How I Got Free from the Trap of Resentment

“Jerry, there is some bad in the best of people and some good in the worst of people. Look for the good!” ~George Chaky, my grandfather

I was seven when he said that to me. It would later become a guiding principle in my life.

My grandfather was twenty-one when he came to the US with his older brother, Andrew. Shortly afterward, he married Maria, my grandmother, and they had five children. William, the second youngest, died at the age of seven from an illness.

One year later they lost all of their savings during the Great Depression of 1929 when many banks closed. Two years afterward, my grandmother died from a stroke at the age of thirty-six.

As I grew older and learned about the many hardships my grandfather and family of origin had endured, his encouragement to look for the good in people would have a profound impact on me. It fueled a keen interest in trying to understand why people acted the way they did. In retrospect, it also had a lot to do with my becoming a therapist and author.

Easier Said Than Done

As a professional, I am able to objectively listen to my therapy clients’ stories with compassion and without judgment. However, in my personal life, I’ve often struggled to see the good in certain people, especially some elementary school teachers who physically and emotionally abused me and male peers who made fun of my small size.

In my youth I often felt humiliated, but not ashamed. I knew that for them to treat me that way, there must have been something wrong with them. But it still hurt.

I struggled with anger and resentment for many years. In my youth, I was taught that anger was a negative emotion. When I expressed it, certain teachers and my parents punished me. So, I stuffed the anger.

I Didn’t Know What I Didn’t Know

When I was twelve, I made a conscious decision to build walls to protect myself from being emotionally hurt. At the time, it was the best that I could do. Walls can give one a sense of safety, but walls also trap the pain inside and make it harder to trust and truly connect with others.

About that same time, I made a vow to myself that I frequently revisited: “When I get the hell out of this house and I am fortunate to have my own family, I will never talk to them the way my parents talked to each other and my sister and me.” I knew how I didn’t want to express my emotions, but I didn’t know how to do so in a positive and healthy manner.

Stuffing emotions is like squeezing a long, slender balloon and having the air, or anger, bulge in another place. In my late twenties, individual and couples counseling slowly helped me begin to recognize how much anger and resentment I had been carrying inside. They would occasionally leak out in the tone of my voice, often with those I wasn’t angry with, and a few times the anger came out in a frightening eruption.

“Resentment is the poison we pour for others that we drink ourselves.” ~Anonymous

I heard that phrase at a self-help group for families of alcoholics. After the meeting, I approached the person who shared it and said to her, “I never heard that before.” She smiled and replied, “I’ve shared that a number of times at meetings where you were present.” I responded, “I don’t doubt that, but I never heard it until tonight!”

The word “resentment” comes from the Latin re, meaning “again,” and sentire, meaning “to feel.” When we hold onto resentment, we continue to “feel again” or “re-feel” painful emotions. It’s like picking at a scab until it bleeds, reopening a wound.

Nowhere have I ever read that we should like being treated or spoken to unfairly. However, when we hold on to resentment, self-righteous indignation, or other uncomfortable emotions, it ties us to the past.

Holding onto resentment and grudges can also increase feelings of helplessness. Waiting for or expecting others to change gives them power over my thoughts and feelings. Many of those who I have held long-standing resentment for have died and yet can still have a hold on me.

When we let go of resentment, it frees us from much of the pain and discomfort. As author John E. Southard said, “The only people with whom you should try to get even with are those who have helped you.”

I’ve continued to learn how to set healthier and clearer boundaries without building walls. I’ve learned that I don’t have to accept unacceptable behavior from anyone, and I don’t have to go to every argument I am invited to, even if the argument is only inside my head.

Still, for a long time, despite making significant progress, periodically the anger and resentment would come flooding back. And the thought of forgiving certain people stuck in my craw.

When people would try to excuse others’ behavior with statements like “They were doing the best they knew how,” I’d say or think, “But they should never have become teachers” or “My sister and I had to grow up emotionally on our own!”

Forgiving Frees the Forgiver

For a long time now, I have started my day with the Serenity Prayer: (God) Grant me serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. It has helped me try to focus on today and what I can control—how I think, feel, and act. Sometimes I get stuck, and all I can say is, “Help me let go of this anger.”

“When we forgive, we heal. When we let go, we grow.” ~Dalai Lama

I frequently hear the voices of many people who have helped, supported, and nourished me. I hear my wife’s late sister, MaryEllen, a Venerini nun, saying, “Jerry, the nuns treated you that way because that was the way they were probably treated by their superiors.” She validated my pain and planted another seed that slowly grew.

I’ve also heard that “hurt people hurt people.” At times, I would still lash out at innocent people when I was hurting. I desperately wanted to break this generational cycle. I’ve learned that I don’t have to wait for other people to change in order to feel better.

I am learning that everyone has a story, and I can practice forgiveness without excusing what they did or said.

Forgiving is not forgetting. Forgiving liberates me from the burden of resentment, helping me focus on connecting with supportive people and continuing to heal. Letting go of resentment cuts the ties that bind me to the past hurts. It helps me be present today where I can direct my time and energy toward living in the present instead of replaying old pain.

For the past year I have made a conscious effort to start each day by asking my Higher Power, whom I choose to call God, “Help me be grateful, kind, and compassionate to myself and others today and remember that everyone has their own struggles.” This has become one of the biggest turning points in my travels through life.

You Can’t Pour from an Empty Cup

I have learned that taking care of myself is one of the most effective ways to stop resentment from building up. When I neglect one or more of my needs over time, I’m quicker to snap, less patient, and more likely to take things personally. Who benefits from my self-neglect? Not me, and certainly not my spouse, children, coworkers, or others. When I am H.A.L.T. (hungry, angry, lonely or tired) or S.O.S. (stressed out severely), I usually don’t like being around me either.

Self-compassion also weakens resentment’s hold, making it easier to be compassionate with others. Remembering that we’re all works in progress helps me treat myself and others more gently.

I often think about my grandfather’s words, “Look for the good.” Self-care and self-compassion help me to see the good in myself as well as in others. I can dislike someone’s actions or tone of voice and also recognize they’re not really about me.

I actually have a Q-tip (representing “quit taking it personally”) taped on my desk to remind me that someone else’s actions or words are likely the result of their own struggles. It helps me to “catch myself,” and instead of taking things personally, I try to remember that everyone has a story.

Gratitude Puts Everything in Perspective

There are days when I am faced with great or even overwhelming challenges, when it would be easy to default to anger—with other people or with life itself. On those days, I might notice a beautiful sunrise or feel touched by the love and kindness of others. Practicing gratefulness helps me to see life as both difficult and good. It is like an emotional and spiritual savings account, building reserves that help me to be more resilient during the rough patches in life, even when I feel wronged.

