There’s a moment, maybe you know it, where someone asks too much, again, and instead of speaking, your body screams. Your jaw tightens. Your stomach turns. You smile and say, “Sure, no problem.”
I used to think being agreeable made me good. What it made me was exhausted. And resentful. And invisible.
This is about the messy, liberating art of setting boundaries, even if your voice shakes, even if you’ve never seen it modelled, even if it costs you people who only loved the version of you that said yes too often.
Where We Learn to Over-Give
We don’t come out of the womb clutching a to-do list and an apology. That’s learned. Most of us were raised to be good girls and boys, to not make waves, to share even when it hurt. And if you’re someone who’s lived through trauma or chronic illness, the habit of over-giving becomes a survival strategy. We give more, so we’re not abandoned. We stay quiet so we’re not punished. We work twice as hard to prove we’re worth the space we take up. Then there’s the capitalist cherry on top: if you can do more, you should. Productivity becomes morality. Rest is suspect. And boundaries? Selfish. That’s the lie they sell us so we’ll keep bleeding ourselves dry.
What Happens When You Don’t
The body keeps the receipts. Fatigue. Resentment. MS flares. Migraines. Rage that simmers under your skin until it boils over or turns inward. When you don’t set boundaries, your body will eventually do it for you. And the people who benefit from your lack of boundaries? They’re not going to suggest you take better care of yourself. They’re not going to set limits for you. That’s your job. Without boundaries, you become a ghost in your own damn life, present, but not really there.
Boundaries Are Not Walls
People get twitchy around boundaries because they mistake them for barriers. But boundaries aren’t walls. They’re bridges with toll booths. They say, “You can come closer, but here are the terms.” Boundaries allow love in, real love, not the manipulative, shape-shift-until-you’re-pleasing kind. You can say, “I love you, but I don’t take work calls after 6 PM.” Or, “I care about you, but I’m not your emotional landfill.” Boundaries are not ultimatums. They are clarity. And clarity is kindness, even if sometimes it sounds like fire.
What Saying No Can Sound Like
Saying no doesn’t need to come with a PowerPoint presentation and a side of guilt. Sometimes it’s just: “No.” Or: “That doesn’t work for me.” Or the power move of silence. You don’t owe an explanation for protecting your peace. And yes, you’re allowed to say no to people who love you, people who raised you, people who expect the old version of you to show up on cue. Every no is a yes to something else. A yes to your body. Your time. Your sanity.
Expect the Pushback
You will be called selfish. Dramatic. Cold. Especially if you’re a woman, or someone socialised to be the fixer, the feeler, the forgiver. But hear this: you’re not selfish. You’re sober now. You’ve sobered up from the belief that you must earn your place by disappearing. Some people won’t like the new you. Let them leave. That’s not a failure, that’s a filter. The ones who stay? Those are your people. Those are the ones who can love you with your spine intact.
Boundaries for Chronic Illness & Energy Management
If your body is already fighting battles no one can see, your boundaries are your armour. Cancel the plans. Turn off your phone. Say, “I can’t do that today” without a TED Talk. You don’t owe anyone an explanation for how you manage your health, your pain, your rest. Boundaries aren’t just emotional tools; they are survival gear. Especially when every decision costs energy you can’t afford to waste.
Personal Note
For me, learning to say no started with getting sick. MS didn’t just strip my nerves, it stripped my tolerance for bullshit. I don’t have the energy to please and perform anymore. What’s left is a very raw, very real version of me. She’s not for everyone. But damn, she’s finally for me. And with that came loss. I lost a lot of people, people who were only around for the good times, for the easy yeses, for the mountains of emotional support I used to give without question. When I got sick and started drawing lines in the sand, some vanished overnight. Boundaries have a brutal kind of clarity. They show you who’s in your corner because they love you, and who was only there for what they could get.
