M for Moms

As a therapist, I once worked with someone who seemed extremely anxious in relationships. A delayed reply could ruin their entire day. A small change in someone’s tone would send them into overthinking for hours. They constantly needed reassurance and felt ashamed of how deeply they reacted. Everyone around them told them they were too sensitive, too attached, too emotional. But during one session, they said something that completely changed the way people would see them if they truly understood it. They said, “It’s not them leaving that scares me. It’s the feeling of being emotionally alone again.”

That was the real wound.

What they were reacting to wasn’t just the present moment. Their body was remembering a time when connection didn’t feel safe or stable. Somewhere in their past, they learned that love could suddenly become silence. Warmth could become distance. Emotional closeness could disappear without explanation. So now, every unanswered message, every moment of disconnection, felt much bigger than it actually was because an older part of them believed abandonment was happening again.

This is why so many people lose themselves in relationships. They overgive, overexplain, tolerate things they shouldn’t, and stay emotionally hypervigilant, not because they are weak, but because they are trying to protect themselves from reliving an old pain. Most people think they are chasing love, but often they are chasing the feeling of safety they never fully had.

Healing started when this person stopped abandoning themselves in order to keep someone else close. Instead of fighting their emotions or searching for constant reassurance, they began learning how to sit with their feelings without collapsing into them. They started asking themselves, “What do I need right now to feel safe within myself?” And slowly, relationships stopped feeling like survival.

Because real security is not just about finding someone who stays. It’s about learning that even when fear appears, you are still able to stay connected to yourself.

I once worked with a client who said, “I don’t do conflict.”
But as we talked, it became clear she didn’t fear disagreement.
She feared the feeling that came with it.

Growing up, conflict in her home wasn’t calm or safe.
Voices would rise without warning.
Silence could stretch for days.
There was no repair, only tension she had to carry alone.

So she adapted.
She became agreeable.
Easy.
The one who understands.

And it worked until it didn’t.

At work, she stayed quiet even when she had ideas.
In relationships, she swallowed hurt to avoid making things worse.
On the outside, she looked peaceful.
On the inside, she felt invisible.

One day in session, we slowed it down.
Not a big confrontation.
Not a dramatic change.

Just one sentence she could try.

“I actually see this differently.”

That was it.
No explanation. No apology.

She said it later that week in a meeting.
Her heart raced. Her body tensed, expecting the past to repeat itself.

But it didn’t.

No one shouted.
No one withdrew love.
Someone simply said, “Oh, tell me more.”

That moment didn’t just change the conversation.
It changed what conflict meant to her.

Because sometimes healing isn’t about becoming louder.
It’s about teaching your nervous system that
truth can exist without danger.

As a therapist, I often see this pattern in people who constantly try to fix, help, and hold everything together.

This isn’t simply being caring. It is usually a learned survival response.

At some point earlier in life, the person may have experienced environments where emotional needs were not consistently met, where stability depended on them being responsible, or where love and approval felt conditional. The mind adapts by forming a belief that if I take care of everything and everyone, I will be safe, valued, and accepted.

Over time, this becomes an identity, not just a behaviour.

In adulthood, this can show up as difficulty saying no, taking responsibility for other people’s emotions, feeling guilty when prioritising oneself, and experiencing exhaustion or quiet resentment.

The important shift is understanding that what was once protective can become restrictive.

Healing does not mean rejecting this part. It means updating the role.

Change begins with awareness and small shifts. Pausing before responding helps create space between impulse and choice. Reducing overgiving even slightly begins to break the pattern. Guilt may arise, and that does not mean something is wrong, it often means something is changing. Reconnecting with personal needs by asking what do I need right now builds self-trust. Doing something for yourself without explaining it helps loosen the need for validation.

The goal is not to become less caring. It is to stop abandoning yourself in the process of caring for others.

You are allowed to receive support, not just be the one who gives it.

As a therapist, I wish more people understood this

What you call overthinking is not your mind working against you
It is your mind trying very hard to work for you

I have sat with people who feel exhausted by their own thoughts
who just want it all to stop

But when we slow it down there is always a story underneath

A time when not knowing felt unsafe
When being unprepared had a cost
When staying alert made sense

So the mind adapted

It learned to anticipate to analyse to stay one step ahead
not to overwhelm you
but to protect you

The problem is not that this part exists
It is that it never got the message that things have changed

So instead of trying to silence it
what actually helps is something quieter and more respectful

Helping it update its role

Letting it shift from constant guarding
to gentle guiding

Because your mind is not the enemy here

It just has not realised yet
that you are safer than you once were

And the next time your mind starts racing
pause for a moment

Instead of fighting it try saying
I see what you are trying to do you are trying to protect me

Then gently ask yourself
What actually needs my attention right now

As a therapist, I want you to know this…

Sometimes what feels like an “overreaction” isn’t really about now.
It’s your mind and body recognizing a familiar emotional pattern one that was never fully understood, heard, or healed.

When something small feels big, it’s often because it once was big

A tone. A silence. A shift in someone’s behavior.
These moments can quietly echo experiences where you felt unseen, unsafe, or uncertain.

And without realizing it, you respond from that place.