Specifically focusing on what I am grateful for each day also helps me heal and gives me periods of serenity. It empowers me to try to approach my interactions with others in a warm and caring manner while respecting my and their personal boundaries, which keeps small misunderstandings from growing into resentment.

Gratefulness and compassion toward myself and others take practice. It’s not a one-and-done thing. It’s like learning any new skill—the more I practice, the more it becomes a positive habit and feels more like second nature.

Without repeated practice, old, undesirable thoughts and patterns can come back. When I neglect self-care, I am most vulnerable to quickly regress.

I also need to be vigilant when things seem to be going well within and around me. I can become overly confident, trying to coast along and slack off from practicing gratitude and compassion.

I have been unlearning many things that no longer work for me. I have unlearned “Practice makes perfect,” replacing it with “Practice makes progress, and I will do my best to continue to learn, grow, and be grateful, one day at a time.”

I don’t always get it right, but every time I choose compassion, understanding, or gratitude over resentment, I am more at peace and more connected to everyone around me.

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About Jerry Manney

Jerry Manney is a long-time therapist and writer. His book, Why We Argue and How to Stop shows you how to navigate disagreements, manage emotions, and create healthier relationships. Jerry has written numerous articles on family distress, substance abuse, and communicating more effectively. He has also taught college courses for seventeen years and spoken at national conferences. Follow Jerry on tiktok @thebooktokshrink.

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Pay What You Can for 21 Days of Laughs and Light

My electric toothbrush has seen it all.

I usually look in the mirror when I’m brushing my teeth, and for a while last fall, I often cried when I stared into my own eyes.

I did my best to hold it together in front of my sons—most of the time, anyway. But the mask often cracked when I met my own gaze. Deep sobs set to the gentle hum of my sonic. Life was just that overwhelming—with medical issues, a loved one’s shock diagnosis, and countless other challenges too numerous to list.

Then one day, after months of carrying more emotional weight than I had in decades, I decided to start looking for little ways to make myself smile again. And that toothbrush became a microphone.

First it was dramatic, cathartic songs like Fix You by Coldplay.

Then more hopeful ones, like Hey Jude—tears turning to chuckles with “Jude Jude Judy Judy Judy Judy!”

Eventually, completely ridiculous ones, like Bohemian Rhapsody, complete with head banging.

And suddenly life started feeling a little lighter. I still had problems. I still lacked solutions. But those laughs between the tears got longer and more genuine with every small moment of levity.

That’s what my When Life Sucks: 21 Days of Laughs and Light series is all about. (Spoiler alert: it’s pay-what-you-can—because I know what it’s like when money’s tight!)

I started writing these emails because it can be incredibly hard to find a little relief when life feels like a nonstop barrage of punches from the universe. I also know that sometimes laughter can come with a side of guilt if someone you love has a lot less to smile about.

But small flashes of light really can help us get through the darkness, and they don’t always appear on their own, which is why we have to create them.

These three weeks of emails outline my path to sparking joy, with a little insight and a gentle nudge for you each day.

And though the suggested payment is $19, you can sign up for as little as $1. (Or more if you just love Tiny Buddha and want to give a little more to balance out the $1 signups!)

If you’re ready for a little break from life’s relentless struggles, you can sign up here.

I hope it brings you a little

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About Lori Deschene

Lori Deschene is the founder of Tiny Buddha. She started the site after struggling with depression, bulimia, c-PTSD, and toxic shame so she could recycle her former pain into something useful and inspire others to do the same. You can find her books, including Tiny Buddha’s Gratitude Journal and Tiny Buddha’s Worry Journal, here and learn more about her eCourse, Recreate Your Life Story, if you’re ready to transform your life and become the person you want to be.

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I Spent Years Chasing Love Until I Finally Chose Myself

“The only people who get upset when you set boundaries are the ones who benefited from you having none.” ~Unknown

For most of my life, I lived with a quiet ache, a longing I couldn’t quite name but always felt. I wanted to be chosen. Not just liked or tolerated, but fully seen, wanted, and loved.

That longing shaped so many of my choices. I over-gave in relationships, staying in situations far longer than I should have, and shrank myself to be accepted.

I didn’t know it at the time, but I was trying to fill an emptiness that had started years before, an emptiness born in silence and absence, in words left unsaid and emotions left unacknowledged.

You see, I grew up in a household that looked stable from the outside when, in reality, the opposite was the case.

My father was a brilliant and accomplished professor but emotionally unreachable. He was a provider, but not someone I could run to, laugh with, or open to. Our conversations rarely went beyond school and grades—never “How are you feeling?” or “What’s on your heart?”

Affection wasn’t part of the language we spoke at home. I learned early that performance was prized, but vulnerability was not. That I had to know things without asking, succeed without stumbling, and carry weight without complaint.

As a child, you don’t have the language for the emotional neglect that comes as a result of this, but you feel it in your body. You sense the void.

Even before I could articulate words, I felt more comfortable with paper than with people. I didn’t speak until I was four and carried a piece of paper everywhere I went, using it to express what I couldn’t say out loud.

Writing became my voice before I had one. But even that was dismissed. My father didn’t see value in it. And so, the message was reinforced again: What I loved didn’t matter. Who I was wasn’t enough.

And over time, I internalized that belief. I carried it into my teenage years and well into adulthood, thinking love had to be earned through sacrifice or silence.

I struggled with setting boundaries because I didn’t want to be “too much” and drive people away. I mistook people-pleasing for kindness, over-accommodation for loyalty, and emotional exhaustion for love.

My longing for connection often led me into relationships where I gave more than I received. I wanted so badly to be seen, to feel chosen, to matter to someone in the ways I never felt I did growing up.

But the more I sought love externally, the more disconnected I became from myself. My self-worth was tangled in how others treated me, how well I performed, how little I complained, and how much I could endure.

One of the most defining relationships of my life culminated in an engagement. At the time, it felt like a dream come true. Here was this successful, handsome man who made six figures and stood over six feet tall. And he chose me. He was also spiritual and into meditation, something I had been exploring with the Buddhists, so I felt this deep alignment with him. It felt like a sign that maybe I was finally enough to be loved fully.

But in hindsight, that relationship mirrored all the unresolved wounds I hadn’t yet faced. Without realizing it, I had found someone who was essentially my father, an engineer, emotionally unavailable, with a temper and narcissistic tendencies. I was literally about to marry my father. When it ended in 2014, it left me feeling like I had failed, not just in love, but in my identity.

