Plus: What Gaslighting Really Means, and Why It’s So Damn Hard to Spot
Gaslighting isn’t just lying. It’s psychological warfare dressed in charm and fake concern. It’s the friend who tells you you’re overreacting when you’re reacting exactly right. The partner who says you imagined the thing they absolutely said. The doctor who calls your symptoms imaginary while your body screams otherwise.
It starts small. A twisted comment here, a rewritten memory there. And suddenly, you’re doubting your gut, your grief, your own damn mind.
Let’s call it out.
What is gaslighting, really?
Gaslighting is a form of psychological manipulation in which someone causes you to doubt your perception, memory, or sanity, often to maintain control, avoid accountability, or protect their ego. The term comes from the 1938 play Gas Light, where a man dims the lights and convinces his wife she’s imagining it.
It can happen in romantic relationships, friendships, families, workplaces, doctors’ offices, anywhere power is abused and truth is twisted.
11 Signs You’re Being Gaslit
You feel like a shell of who you used to be Dull. Confused. Exhausted. A little lost. And quietly wondering if you’re the problem.
You constantly second-guess yourself You used to trust your gut. Now you rehearse your words before you speak and apologise even when you’re not sure why.
They rewrite the past You remember what happened. They insist it didn’t. Or it happened differently. Or you’re misremembering. Or too sensitive.
They dismiss your feelings “You’re being dramatic.” “Stop overreacting.” “You’re too emotional.” Translation: they don’t want to deal with what you feel.
They weaponise your insecurities You opened up to them. Now they use it against you — subtly or not. In arguments. In jokes. In gasps and eyerolls and “I was just kidding.”
You feel like you’re walking on eggshells You shrink before you speak. You manage their moods. You try to keep the peace by disappearing yourself.
They blame you for everything If they’re angry, it’s because you provoked them. If they lied, it’s because you were too difficult. Nothing is ever their fault.
You’ve started to believe you’re “too much” Too emotional. Too sensitive. Too needy. Too exhausting. That’s not an accident. It’s a strategy.
They isolate you from others Sometimes subtly, sowing doubt about your friends or implying you’re better off alone. Sometimes, overtly punishing you for having support.
They flip the script during conflict You bring up something that hurt you, and suddenly you’re defending your tone, your timing, your memory. The original issue vanishes.
You find yourself making excuses for them To your friends. To your therapist. To yourself. “They’re just under a lot of stress.” “They had a rough childhood.” “They don’t mean it.”
“It’s Not Always Screaming and Slamming Doors”
Gaslighting doesn’t always look like abuse. Sometimes it’s soft. Quiet. Delivered with a gentle tone and a hand on your shoulder. “I’m just worried about you.” “You’ve been really sensitive lately.” It can come from people who say they love you, and sometimes, maybe, do.
That’s what makes it so dangerous. And so hard to name.
If any of this feels familiar, you’re not imagining it. That voice inside you, the one that’s been flickering under all the doubt? That’s still you. And you’re not crazy. You’re waking up.
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.
The long, deflated breath you let out when you finally sit down: spine slack, eyelids twitching, coffee gone cold beside you. The breath that says I’ve had enough, even when your to-do list screams more. And then, like clockwork, comes the guilt.
Shouldn’t you be doing something?
Something productive. Something useful. Something Instagrammable. Something heroic. Something that makes you look less… weak?
Rest, in this world, is framed as failure unless it’s earned. And even then, only just.
The Hustle is a Cult, and We’re All in It
We live in a culture where burnout is a badge of honour. Where busy-ness is virtue, exhaustion is currency, and rest is treated like dessert, a sugary reward after you’ve swallowed the meat and bones of your suffering.
But here’s the uncomfortable truth: rest is not a reward. It’s a right.
And yet most of us, especially those who care for others, live with chronic conditions, juggle invisible workloads, or simply exist in survival mode, don’t believe we’ve earned it. We need to be told. Given permission. Prescribed it like paracetamol.
