maybe scurvy.
We all know someone who swears by their meal plan like it’s a cult. “It changed my life!” they proclaim with the wild-eyed fervour of someone who hasn’t eaten bread in six weeks. And hey, maybe it did change their life, for the better. But here’s the thing no glossy diet book or smug wellness influencer will say out loud: bodies are not IKEA furniture. You don’t follow the same manual and get the same result.
Same goal, wildly different wiring
Let’s say two people want to feel better in their skin. One loves rules, macros and spreadsheets. The other? They spiral into food obsession the second MyFitnessPal chirps at them. One thrives. The other starts questioning their entire existence because they drank a cup of coffee. (Yes, a cup of coffee.) (Yes, that was me.)
Here’s what the diet industrial complex conveniently skips:
Genetics impact how we burn, store, and crave food.
Hormones run the hunger and energy show.
Neurodivergence; ADHD, autism, anxiety, can make rigid routines feel like handcuffs.
Chronic illness? Now we’re talking meds, fatigue, pain, and bodies that say, “Yeah, we don’t do that here.”
So, when your co-worker drops 20 pounds on keto and you just end up sobbing in your pantry? That’s not weakness. That’s biology. That’s your body asking, What the actual hell is this?
Exhibit A: Real people, real mismatches
“I tried intermittent fasting. Supposed to feel focused. I got migraines and dreamed about bagels.” – Lia, 29
“Paleo made my sister a CrossFit queen. I tried it and my IBS went DEFCON 1.” – Sam, 41
“Counting calories helped me feel in control… until I became terrified of fruit. Bananas, Kate. Bananas.” – Maya, 35
These aren’t failures. These are data points. Proof that your body is not a broken version of someone else’s success story. It’s just… yours.
What actually works? Curiosity over control.
What if the goal wasn’t to “succeed” at a diet, but to get curious about what actually makes you feel good?
What if instead of punishing yourself into someone else’s miracle, you asked:
Does this food make me feel energised?
Do I feel grounded or anxious when I eat this way?
Am I hungry, or am I following a rule?
That’s not weakness. That’s intelligence. That’s self-respect.
And no, it doesn’t come with an affiliate code or a #bodygoals before/after post. It comes with a relationship to food that doesn’t feel like war.
Newsflash: Suffering ≠ Success
Health is not a prize you earn by hating yourself hard enough. You don’t need to choke down bone broth and silence your hunger to be worthy of respect, or love, or your own damn body.
Let me say this louder for the people in the back: If a plan is making you feel like hell, it’s not you. It’s the plan.
Because the best “diet” isn’t the fastest, trendiest, or most punishing; it’s the one that meets you where you are, with grace, not guilt. That’s the kind of success that actually lasts.
So maybe the real revolution isn’t another cleanse. Maybe it’s choosing to believe your body isn’t the enemy.
What about you? Ever been wrecked by a “perfect” plan?