I didn’t realize it then, but the engagement wasn’t just a romantic loss; it was the collapse of the illusion I had built to protect myself.

Prior to the engagement, I had already spent years performing at work, in friendships, and in love. The little girl who once ached to be seen had grown into a woman who poured herself into everything and everyone, just to feel worthy of being chosen.

At work, I became a relentless overachiever. I tied my value to performance, convinced that if I exceeded expectations, my bosses, my colleagues, anyone would have no choice but to love me. I wasn’t just doing my job; I was doing the most, all the time. Not from ambition, but from a quiet desperation.

But overgiving didn’t bring admiration; it brought disrespect. I ended up with bosses who were bullies. I remember one vividly. I had worked hard on a project with a team, believing it would finally earn his approval. He looked at it once, then threw it in the trash right in front of me.

Still, I stayed. Still, I tried harder. Still, I chased the validation that never came. Because deep down, I thought I had to earn love. That if I just proved myself enough, someone would finally say, “You’re worth it.”

It wasn’t just at work. In friendships, I bent myself backwards to belong. I mirrored the habits of others just to stay close. If they drank, I drank. If they were into something I didn’t enjoy, I pretended to love it.

I mistook blending in for bonding. I didn’t know that a healthy connection doesn’t require self-erasure.

And in romantic relationships? The pattern deepened.

The first guy I dated was vulnerable, open, willing to truly see me. But I couldn’t handle it. His tenderness felt foreign, uncomfortable even.

Because I’d never known that kind of love. I didn’t think I deserved it. I told myself I wanted someone “edgier,” but the truth was, I was more familiar with emotional unavailability than emotional safety.

And so, I gravitated toward men who couldn’t love me well. Men who ignored me, mistreated me, made me feel small. I shrank to fit their needs.

I became who I thought they wanted—changing my interests, compromising my values, giving all of myself just to be chosen. And I settled. I accepted crumbs and called it a connection.

There was Matt, someone I’d known in college as a friend. When we started dating later, I thought maybe this was it. But he’d spend time talking about the women he found attractive right in front of me.

And Dustin, I paid for his flight to come see me when I lived in Texas. Even paid for a coach to help him find a better job. Not because I had to, but because somewhere inside, I believed that love could be bought.

After all, that’s what I had learned. My father gave gifts, not affection. Money, not presence. So I repeated the pattern, hoping financial sacrifice would lead to emotional intimacy.

I slept with men who didn’t care for me. I stayed with partners who didn’t choose me. I even cheated, sometimes with men who were already in other relationships because if they were willing to risk what they had for me, then maybe I mattered. Maybe I was special.

But the truth is, I was still that little girl with the paper in her hand, trying to speak a language no one around her understood. Still aching to be seen. Still hoping someone would say, “You are enough.”

These pains would then become the very ground where the seeds of transformation would be planted.

But healing didn’t come all at once. It came quietly, slowly.

At first, I didn’t know where to start. All I knew was that something had to change. I was tired of feeling stuck in the same cycle, repeating the same patterns, and finding myself in relationships that only brought more hurt.

I knew I needed space to figure out why I kept choosing unhealthy relationships and why I was drawn to people who couldn’t truly love me.

In early April of 2015, I made one of the hardest phone calls of my life. I called my mom to tell her I needed a break. None of us were familiar with boundaries back then, but I knew I had to find myself outside of my family’s influence. We both cried on that call. I couldn’t give her a timeframe as I had no idea how long this would take.

My dad didn’t take it well. Shortly after, he left me a voicemail, convinced I’d joined some kind of cult. He felt like I was turning my back on him. For almost two years, I kept my distance. I’d send cards on holidays, but I didn’t call or text. I needed that space to heal.

The first move I made was joining a twelve-step program aimed at breaking free from addiction. That’s where I met Gina. She became more than just a mentor, a guide.

She helped me dig deeper into the underlying issues I hadn’t acknowledged before. I also cut ties with people I thought were my friends because I realized they didn’t genuinely care about me. Instead, I slowly started building healthier relationships.

A big part of my journey was introspection. I started asking myself the hard questions:

Why do I keep picking unavailable men?

Why do I keep repeating the same toxic patterns?

What does a healthy relationship even look like?

It was uncomfortable, but I knew I had to figure out why I was drawn to those situations and how I could change. I wanted to understand my own behaviors and patterns so I could break free from the cycle.

I went to therapy, tried acupuncture to help me sleep, and even explored Buddhism to find some inner peace. I attended a Methodist church, hoping to reconnect with a sense of faith and community.

Showing up to these places on my own without the crutch of a friend or a partner was a huge step for me. I began to realize the strength in simply being present and curious on my own.

I also started exploring concepts that would change my perspective on relationships entirely.  Someone introduced me to attachment theory and trauma bonding, and it was like a light bulb went off. Suddenly, I had names for the patterns I was trapped in.

I learned that I was “avoidant”—someone so terrified of being truly known because deep down, I didn’t believe I had anything worthwhile to offer. Yet I kept gravitating toward people who were emotionally withdrawn, just like my father. I had to chase them for any scrap of affection or attention. Later, I discovered this was called trauma bonding, where you develop feelings and loyalty toward someone who’s treating you poorly. It was a revelation that both devastated and freed me.

I read books by Brené Brown, went on retreats, and soaked up as much knowledge as I could. I was desperate to understand myself, so I kept asking questions, taking notes, and allowing myself to be vulnerable in safe spaces.

One of the biggest breakthroughs came when I realized how much anger I was holding onto. I remember a conversation with my mom. I was so angry that she kept trying to fix me or give me advice when all I needed was to just be. She’d send me books on anger management, text me inspirational quotes, or tell me what she thought was best for me. Every gesture felt like another reminder that who I was wasn’t enough.

That’s when it hit me: I didn’t just hate the advice. I was angry at myself, at my own patterns, at feeling stuck. I knew I couldn’t keep living like that, so I chose to take a two-year break from my family to sort through those emotions.

I wanted to connect with people not out of guilt or obligation, but because I genuinely wanted to be around them.

The shift was gradual, but I started to see progress when I could attend community events alone, like the Buddhism gatherings or church services. Those first few times, I felt terrified and hesitant, questioning whether I belonged there. But once I actually showed up, something shifted. I felt empowered in a way I’d never experienced before.

I was finally showing up as myself, not performing or trying to be what I thought others wanted. I was vulnerable and honest about when I wasn’t okay, and that honesty was freeing.