But here’s the part I want you to hold onto

Awareness changes everything.

The moment you pause and notice,
“This feels familiar… but this is not the same situation,”
you create space between your past and your present.

In that space, there is choice.

Choice to respond differently.
Choice to soothe yourself instead of spiraling.
Choice to stay grounded instead of bracing for what used to happen

You are not that version of yourself anymore.
And this moment does not have to follow the same script.

So when it happens again and it will
gently remind yourself:

“I’ve been here before… but I can choose differently now.”

And that choice?
That’s where your healing begins.

As a therapist, there’s something I notice very often.

People don’t always struggle with emotions themselves they struggle with the ones they feel they shouldn’t have.

Some learned early that anger makes others uncomfortable, so they quickly push it away.
Some hide their sadness because they don’t want to feel like a burden.
Some bury their fear because they believe they have to stay strong for everyone else.

Over time, we become very good at silencing certain feelings.

But here’s what I want to share:
The emotion you shut down the fastest is often the one quietly asking for the most care.

Try this the next time you notice yourself pushing down a feeling:
Pause for a moment.
Take one slow breath.
And gently ask yourself, “What am I actually feeling right now?”

You don’t have to fix it.
You don’t have to explain it.
Just allow it to exist.

Sometimes emotional care begins with simply noticing.
Just becoming aware of it can be the beginning of a very different relationship with yourself.

💛 If this resonated with you, save this for later and share it with someone who might need the reminder today.

As a therapist, I’ve learned something that surprises many people.

Sometimes the hardest emotions are the ones that don’t make sense on paper.

There was a woman who sat across from me, twisting a tissue in her hands.
“He hurt me,” she said. “So why do I still miss him?”

She wasn’t missing the shouting.
She wasn’t missing the silence after arguments.
She wasn’t missing the way she felt small.

She was missing the version of love she believed was growing.
The late-night talks that felt safe.
The way he once looked at her like she mattered.
The future she had quietly started building in her mind.

Her heart had attached to the hope.
Her mind had finally accepted the reality.

And both were telling the truth.

Healing, I told her, is not about erasing longing.
It’s about understanding what you’re longing for.

You can miss someone who hurt you.
Missing doesn’t mean going back.
It means your heart remembers what it hoped for—
not just what happened.

Both things can exist at the same time.

And if this resonates with you, pause for a moment.
Ask yourself: Am I missing the person… or the promise?

Comment “healing” if you’re choosing yourself this time.
Save this for the days your heart feels confused.
And share it with someone who needs permission to feel both and still move forward.

As a therapist, I once worked with a woman who had been “the strong one” for as long as she could remember.

She was the eldest child. When her father fell sick, she helped manage the house. When her mother was overwhelmed, she stayed quiet about her own fears. At school, she never asked for help because she didn’t want to “be a burden.” By the time she became an adult, strength wasn’t just something she had it was who she believed she was.

In our sessions, she spoke clearly, logically, almost clinically about her struggles. She handled work stress alone. She handled relationship conflicts alone. She handled grief alone. Every time I gently asked, “Who do you lean on?” she would smile and say, “I manage.”

And she did manage. That strength helped her survive years when support wasn’t available.

But one day, after describing yet another week of holding everything together, she paused. Her voice cracked just slightly. “I’m tired,” she said. “I don’t know how to not be strong.”

That moment was powerful. Not because she broke down but because she allowed herself to say she was tired.

Over time, she learned something new: strength and support are not opposites. The same resilience that helped her survive could now help her risk vulnerability. She started sharing small truths with a close friend. She allowed herself to cry in session instead of explaining her feelings away. She practiced asking for help awkwardly at first.

Nothing about her became weaker.

In fact, she became softer. And in that softness, there was a different kind of strength the kind that doesn’t come from carrying everything alone, but from knowing you don’t have to.

As a therapist, I learned something through her journey:

Some people learned to be strong early because they had to.
That strength saved them.
But healing adds another option.
You can still be strong and also lean.

If you’re the one who has always held it together, let this be your permission slip:
You don’t have to carry everything alone anymore.

Start small.
Tell one safe person how you’re really doing.
Say “I’m tired” instead of “I’m fine.”
Reach out for support whether that’s a friend, a mentor, or a therapist.

Strength got you here.
Support will help you go further.

It’s okay to talk

As a therapist, I’ve learned this about overthinking.

Most people who overthink aren’t “too much.”
They’re often the ones who learned early to hold back

In my sessions, I don’t meet people who think too much.
I meet people who didn’t feel safe enough
to speak, to ask, to feel fully.

Overthinking shows up when emotions don’t get space.
When tears felt inconvenient.
When anger wasn’t safe.
When needs were met with silence or judgement.

So the mind steps in.
It replays.
It analyses.
It keeps the story alive
because the feeling underneath was never acknowledged.

Overthinking isn’t a flaw I try to remove.
It’s a signal I help people listen to.

And often, when someone finally says
what they were never allowed to say,
the mind grows quiet on its own.

Not because it was forced to stop
but because it was finally heard.

If this resonated, save this post or share it with someone who overthinks in silence.
Healing begins when emotions find expression and if you need support learning how, help is available.