Once upon a time, I was a Nice Person. I’d smile politely while someone explained my own diagnosis to me. I’d hold the door open for strangers and wait while they slowly shuffled through, unbothered. I’d listen to that one friend monologue about her sugar detox while I silently wondered if I could fake my own death to get out of the conversation.
But that version of me is gone. She perished somewhere between the fifth unsolicited wellness tip and the third time someone said, “But you don’t look sick.”
And in her place? A delightfully irritable, short-fused, boundary-setting badass who no longer has time for bullshit, big or small. This is my official Villain Era™, and it’s sponsored by chronic illness, menopause, and a bottomless vat of nope.
So, without further ado, here’s a lovingly curated list of Things I No Longer Have Patience For:
1. Loud Chewers & Public Speakerphone Users
If your jaw sounds like gravel in a washing machine, or you’re broadcasting your break-up on speakerphone in public — congratulations, you’re the reason I believe in selective extinction.
2. The Door You Left Open
Did you not feel that icy blast? Is your soul so shrivelled you think we enjoy sudden indoor tornadoes? Close the damn door before I throw a salt lamp at you.
3. Unsolicited Advice from Non-Experts
Unless you’ve lived in this meat-suit and have a PhD in neurology, keep your spirulina suppository and moon-water testimonials to yourself. I’m not your pet project. I’m just trying to buy avocados in peace. Keep your seaweed smoothie cure to yourself. And no, Susan, yoga will not reverse brain lesions.
4. The Phrase “You Don’t Look Sick”
Well, you do look stupid, so I guess we’re even.
5. The Cult of Beige Instagram Moms
If your child has a capsule wardrobe and your playroom has mood lighting, I assume your soul has been traded for engagement. Let those kids wear Crocs and chaos like the rest of us.
6. “Everything Happens for a Reason”
Unless that reason is “you’re a carbon-based life form on a rapidly decaying planet,” keep it to yourself. Some things are just… shitty.
7. People Sitting Next to Me When There Are 100 Other Empty Seats
This isn’t a hostage situation; you have options. And yet you chose my airspace? I didn’t survive a pandemic just to share elbow room with your tuna wrap. Why. Just why. Are you okay? Blink twice if you’re in distress.
8. Trad Wives Cosplaying the 1950s (Badly)
You want to obey your husband and churn butter on camera? Go wild. But don’t pretend your ring-light lifestyle is actual tradition. Real trad wives didn’t have OnlyFans. (me-owe!)
9. Chronic Illness Gatekeepers
If you’ve ever said “just be positive” to someone in pain, I hope you step on a Lego every Monday morning for the remainder of your time here.
10. Mainsplainers & Creepy Flirters
I used to nod. Now I say “That’s creepy AF dude” and walk away while maintaining eye contact.
11. People Who Know Me Better Than I Do
Newsflash: I’ve been in this body a while. I don’t need you to explain my symptoms, my limits, or my mood swings. Especially not during peri-fucking-menopause.
12. Covid Opinions
Still? We’re still doing this? Pass.
13. Thieves of Parking Spaces
That space was mine. I will trap you in. I will go Fried Green Tomatoes on your bumper. Do not test the rage of a middle-aged woman with perimenopause and pain.
I don’t know if this list makes me petty, evolved, or simply tired, but it feels delicious to get it out. There’s a joy in drawing the line. In saying “no thanks” without apologising. In laughing at how little crap I’m willing to take these days.
And maybe that’s what real healing looks like.
Your turn: what’s something you no longer have patience for? Drop it in the comments. Let’s be gloriously petty together.
Rest Like a Rebel: Why the Soft Life Still Feels So Damn Hard
Let’s talk about something no one warns you about when you start unlearning hustle culture: rest guilt.
Even now, after years of therapy and self-work, rest still makes me feel like I’m doing something wrong.
I’ll be lying down—genuinely exhausted—and my brain will whisper that old poison: You should be working. You’re wasting time. You’re falling behind.
It’s not just internal. It’s cultural. We live in a world that worships busyness and treats slowing down like a character flaw. Choosing the soft life? That’s practically a subversive act.