I came to terms with my relationship with my dad by forgiving him. I used to carry so much resentment, but I learned to see him for who he was, not who I wished he would be.

The full forgiveness came years later when I started my own relationship coaching business. I realized that without his emotional unavailability, without all that pain he caused, I wouldn’t have been driven to dig so deeply into my own wounds. In a strange way, he helped me find my calling and ironically, he hates that I’m a relationship coach now. There’s something deeply satisfying about finally being my own person. Since I’ve learned to accept myself, I can accept and forgive him fully. Acceptance didn’t mean agreeing or condoning his behavior, but it allowed me to let go of the hurt.

I could be around him without the weight of past pain.

Healing didn’t mean I stopped making mistakes, but I’ve learned to choose myself, to honor my feelings without needing validation from others.

And if you’re reading this, I want you to know: Healing is messy and nonlinear, but it’s worth it. You don’t have to perform for love.  You don’t have to prove your worth. You just have to start slowly, with the smallest act of truth.

For me, that act of truth—what Martha Beck calls “the way to integrity” was the simple but profound realization that I didn’t have to earn love from my dad, my teachers, my bosses, or anyone else. I was worthy of love just by being me. What a relief that was.

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About Dagmar Kusiak

Dagmar Kusiak is a certified transformational dating & relationship coach specializing in attachment styles, codependency, and nonviolent communication. After overcoming toxic cycles and rebuilding her self-worth, she now helps singles break the cycle of unhealthy patterns and build authentic, fulfilling relationships through her signature, Relationship BEAM Program. Dagmar has coached many and led workshops, guiding countless clients towards lasting change. Connect with her here.

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The Lie of Packaged Healing and the Truth About Feeling

“Emotions are not problems to be solved. They are signals to be felt.” ~Vironika Tugaleva

We’ve been taught to package our emotions like fast food—served quick, tidy, and with a smile. Americanized feelings. Digestible. Non-threatening. Always paired with productivity.

If you’re sad, journal it. If you’re angry, regulate it. If you’re overwhelmed, fix it with a three-step plan and a green juice. And if that doesn’t work? Try again. You probably missed a step.

This is how we sell emotional healing in the West—marketed like a self-improvement product. Seven-minute abs. Seven habits. Five love languages. Follow the formula. Find the peace.

But what if the formula is the lie?

As a mental health therapist, I’ve lived it on both sides. I’ve sat in the client chair, feeling broken because my sadness didn’t resolve after enough gratitude lists. And I’ve sat across from clients who whisper their grief like a confession, wondering what they did wrong because they still feel something.

They aren’t doing it wrong. They’re just human.

Healing isn’t about “doing” our feelings. It’s about learning how to actually feel them—without the compulsion to justify them or translate them into something useful.

You owe no explanation for your feelings.

And still, even knowing that, I get caught in it too.

I, too, am a product of this culture—a place where feelings are only tolerated when packaged properly. Not too loud. Not too long. Preferably resolved by morning.

Because of that, there are days I feel a deep aloneness. But I’ve come to realize the aloneness isn’t a flaw—it’s a longing. A longing to be witnessed in the fullness of my humanity. Not fixed. Not analyzed. Just seen.

I don’t need validation. I don’t want to defend how I feel. I just want space. Presence. Room to let the feeling pass through me.

The loneliness reminds me how deeply I’ve been shaped by a culture that fears emotions unless they come with an action plan.

So I’ve learned to hide mine from most people—not because I’m ashamed, but because they’re afraid. People are afraid of their own feelings, so of course they’ll fear the vulnerability of mine. Most people in this country don’t know what to do with real feelings. And the doing has become the problem.

That fear of being too much or too messy is rooted deep not only in American culture but also me.

That part inside me judges the part of me that feels sadness at times. She calls it weakness. Not out of cruelty, but out of fear. She believes that if she can shame that part, a much younger, more authentic part that lives inside me, she won’t risk being shamed by others.

I’m sure many other Americans have this exact same part inside them as well.

We have to be tough, suck it up—whatever that even means.

The part of me that gets sad. The part that gets afraid. The part that feels lonely. These are parts I exiled long ago. But I am beginning to bring them home to me. The parts that are terrified of taking up space. They don’t know yet how precious they are.

They’re not just tender. They’re wise. They’re the intuitive, empathetic, deeply alive parts of me. The parts our culture has spent countless centuries trying to forget.

But I won’t forget those parts. Not anymore.

I speak to them now, with clarity and compassion. I tell them: You are allowed to feel without defending it. You are allowed to take up space without apologizing for the weight of your truth. Expand. Don’t shrink.

The sad one. The scared one. The one who wants to hide. The one who’s learning to stay. Even the critic. They can all exist inside me—side by side—without contradiction. Without shame. Without needing to explain themselves to anyone.

I will no longer betray them because others betray their own parts and project their self-betrayal onto me.

There’s a whole galaxy inside me, and there’s a whole galaxy inside of you. Of course no one else will fully understand it.

What matters is that I do.

And I’m learning… I’m not here to be understood. I’m here to simply be me—and to allow all that resides in me to be, too.

And maybe you are, too.

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About Allison Briggs

Allison Jeanette Briggs is a therapist, writer, and speaker specializing in helping women heal from codependency, childhood trauma, and emotional neglect. She blends psychological insight with spiritual depth to guide clients and readers toward self-trust, boundaries, and authentic connection. Allison is the author of the upcoming memoir On Being Real: Healing the Codependent Heart of a Woman and shares reflections on healing, resilience, and inner freedom at on-being-real.com.

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The Hidden Link Between Self-Rejection and Social Anxiety

“True belonging only happens when we present our authentic, imperfect selves to the world. Our sense of belonging can never be greater than our level of self-acceptance.” ~Brené Brown

Last year over lunch, my friend, Jess, confessed something to me that hit me right in my gut because I’d been there too—that exact same lie, that exact same fear.

Out of nowhere, she blurted out, “I need to cancel.”

“Cancel what?” I asked.

She burst into tears. “I RSVPed yes to Jen’s wedding months ago, but it’s this weekend, and I just… I can’t do it.”

As she sobbed, she confessed she’d already crafted a text message claiming food poisoning. The wedding was for her best friend since college, and she was bailing—not because of an emergency, but because she was terrified of being judged by the other guests.

My stomach dropped. Not because I was shocked, but because I saw myself in her confession.

Back in 2012, I’d done exactly the same thing. My cousin, who I’d grown up with—shared a bedroom with during family vacations, passed notes with during boring family dinners—was getting married. And I…just couldn’t make myself go.