I still catch myself apologising for needing rest. I soften the language. I say, “I’m just going to lie down for a minute,” instead of “I’m shutting the world out because I’m completely depleted.” I say “I’m tired” instead of “I’m in pain.” I say nothing at all and power through, because who wants to be the fragile one?
It’s a scam. And it’s killing us slowly.
The History We Inherited (And Didn’t Ask For)
We didn’t create this culture of grind. We inherited it: a system shaped by generations of economic pressure, industrial ideals, and a culture that confuses rest with laziness.
Historically, rest wasn’t just discouraged, it was denied. To the enslaved. The poor. The working class. Productivity was a measure of compliance. Rest was resistance.
Today, even self-care has been co-opted. It’s no longer about replenishing the soul, it’s about selling face masks and bath bombs to the already burnt out. Even our downtime is expected to be photogenic.
And if you live with a chronic illness? Rest becomes your entire life, and somehow still, people expect you to justify it. To prove you’re not just lazy, flaky, or attention-seeking.
Rest is Resistance
Audre Lorde said it best: “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence; it is self-preservation.”
Rest is not about quitting. It’s about surviving a system that rewards overextension and punishes stillness. It’s about reclaiming softness in a world that demands sharp edges. It’s about trusting your body over your inbox.
Rest is how we remember we’re human.
What Rest Actually Looks Like (Spoiler: Not Always Pretty)
Let’s get something straight: rest isn’t always wrapped in silk pajamas with lo-fi beats in the background. Sometimes rest is ugly. Messy. Loud. Sometimes it’s:
Crying in the bath until your sinuses are clear.
Saying “no” without offering an excuse.
Sleeping in clothes that aren’t pajamas because that’s all you could manage.
Letting the dishes wait.
Cancelling plans, even with people you love.
Turning off your phone.
Doing nothing, not meditating, not manifesting, not improving yourself. Just… nothing.
Real rest is not aesthetic. It’s sacred.
You Don’t Need Permission, But Here It Is Anyway
If you need someone to say it, let me be the voice:
You are allowed to rest. Not because you worked hard enough. Not because you’re falling apart. Not because you ticked every box. But because you are a living being. And living beings need rest.
No one questions a dog for napping in the sun. No one asks a tree to bloom year-round. But somehow, you, with your spiralling inbox and shrinking patience and bones that ache when it rains, are expected to keep going like a machine.
You are not a machine. You are not a machine. You are not a machine.
Let the World Wait
The revolution isn’t in the doing. It’s in the being. It’s in saying, “Not today, thanks.” It’s in horizontal activism; in naps, in stillness, in choosing slowness when the world demands speed.
Rest isn’t the opposite of action. It’s what allows us to continue.
So lie down. Log off. Let the world wait.
It can handle itself for a while.
And if it can’t? That’s not your fault either.
Tell me…
Do you struggle with guilt when you rest?
What’s one way you’re reclaiming rest in your own life?
Should we start a nap revolution?
Let’s talk in the comments, but only after your nap.
A journey of learning to embrace life with compassion and care for myself.
When I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis (MS) in January of 2023, my focus was anything but myself. Providing for my household, caring for my children, caring for my patients (I’m a Registered Nurse), and securing a home for my disabled mom were a few of my top priorities. I had no real concept of self-love. I refused to accept the diagnosis for a full year, trying to live life as I always had. This was until one day, as I struggled to climb the stairs at work after a 12-hour shift, it dawned on me that I was fighting my very own body instead of working with my body to fight MS. I had to learn to love myself enough to set boundaries and care for my vessel as much as I did others.
Self-love involves accepting yourself fully, treating yourself with kindness, and prioritizing your own well-being. For those of us with a diagnosis of MS, practicing self-love is essential in coping with the physical and emotional challenges provoked by MS. Here are a few ways I practice self-love.