I used to think rest was something you had to earn
Back when I was still trying to prove I was “normal” enough to keep up with a productivity-obsessed world, I saw rest as a luxury. A reward. Something you got after you did everything else: cleared the inbox, made dinner, replied to every text, pushed through every signal your body was sending.
But here’s the thing: the list never ends. The emails don’t stop. And if you live with chronic pain, burnout, trauma, neurodivergence, or literally any human vulnerability, waiting until it’s all done means you’ll never, ever rest.
The soft life; this idea of living gently, of choosing rest and slowness over grind and self-abandonment, isn’t something I just “have.” It’s something I have to actively choose. Every single day.
Some days I choose softness. Some days I don’t.
Some days, I override every signal my body sends. I hustle. I numb out. I spiral. The voice of internalised capitalism tells me I’m lazy, and I believe it.
But on the days I do choose rest?
It changes everything; not in some dramatic, movie-montage kind of way, but in small, sacred shifts.
Like:
Letting myself wake up without rushing or doomscrolling.
Drinking tea without multitasking.
Crying in the bath without apologising to myself.
Watching something light and letting that joy be enough.
These aren’t indulgences. They’re survival. They’re the daily rituals of someone trying to live outside the grind. Someone practising rest as resistance.
Softness isn’t weakness. It’s power in a quieter voice.
We don’t talk enough about how hard it is to choose the soft life in a culture built on overwork. It’s easier to stay busy than to feel. Easier to push through than to sit with what’s underneath.
But every time you choose rest, even when it feels wrong, you’re undoing a little piece of the lie that says your worth is in your output.
You’re reclaiming your humanity.
Maybe the real revolution isn’t about never feeling rest guilt. Maybe it’s about doing it anyway. Choosing softness. Slowing down. Giving yourself care without a justification.
The world doesn’t need more burned-out people who’ve forgotten how to breathe.
It needs people who’ve come home to themselves.
People who say no without a paragraph of explanation.
People who laugh, and cry, and rest, and rage; and don’t apologise for any of it.
Still feel guilty for resting? Yeah. Me too.
You’re not alone. You’re not lazy. You’re just unlearning a system that never had your best interest at heart.
Want to explore this more? Drop a comment below and tell me: What’s your relationship with rest right now? Let’s talk about it. Let’s make softness a conversation, not a secret.
Let’s start with a confession: I haven’t cried over a forehead line. That little guy can stay. But the chicken neck situation I’ve got developing? That’s a different story. One day I caught my reflection mid-turn and thought, When did I become someone who Googles “best neck creams 2025” at 11 p.m.?
It’s not vanity, it’s grief, confusion, a weird kind of identity crisis. Because no one prepared us for the moment when our outsides start changing faster than our insides.
And just like that, the invisibility spell begins.
The Disappearing Act
Women don’t age; we vanish. One wrinkle, one grey hair, one birthday over 40 at a time. You hit a certain age and suddenly:
You’re too old for that dress
Too “tired-looking” for that role
Too loud to be cute, too quiet to be seen
We’re told to be grateful for health, for wisdom, for “ageing gracefully.” But what they really mean is, Disappear quietly. Be wise, but wrinkle-free. Be strong, but not outspoken. Be sexy, but only if it’s subtle. God forbid you want to feel seen without apology.
The $60 Billion Lie
Here’s a fun fact: the anti-ageing industry is worth over $60 billion. That’s billion with a B; built on our fear of becoming irrelevant. Serums, supplements, surgeries, and shame. They sell us youth in dropper bottles and injectables, promising to erase the years that supposedly make us unworthy.
But here’s what no one’s selling: acceptance. Confidence. Visibility. The right to show up, as we are, age and all, without apology.
We’re not allowed to look older or talk about the shame we’re made to feel about it. So we go quiet. We hide. We smile through the Botox and pretend we feel empowered, when really, we feel erased.