I still get a sick feeling remembering it. Me, twenty-nine years old, sitting fully dressed on my bed at 3:42 p.m., staring at the invitation that had been on my fridge for months. The wedding started at 4:30. It was a twenty-five-minute drive. And I was frozen, literally nauseous with anxiety.

What if the small talk was unbearable? What if my ex was there with his new girlfriend? What if people noticed I’d put on weight since Christmas? What if, what if, what if…

I texted my cousin claiming a 102-degree fever. Then I ordered pizza, watched Netflix, and tried to ignore the hollow feeling in my chest.

Yeah. Easier to stay home where it felt “safe.”

The Painful Paradox

Working through my own social anxiety mess, plus helping others with the same struggle over the years, has taught me something that blew my mind when I first realized it:

We reject ourselves BEFORE anyone else gets the chance.

Let me explain.

We think our social anxiety comes from being afraid of other people’s judgment. But that’s not quite it. We’re actually afraid they’ll confirm the crappy things we already think about ourselves.

When I bailed on that wedding, I wasn’t really worried about what my family would think. I was worried they’d see the “truth” I already believed: that I wasn’t interesting enough, put-together enough, or worthy enough to belong there.

So instead of risking that pain, I chose a different pain—isolation. I projected my own harsh self-judgment onto everyone else, assuming they’d see me the same way.

Talk about a messed-up strategy! By “protecting” myself from potential rejection, I guaranteed rejection by rejecting myself first. And worse, I created real-world “evidence” that I didn’t belong, which only fed my insecurities.

My friend was caught in the same trap. She didn’t actually know she’d be judged at the wedding. But she was so convinced of her own unworthiness that she assumed everyone else would see it too.

The Lightbulb Moment That Changed Everything

For most of my life, I brushed off my social anxiety as “just being an introvert.” Convenient label, right? Helped me avoid admitting I was actually terrified.

Then my friend Kayla—who has zero filter—called me out over coffee.

“Sandy,” she said, eyeing me over her mug, “you realize you spend like 90% of your energy imagining what people think about you and maybe 10% actually finding out?”

I almost choked on my latte. Ouch.

That night, I grabbed an old journal and started tracking my thoughts before social events. Holy crap. I was spending HOURS in mental gymnastics:

• Rehearsing conversations that might never happen
• Coming up with witty responses to imagined criticisms
• Planning defenses to judgments nobody had actually made
• Obsessing over outfit choices to avoid potential comments

I’d exhausted myself before even leaving the house! And the worst part? I was playing both roles in these imaginary scenarios—both the harsh judge AND the person being judged.

Talk about a rigged game.

So I decided to try something radical. My neighbor was having a dinner party that weekend. Instead of my usual mental prep work, I made myself a promise: just show up as-is. Not as the “entertaining Sandy” or the “impressive Sandy” or any other version. Just… me.

I won’t lie—I almost bailed three times that day. But I went. And without all the usual self-judgment noise in my head, something weird happened. I actually listened when people talked instead of planning my next clever comment. Conversations felt easier. I laughed more.

Afterward, my neighbor texted, “Thanks for coming! Loved our talk about your trip to Maine—we should grab coffee sometime.”

Wait, what? I hadn’t rehearsed the Maine story. That was just me rambling about something I loved. And she… liked it?

This tiny experience punched a hole in my belief system. Maybe, just maybe, people could like the actual me—not some carefully curated version I thought I needed to be.

Getting to Know the Real You

So here’s what I’ve figured out: the way through social anxiety isn’t becoming better at small talk or forcing yourself into uncomfortable situations. It’s about getting to know yourself—the real you under all that fear and protective armor.

When you actually know and like yourself, other people’s opinions just don’t matter as much. You develop a kind of internal anchor that keeps you steady even when social waters get choppy.

This journey toward knowing yourself isn’t always Instagram-worthy. It’s messy. But here’s what’s worked for me.

1. Catch yourself in self-rejection mode.

Start noticing when you back out of things because you’re afraid of judgment. Ask yourself, “Am I rejecting myself before even giving others a chance to accept me?”

Last month, I almost skipped a reunion with friends from high school because “no one would remember me anyway.” Classic self-rejection! Naming it helped me pause and reconsider.

2. Question your core beliefs.

Where did you get the idea that you’re not enough? Most of us are carrying around beliefs we formed as awkward thirteen-year-olds! Some of mine were:

• “I’m boring unless I’m entertaining people.”
• “People only like me when I help them with something.”
• “If I show my real feelings, people will think I’m too much.”

Once you identify these beliefs, you can start collecting evidence that challenges them. My friend who missed the wedding realized her core belief was “I don’t belong in celebrations.” We traced it back to an eighth-grade birthday party disaster!

3. Talk to yourself like you’re not a jerk.

I used to have a running commentary in my head that I would NEVER say to another human being. “You’re so awkward. Why did you say that? Everyone’s just tolerating you.”

Learning to speak to myself with basic decency was life-changing. When I feel anxious now, I’ll literally put my hand on my heart and say, “This is hard. Lots of people feel this way. How can I support myself right now?”

Cheesy? Maybe. But it works.

4. Baby steps, not cliff jumps.

Recovery doesn’t mean immediately diving into your scariest social situation. That’s like trying to run a marathon when you’ve never jogged around the block.

Start small. Maybe it’s:

• Coffee with one friend instead of a group
• A thirty-minute appearance at a party with permission to leave
• A class where the focus isn’t on socializing but on a shared interest

Each small win builds evidence against your “I don’t belong” belief system.

5. Create a self-connection practice.

You need regular check-ins with yourself to quiet the noise of imagined expectations and reconnect with who you really are.

For me, it’s morning journaling with coffee before anyone else is awake. For my friend, it’s painting terrible watercolors that no one will ever see. Find what helps you hear your own voice clearly.

Even four minutes of intentional self-connection can begin rebuilding your relationship with yourself. (Trust me, I’ve timed it!)

My Cousin’s Do-Over

Life can be weirdly generous sometimes. Three years after I missed my cousin’s first wedding, she got remarried (to the same guy—they’d eloped after family drama with the first ceremony, then decided to have a proper celebration later).

When the invitation arrived, my palms instantly got sweaty. Here was my chance to do things differently, but the old fear came roaring back.

This time though, I had new tools. Instead of spiraling into “what-ifs,” I asked myself, “What if I just showed up as myself? What’s the worst that could happen? What’s the best?”