1. Cultivating a Positive Mindset
Living with MS can be overwhelming, but adopting a positive mindset can help navigate the journey with resilience and hope. Embracing self-love encourages a shift in focus from limitations to possibilities, fostering a sense of empowerment and optimism.
2. Managing Stress Effectively
Stress can exacerbate MS symptoms, making it crucial to develop healthy coping mechanisms. Self-love practices such as mindfulness, meditation, and deep breathing can reduce stress levels, promoting relaxation and calmness.
3. Prioritizing Physical Health
Self-love involves taking proactive steps to maintain physical health. Regular exercise, a balanced diet, and adequate rest are vital components of managing MS. Listening to my body and responding to its needs with compassion was most difficult but lead to improved overall well-being.
4. Nurturing Emotional Well-Being
MS can take an emotional toll, leading to feelings of frustration, anger, sadness, depression, and anxiety. Self-love encourages individuals to acknowledge and honor their emotions without judgment. I went through the entire grieving process before embarking on my journey to self-love.
5. Setting Realistic Goals
Self-love involves setting realistic and achievable goals that align with our individual abilities and circumstances. Celebrating small victories and progress creates a sense of accomplishment and motivation, contributing to a positive outlook on life.
6. Practicing Self-Care
Self-care is a fundamental aspect of self-love. Engaging in activities that bring joy, relaxation, and fulfilment can enhance mental and emotional health. I like to do activities in my garden, such as yoga, reading, and meditation. I’ve also become more in tune with nature, taking more walks and appreciating its beauty. Listening to music, dancing, and indulging in self-care nurture the soul and promote balance.
Living with multiple sclerosis is undoubtedly challenging, but the practice of self-love offers a powerful tool for navigating our journeys with grace and resilience. By embracing self-love, I have a sense of empowerment, hope, and well-being, transforming my experience into one of growth and self-discovery.
Hi, I’m Nicole. I’m a mom to 3 and registered nurse by profession. I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis in January of 2023 after a case of optic neuritis, which led to vision loss in my left eye. I recall experiencing symptoms of MS as early as 2016. I now use my knowledge as a RN as well as my experiences as a MS Warrior to educate, uplift, and bring awareness to the “rare” autoimmune disease known as Multiple Sclerosis.
I’ve always believed that life is just far too difficult to do alone. Not just the big, obvious stuff—like raising a child or recovering from loss—but the quiet, daily aches that wear us down. Healing, surviving, rebuilding… it takes a village. And more and more, that village is showing up in the form of community-based trauma therapy.
Why Community Matters in Healing
In South Africa, where many still carry the weight of generational trauma, structural violence, and social inequality, traditional one-on-one therapy isn’t always accessible—or culturally aligned. But healing doesn’t only happen on a therapist’s couch. It happens when stories are witnessed. When pain is spoken and met with compassion. When we remember we’re not alone.
Community-based trauma therapy recognizes that. It creates spaces—sometimes in community halls, sometimes on surfboards—where people can process trauma together. These models don’t just offer therapy. They offer belonging.
“Healing doesn’t only happen on a therapist’s couch. It happens when stories are witnessed.”
The Tree of Life: Stories as Medicine
One powerful example is Phola, a psychosocial support organization in Orange Farm. Their approach is rooted in narrative therapy, using tools like the “Tree of Life” to help individuals reframe their stories—not as broken, but as brave. The method allows people to speak about their experiences metaphorically, making it safer to explore painful memories, especially in group settings. This isn’t just storytelling—it’s survival alchemy.
“This isn’t just storytelling—it’s survival alchemy.”
Surf, Salt, and Solidarity
Another beautiful model is Waves for Change, which brings surf therapy to kids in under-resourced coastal communities. The ocean becomes a therapist of sorts—a place of play, trust-building, and emotional regulation. Trained surf mentors guide kids through structured sessions that blend movement with mental health support, reducing symptoms of trauma and anxiety over time.