What They Never Told Us About Ageing
No one warned me that midlife would come with so much shedding: of skin, of people, of illusions. And weirdly, it’s kind of beautiful.
Because under all that shedding? There’s me.
More sure-footed. Less willing to shrink. No longer willing to measure my worth in how easily I can be digested by a youth-obsessed culture.
And yes, I still want to feel beautiful. But on my terms. Not because a brand told me what “ageless” should look like.
What If We Refuse to Disappear?
What if we stopped spending our power on pretending we’re not aging and started investing it in showing the hell up as we are?
What if we:
Showed our lines and told the stories behind them
Refused to shrink our bodies, voices, or joy
Wore the damn red lipstick, or didn’t, for ourselves
Started seeing midlife not as the beginning of the end, but the beginning of being seen
Because the truth is, we were never meant to fade. We were meant to ignite.
So, what now?
I don’t have a tidy five-step plan to age gracefully. I’m not here to sell you a serum or preach a mantra. I’m just here, 40-something, noticing neck sag and still becoming, still shedding, and saying, Let’s burn the invisibility cloak.
Let’s get louder.
Let’s get unapologetically seen.
And let’s get something else straight while we’re here: I’m too damn tired from carrying around this much accumulated age-acquired wisdom to give a flying fuck if someone thinks I shouldn’t wear something, or should be dyeing my hair, or shouldn’t speak the way I do. I’m not going to be quiet for the sake of someone else’s comfort.
This is me. Warts, wobbles, and all.
Yes, I’m squishy. Yes, gravity is trying to make a slow meal of me. But that doesn’t diminish my worth. Not one bit. I’ve got stories to tell, love to give, and ideas to birth, and a hell of a lot to offer the world and future generations. And so do you!
What about you? Have you felt the slow fade into invisibility after 40? What would it look like to rewrite that story?
There are days my body feels like a battlefield. Days when getting out of bed is a full-contact sport. Days when nothing fits right, nothing looks right, and my reflection feels like it belongs to someone else — someone heavier, sicker, older, and more broken than the version of myself I still carry around in my head.
If you know that feeling — that deep, gut-punch disconnect between who you are and what you see — then you already know: Body positivity isn’t always about love. Sometimes, it’s just about survival.
Body respect: the version of self-love that doesn’t require a mood ring
For most of my life, I thought body positivity meant waking up every morning, throwing on a bikini, and twirling in front of a mirror, shouting, “I’m a goddess!” (Newsflash: That’s not reality. That’s an Instagram ad.)
When you’re living with chronic illness, disability, trauma, aging, or just…being a human being in an unpredictable body — forcing yourself to “love” everything all the time is another impossible standard. Another stick to beat yourself with.
So I stopped chasing love. I started chasing respect instead.
Feeding my body even when I’m mad at it.
Stretching gently, even when it feels stiff and foreign.
Dressing in clothes that fit me, not the me I “should” be.
Taking rest seriously, not as a guilty secret, but as a freaking necessity.
Speaking to myself like I would to a dear friend who’s fighting hard to stay alive.
It’s not glamorous. It’s not always photogenic. It’s real healing.
The world profits off our self-hate. I’m opting out.
The wellness industry, the beauty industry, even the so-called “body positivity” movement sometimes, they all whisper the same garbage: “If you just try harder, spend more, punish yourself longer — you’ll finally be good enough.”
You know what? I’m tired. And I’m not buying it anymore.
This body — right now, as it is, on its best day and its worst — is good enough. Not because it looks a certain way. Not because it performs a certain way. But because it’s mine. Because it carries me through all of it: the heartbreaks, the flare-ups, the ordinary Tuesdays, and the small, stubborn joys.
That’s worth respecting.
How I endeavour to practice body respect (even when I don’t feel like it)
Here’s what it looks like on a normal, messy Tuesday:
I move when I can, how I can. Sometimes it’s yoga. Sometimes it’s hobbling to the couch. Both are valid.
I feed myself like I deserve nourishment. No punishing diets. No apology meals.