I felt the fear—it didn’t magically disappear—but I didn’t let it make my decision. I focused on how much I loved my cousin and how I’d regretted missing her first celebration.

Was the wedding perfect? Nope. I spilled red wine on my dress within the first hour. I got stuck in an awkward conversation about politics with my uncle. I still felt twinges of “I don’t belong here” at times.

But I stayed. I danced badly to the Cha-Cha Slide. I ate cake.

And at one point, my cousin grabbed my hands and said, “I’m so glad you made it this time, Sandy.” The genuine joy in her eyes hit me harder than any anxiety ever could.

Sometimes showing up is enough.

The Gift of Just Being You

For most of my life, I thought social anxiety was just “how I was wired”—some unchangeable part of my personality. But turns out, it wasn’t about who I am. It was about how I’d learned to treat myself.

When I began treating myself with a fraction of the kindness I’d show to a friend, things shifted. Not overnight. Not perfectly. But genuinely.

The less I needed external validation, the more comfortable I became in my own skin. And weirdly, the more authentic connections I started making.

Look, I still get nervous before big social events. I still sometimes catch myself falling into the old mental prep work. But now I can laugh at it and gently redirect.

If you’re someone who tends to hide rather than show up, please hear this:

• The judgment you’re so afraid of is often coming from YOU first.
• By rejecting yourself, you deny others the chance to know the real you (and trust me, the real you is actually pretty great).
• The more you practice showing up authentically, the easier it gets.

Your presence—your real, unfiltered, sometimes-awkward presence—is worth sharing. Don’t let your harsh inner critic rob the world of your unique perspective and energy.

Maybe the greatest plot twist in this whole story is this: When I stopped trying so hard to be someone I thought others would accept and started accepting myself instead, I finally found the belonging I’d been searching for all along.

Funny how that works.

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About Sandy Woznicki

Sandy Woznicki is a stress coach helping parents find their inner calm and get to know, like, and trust themselves (so they can be the person, parent, and partner they are meant to be). Learn how to speak to yourself like someone you love with this free inner voice makeover workbook.

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The Small, Simple Acts That Shifted Me Out of Survival Mode

“True healing is not a straight line. It is a spiral. You come back to things you thought you understood and see deeper truths.”

I used to believe healing would be obvious. Like a movie montage of breakthroughs… laughter through tears, epiphanies in therapy, and early morning jogs that end with a sunrise and a changed life. But that’s not what healing looked like for me.

It looked like dragging myself out of bed with puffy eyes after staying up too late crying. It looked like brushing my teeth when everything in me whispered, “Why bother?” It looked like answering a text when I didn’t feel lovable or worth responding to.

Healing, I’ve learned, is quieter than I expected. It’s not a climax. It’s a practice.

Three years ago, I hit what I can only describe as emotional gridlock. I wasn’t in crisis, at least not the kind that gets dramatic music. I was in the kind that feels like cement. I was tired all the time. My fuse was short. I wasn’t sleeping, wasn’t eating regularly, and the woman in the mirror didn’t look like someone I recognized anymore.

If you had asked me what was wrong, I wouldn’t have had an answer. It wasn’t a single event. It was a slow erosion of self, life chipping away piece by piece until I felt like a ghost of who I used to be.

One night, after snapping at my kids over something insignificant and crying in the shower, I sat on the edge of my bed and thought: I don’t want to live like this anymore.

Not “I want to disappear.” Not “I want to run away.” But this version of life, the one that felt like survival mode on loop, had to change.

So, I did something radical:

I took one deep breath. I unclenched my jaw. I drank a glass of water.

And that was day one.

There was no fanfare. No overnight shift. Just a decision to start with what I could reach: my breath, my body, the next kind choice.

The next morning, I made breakfast. Not for anyone else, just for me. Eggs and spinach. It sounds small, but it felt like reclaiming something. I was so used to skipping meals or eating standing up like my needs were interruptions.

That day, I walked around the block after lunch instead of scrolling. It wasn’t even a workout. I didn’t track it. But the sun hit my shoulders, and for the first time in a long time, I felt here.

That walk was healing.

So was every moment I chose presence over performance.

I started keeping a mental list of all the tiny things I did in a day that felt like medicine. A bath instead of another task. A journal entry that made no sense but helped me feel less like I might explode. Drinking water before coffee. Asking myself “What do I need?” and then actually listening for the answer.

Sometimes the answer was a nap. Sometimes it was a good cry with no rush to wipe my face. Sometimes it was texting a friend and saying, “I’m not okay right now,” even when I worried I might sound dramatic.

And sometimes, the answer was just silence.

Letting myself be… without the need to improve, perform, or explain.

Over the next year, healing became a practice of showing up differently.

Not dramatically.

Consistently.

I started listening to my body instead of overriding it. I rested when I needed to instead of proving I could push through. I said no even when my people-pleasing screamed at me to just say yes and make it easier for everyone else.

And the thing about consistency? It’s boring. It doesn’t get applause. But it works.

Healing is in the repetition of small kindnesses to yourself. The boring, brave acts of resistance against self-neglect.

It wasn’t linear, either. I fell back into old patterns. I had days where I numbed out with my phone, skipped meals, and snapped at everyone in the house. But I stopped making those days mean that I was back at square one.

You can fall down and still be healing.

You can feel stuck and still be progressing.

One of the most freeing things I ever learned was that healing isn’t a destination you arrive at. It’s a relationship you build with yourself. One rooted in trust.

And trust is earned in the small, quiet moments.

What I didn’t know then, but deeply understand now, is that our nervous systems aren’t waiting for one massive overhaul. They’re waiting for safety, predictability, and care. You rebuild your sense of self the same way you build trust with another person: One consistent action at a time.

It’s brushing your hair instead of pulling it up in frustration. It’s putting your phone down and drinking tea. It’s crying when the tears come instead of swallowing them down.

These things don’t look revolutionary. But they are. Because every small act of care tells your body and mind, “You matter. I’m here. I’ve got you now.”

I remember one day vividly.

It was pouring rain. My toddler had just thrown oatmeal across the room. I was already touched out, overstimulated, and dangerously close to tears. My instinct was to throw the day away, to turn on cartoons and pour coffee over my anxiety and call it survival.

But instead, I sat on the floor. I scooped my screaming child into my lap, pressed my forehead to his, and whispered, “We’re okay. We’re safe.”

I took a breath. Then another. And something in me softened.

That moment didn’t fix my life. But it reminded me of my power. That was healing, too.

If you’re in a season where everything feels off, where you feel numb or exhausted or like the spark you used to have is buried under obligation, I want you to know this:

You don’t need a ten-step plan. You need one small thing you can do today that feels like care.