Traditional Wisdom Meets Modern Healing
In many communities, healing is not separate from culture—it’s deeply spiritual. Practices like ukuthwasa, an initiation process into traditional healing, emphasize connection to ancestors, purpose, and the unseen. While not every path involves becoming a sangoma, the broader lesson is this: healing is not just psychological. It’s communal. It’s sacred.
The Work of Repair
South African psychologist Dr. Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela speaks of a “reparative quest”—a collective effort to confront historical trauma and create new pathways forward. Her work reminds us that healing is not about forgetting what happened, but about holding it with care, together.
“Healing is not about forgetting what happened, but about holding it with care, together.”
What We Can Learn
These community-based approaches aren’t just inspiring, they’re instructive. They remind us that we are wired for connection, and that recovery doesn’t have to be a solitary act. Whether it’s sharing a story, holding space for someone else’s pain, or simply showing up, we all have the capacity to be part of each other’s healing.
This morning, before I’d even opened my eyes, I knew. Not from a calendar reminder or a “you’re due for a flare-up” ping. Just the weight of my own body. Heavy. Cement-heavy. Fire-in-my-veins heavy.
Welcome to the delightful surprise party that is chronic illness. No RSVP needed. You just… wake up in it.
The Flare Days You Don’t See Coming
Some flares sneak up on me. Others kick the door down and announce themselves with full-body spasticity, shooting nerve shocks, and hands that feel like they’ve been beaten with hammers. Today it’s the latter.
My feet and calves are twitching like live wires, and my hands are stiff, aching, and protesting even this act of typing. Vision? Blurry. Pain? Electrical. Plans? Cancelled.
And here’s the kicker: I used to ignore this. I’d push through. Slam a Red Bull, down some coffee, and throw myself into work like I was invincible.
Spoiler: I’m not.
Before Chronic Illness, “Rest” Was an Afterthought
Rest used to mean feeling guilty. Lazy. Weak. I grew up in a culture of “hustle harder” and “push through the pain.” Rest was what you earned once everything else was done, except everything else was never done.
So I’d rest, sure. For twenty minutes. While scrolling. Or I’d lie in bed with my laptop, answering emails like a good little burnout-junkie.
Turns out, that’s not rest. That’s just horizontal productivity.
Now? Rest Is a Ritual
Rest is no longer a break; it’s a boundary. It’s a ceremony.
The bed is made, properly made. Soft, high-quality linen. No scratchy textures. My skin is too sensitive, and my nervous system too fried, for anything but comfort.
Sounds of nature fill the room. Crickets. Forests. Sometimes just silence, blessed and still.
Lavender floats through the air, either from a candle or a diffuser, because my brain needs cues that it’s safe to exhale.
Baths with Epsom salts when I can manage it. Lavender-infused again. Heat is magic. Fun fact: so is Lavender.
And always, always tea. Sometimes a fancy store-bought herbal one, sometimes a wild little blend of whatever’s in the fridge: fresh ginger, honey, lemon, mint, berries. I long for a proper teapot with a built-in infuser. I’ll get it one day, fingers crossed.
There was a moment, a real one, when I realised: rest is not a luxury. It’s not a nap. It’s not working from bed. It’s not multitasking with a heating pad on.
Rest is permission. Permission to shut off. To stop proving yourself. To not be available to everyone all the time.
I finally saw what my body was begging me for: clear boundaries. Not “I’ll just do this one last thing.” Not “It’s fine, I can take that call.” But a full switch-off, emotionally, physically, and mentally.
Friday to Monday. No clients. No guilt.
Just… recovery.
If My Body Could Speak…
It would say:
“You call this rest?! Give me real rest or I’ll force it out of you.”
And honestly? Fair.
Because my body has forced it out of me before. Through flares. Through burnout. Through collapse.
Rest Isn’t Weakness, It’s Wisdom
If you’re living with chronic illness, or even just carrying too much life in your bones, you don’t need permission to rest. But I’ll give it anyway:
Let your rest be lush. Let it be soft. Let it be sacred. Let it be enough.
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