I rest without guilt. Productivity culture can kiss my very tired, very worthy ass.
I set boundaries with media. If my feed makes me hate my body, I unfollow, block, delete, walk away.
I celebrate functionality over appearance. This body digests food. It hugs my people. It lets me laugh until I snort. That matters more than what it looks like.
I’m not aiming for perfect self-love. I’m aiming for loyalty. I’m aiming for partnership. I’m aiming for showing up for myself, even on the days I don’t feel lovable.
Because guess what? Respect doesn’t wait for perfection.
You deserve that too.
You don’t have to earn your own compassion. You don’t have to be “fixed” before you’re allowed to care for yourself.
If you’re breathing, you’re worthy. If you’re fighting, you’re worthy. If you’re just surviving today, you are already doing something extraordinary.
Let’s stop waiting until we feel like we “deserve” to treat ourselves kindly. Let’s just decide — right now — that we do.
Let’s be real: when someone pushes your buttons, mindfulness is usually the last thing on your mind. You want to lash out, shut down, defend yourself, or run for cover.
I know that feeling very well. For years, my reactions ran the show — and let me tell you, it rarely worked out in my favour.
But here’s what I’ve learned: sometimes the most powerful move isn’t saying the perfect comeback (as tempting as that is), or holding it all together like some Zen robot. Sometimes, the game-changer is the pause — that breath, that tiny moment where you resist the urge to react.
It sounds simple, doesn’t it? It’s not. But it is possible. And it changes everything.
Why Do We React Without Thinking?
When you’re stressed, angry, or overwhelmed, your body flips into survival mode: fight, flight, freeze, or fawn. That passive-aggressive text? That dismissive tone? Your brain treats it like you’re being chased by a lion.
You can’t logic your way out of a stress response — not in the moment. But you can learn to notice the signs and make space between trigger and response. That’s where emotional regulation begins.
How to Practice the Pause (Even When It Feels Impossible)
There’s no one-size-fits-all approach here. But these simple mindfulness techniques can help you interrupt the pattern — and choose your next move, rather than letting it choose you.
1. Notice Your Body’s Signals
Does your heart start racing? Do you clench your jaw? Feel heat rising in your chest? That’s your nervous system sounding the alarm. Pay attention — it’s your cue to hit pause.
2. Name the Feeling
Label it internally: “I’m feeling defensive.” Or “This hurts.” Naming an emotion creates just enough distance to break the autopilot response.
3. Take One Conscious Breath
You don’t need a full meditation session. Just one slow breath — in… out. Tell your body: We’re safe. We don’t need to explode.
4. Delay the Response
Say: “Give me a second.” “I need a moment to think.” It might feel awkward at first, but it creates space. And in that space? That’s where your power lives.
5. Move Your Body
If possible, walk away. Even just pacing the room helps. Movement clears the static and calms your system.
Why This Mindfulness Practice Matters
Pausing isn’t about being passive or letting people walk over you. It’s about choosing your response, not being hijacked by emotion or trauma.
Sometimes my pause looks messy — biting my lip, rummaging for my lip balm instead of saying something I’ll regret, or literally sitting on my hands.
But every time I choose to pause instead of react, I’m rebuilding trust with myself.
You Don’t Have to Be Perfect — Just Present
This is a practice. You’ll mess up. I still do. But if you catch yourself one second earlier than you did last time? That’s progress.
We don’t have to be perfect. We just have to be present enough to try again.
💬 Let’s Talk
How do you stay calm under pressure? Do you have a trick, phrase, or grounding tool that helps you pause before reacting?
Drop it in the comments — someone out there might need exactly what you’ve figured out. Or join the Facebook Group and joining the support circle.
Learn how to pause before reacting with this beautifully designed, printable journaling workbook. Whether you’re dealing with stress, conflict, or emotional overload, these prompts will help you reflect, reset, and respond with intention.
Click the button below to download your FREE “Pause Before You React” workbook.