A breath. A meal. A walk. A text to someone safe. A cry you’ve been holding in.

That is healing. Not a dramatic rebirth, but a quiet reweaving of yourself, thread by sacred thread.

A Few Things That Helped Me

• Lower the bar. Healing isn’t about being your best self every day. Some days it’s just about not abandoning yourself. Start there.
• Romanticize the boring. Light the candle. Make the tea. Put on the cozy socks. Small rituals matter. They remind you that your life is worth living even when it’s messy.
• Give yourself credit. Every time you choose presence over autopilot, you’re rewiring something. That’s no small thing.
• Befriend your body. It’s not broken. It’s responding to years of survival. Treat it like a loyal companion, not a machine that’s malfunctioning.
• Talk to yourself like someone you love. When you mess up. When you overreact. When you don’t meet your own expectations. Especially then.
• Keep showing up. Even if it’s not glamorous. Especially when it’s not.

You won’t always feel the shift. But you’ll wake up one day and realize: you’re softer. Kinder. Less reactive. More you.

That’s what healing does.

Quietly. Faithfully. Cell by cell.

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About Cristie Robbins

Cristie Robbins is a published author, certified mental wellness coach, and the founder of The Wellness Blueprint. She helps women reduce stress and reclaim vitality through a root-cause approach. Learn more or connect with Cristie at thewellnessblueprint.org. and follow her on Facebook and Instagram.

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Planning Without Panic and Learning to Live in the Now

“You can plan for a hundred years. But you don’t know what will happen the next moment.” ~Tibetan proverb

Some days it feels like a fog I can’t shake—this underlying fear that something painful or uncertain is just around the corner.

I try to be responsible. I try to prepare, make good choices, take care of things now so the future won’t unravel later. But beneath that effort is something harder to face: I feel helpless. I can’t control what’s coming, and that terrifies me.

Maybe you’ve felt this too—that tension between doing your best and still fearing it’s not enough. Worry becomes a habit, like you’re rehearsing bad outcomes in your head just in case they happen.

That’s where I found myself when I turned to Buddhist teachings—not for comfort exactly, but for a different relationship with uncertainty.

What Buddhism Taught Me About the Future

One of the first things I learned is that Buddhism doesn’t tell us to stop caring about the future. It teaches us to stop living in it.

The Buddha spoke of suffering as arising from two core causes: craving (wanting things to go a certain way) and aversion (pushing away what we don’t want). When I spin into worry or try to predict everything, I’m doing both—I’m grasping for control and resisting what I fear.

But the future is always uncertain. That’s the part I don’t want to admit. I used to believe that if I thought hard enough, planned carefully enough, I could outmaneuver risk. But I’ve learned that worry isn’t preparation—it’s just suffering in advance. It doesn’t protect me. It only pulls me out of the life I’m actually living.

The Real Conflict: Planning vs. Presence

Here’s the real tension I struggle with—and maybe you do too: I believe in the power of presence. But I also know I have to plan.

As a filmmaker, planning isn’t optional. Without preparation, things fall apart. A well-structured plan doesn’t just prevent chaos—it makes room for creativity. It allows me to focus, explore, and respond to the moment without losing direction. In that way, planning is part of my art.

So when I first encountered teachings about letting go and trusting the moment, it felt contradictory. How could I live in the now when my work, and life, require thinking ahead?

This was the real conflict—the push and pull between control and surrender, between structure and flow. One is necessary for functioning in the world. The other is necessary for actually feeling alive in it.

A Real-Life Lesson in Letting Go

Years ago, I received grants to make a 16mm documentary about Emanuel Wood, a traditional Ozarks fiddler with a rich musical heritage and a colorful presence. I had high-quality gear lined up—Nagra 4.2 audio, film stock, the works—and the project felt blessed. Emanuel was eager. I was hopeful. The plan was solid.

It felt like everything was finally coming together.

But over the years I’ve learned something the hard way: sometimes, when I feel euphoric about a plan, it’s also a signal—a subtle warning that life might have something else in mind.

Sure enough, Emanuel died unexpectedly just a few months before I was scheduled to begin filming. Just like that, the film I had meticulously envisioned, built support for, and shaped my year around was gone.

I was devastated. I couldn’t give the grant money back, and I didn’t want to abandon the deeper spirit of the project. So I did what I didn’t expect to do: I stayed present, and I listened.

I made a different film. A new one. Something just as honest and grounded in the world Emanuel represented. It was shaped by the same love of music, the same longing to preserve meaning, and it emerged only because I stayed with the discomfort and uncertainty of not knowing what to do next.

Planning had given me the structure. But presence—and trust—allowed the story to live on in a different form.

The Middle Path: Flexible Readiness

I think about that lesson often. The same conflict plays out across many fields. The military trains obsessively for what can’t be predicted. A jazz musician rehearses scales for hours, only to let them go once the song begins.

We don’t have to abandon planning. We just have to make space for improvisation.

This is how I’ve come to understand the Buddhist path in a practical world: Planning is necessary. But clinging is optional.

Now, I try to plan the way a musician tunes their instrument. Prepare with care. Show up with intention. But when the moment comes, play—not from control, but from connection.

What Helps Me Now

These days, when fear about the future rises, I pause. I breathe. I ask myself: Am I trying to control something I can’t? Can I still act responsibly without gripping so tightly? Can I trust this moment, even briefly?

I still make plans. I still take responsibility. But I no longer pretend I can outthink uncertainty. I try to meet it with curiosity, flexibility, and a little kindness toward myself.

Sometimes I quietly repeat:

May I be safe. May I meet whatever comes with courage and care. May I trust this moment.

That doesn’t solve everything. But it brings me back to the only place I actually have any power: here.

You don’t have to give up planning. Just stop making it your emotional insurance policy.

You can build the structure, take the next right step, and still leave space for life to surprise you.

Let your plans serve your life—not replace it.

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About Tony Collins

Tony Collins is a documentary filmmaker, educator, and writer whose work explores creativity, caregiving, and personal growth. He is the author of: Windows to the Sea—a moving collection of essays on love, loss, and presence. Creative Scholarship—a guide for educators and artists rethinking how creative work is valued. Tony writes to reflect on what matters—and to help others feel less alone.

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From Burnout to Bliss: The Beauty of Therapeutic Art

“It takes courage to say yes to rest and play in a culture where exhaustion is seen as a status symbol.” ~Brené Brown

“You have burnout.” I listened to these three words in a trance, said thank you, and got off the call with the doctor.

Part of me had known.

The endless days I spent in bed staring at the ceiling with no motivation to do anything. The inability to focus on my screen. And the sudden bursts of tears when I saw yet another meeting pop up in my calendar.

I knew all of this wasn’t normal. That something was going wrong.

But another part of me was in disbelief. Burnout?! How can I be burned out if I’m doing what I love?

Just three years ago, I co-founded a company to help chronic disease patients. I was here to change the world, to help others, to build something meaningful.

How is it possible to burn out following your own dream? That’s something that just happens to miserable people in their nine-to-five jobs.

As I dove deeper, I learned how wrong I was.

It’s actually much more common to burn out when you’re running your own company than when you’re an employee.

The financial rollercoaster, the rejections along the way, the countless weekends spent working without ever really taking a break—we are not made for that.

No matter if we’re following our own dream or someone else’s.

So, like the perfectionist and hustler I was, I thought: Let’s fix this fast so I can get back to feeling joy for what I’m building.

I read the self-help books, did talk therapy, started mindset coaching, tried different productivity techniques, but the void inside me, the demotivation, the inability to feel joy—none of it went away.

And underneath all of this was a crippling fear: What if I’ll only get healthy if I leave everything I’ve built behind?

The turning point came one day, out of the blue.

I was sitting at the beach watching the sunset, and as I watched the sun setting in its glamorous colors, I heard a voice inside my head say, “Go and buy paint.” At first, I dismissed it, but it got louder and louder until it was practically screaming: “GO AND BUY PAINT.”

And so, I did. I went to the nearest dollar store, bought cheap acrylics, a small canvas, and a few brushes.

At home, I put a plastic bag on my bed, and without much thought, I started painting.

The first brushstroke hit me deeply. I felt my body and heart exhale: finally, you have come home!

I painted for hours. And when I finished, I was exhausted, but it was a good exhaustion, like after a long hike, when you’re filled with a quiet love inside.

For the first time in months, I fell into a deep, long sleep. When I woke up the next afternoon, the void didn’t feel so big anymore.

I felt… I couldn’t quite describe it at first. Until I realized: I felt happy.

I spent the next months painting every single day.

I learned different techniques, invented my own, and with each drawing, I left behind traces of overworking, criticism, judgment, perfectionism, and self-pressure.

After a while, I got curious. I wanted to understand what the art had actually done to me. Was it possible to heal burnout “just” by painting?

So I went down the rabbit hole: studying, learning, experimenting. The deeper I went, the more I realized it wasn’t really about the art at all.

The art was just the tool. A tool to create space to feel, to process, to change the internal narrative.

Maybe you know what I mean. Maybe you’re completely drained and exhausted by your work, whether in a demanding job or in your own business, and you’re questioning why this is happening to you. Maybe you already know it can’t go on like this, but you feel trapped in the situation you’re in.

If so, here are a few things that helped me in my process using art and that might help you, too.

And no, you don’t need fancy materials or specific techniques.

The type of art I found most healing is called therapeutic art. It’s not about the outcome; it’s about the process. The paintings don’t have to be pretty. Sometimes they’re just black scribbles, circles, undefined shapes. It’s all about expressing yourself onto the paper.

So here they are—the five lessons that helped me in my quest to heal from burnout.

1. Connect to your creator self.

Your creator self is the part of you that exists beyond the roles, responsibilities, and pressure of your work. The part of you that’s here simply to create and express.

Burnout disconnects us from that part of ourselves. Through mindful painting, we can make space to turn inward, explore freely, and reclaim a sense of agency over our own experience.

When you use art therapeutically, there’s no need to prove anything or achieve a result. It’s about being present in the moment, feeling your hands move across the paper, and letting yourself just be.

That’s what helps reconnect you to your sense of aliveness and to the real you beneath all the noise.

2. Release stress from your body.

Burnout and overworking aren’t just mindset problems. All the stress, all the emotions you chose not to feel along the way, get stored in your body.

Your body literally goes into survival mode, and no amount of thinking or talking will fix what’s happening in your system.

Therapeutic art is a mind-body practice that helps process tension, emotions, traumas, and stress that have been stored for years.

The act of painting, moving your hands, and letting emotions flow through color onto the paper allows your body to exhale and relax. It gives your system the break it has been screaming for.

3. Rewrite the success story running in your subconscious.

Most of what drives our actions doesn’t come from conscious thought, it comes from the subconscious, which shapes 90–95% of how we think, feel, and act.

This is where all the hidden beliefs live that drive us into overwork and burnout: “Rest is lazy,” “If I slow down, I’ll fail,” “Success has to be hard.”

Even if you logically know these aren’t true, your subconscious doesn’t. It keeps running on these old programs.

Through painting freely and intuitively, you can project these thought patterns onto the paper. You may catch yourself wanting to control the outcome, judging the process, or feeling anxious when things get messy.

And in those moments, you have the chance to soften, challenge the old stories, and show your system that there’s another way to live and create.

4. Let go of what’s no longer working.

Burnout is a sign that something you’ve been carrying—a habit, a role, a belief, an idea—is no longer aligned with your highest self.

Art gives you a safe space to practice letting go. On the canvas, you can release control, let things get messy, and allow what wants to emerge to show up without needing to fix or force it.

This mirrors what we need to do in life: loosen the grip, experiment, and trust the process. When you practice surrender in small ways through art, it becomes easier to loosen your grip on the bigger things draining you.

5. Rediscover your joy again.

One of the most painful things about burnout is losing your sense of joy. Everything becomes dull, gray, and heavy.

Therapeutic art invites you back to joy without a goal. It’s not about making something pretty or useful. It’s about playing with colors, being fully present, and simply observing yourself.

When you paint just for the experience, you remind your system what it feels like to have fun and be here without needing to earn anything.

And that, in itself, is a powerful way to heal.

Burnout doesn’t mean you’ve failed or are broken. It’s often a sign that something in your life or in you is ready to change. For me, painting became the safe and joyful space back to myself.

The best thing is that you don’t need to be an artist to use painting in your healing process.

What matters is making space to listen inward, to let your body exhale, and to soften the old stories you’ve been carrying.

And when you do, you might be surprised at what’s still alive inside you, just waiting to come home.

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About Christine Peine

Christine Peine is a business alignment coach and therapeutic art facilitator helping founders and solopreneurs who want to let go of the draining business responsibilities and reclaim their free time, passion and joy. Explore free resources for healing burnout and realigning your business at christinepeine.com or connect with her on Instagram @create.with.christine

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