the week from hell and when everything feels ungrounded

The last six weeks have felt like a whirlwind. Some of it beautiful, some of it heartbreaking, all of it intense. There’s grief I’m not ready to talk about yet. There’s change I did expect but felt harder than expected. And there’s been this relentless pace to life, a chaos that doesn’t wait for you to catch your breath before it hands you something else.

It started with the move. A new home, yes... one that Karl and I had dreamed of. But also, the bittersweet goodbye to the first home we raised our family in. That house held so many memories. Bedtime stories, baby giggles, tears in the kitchen, first birthdays, arguments, slow mornings, ordinary days. And leaving it felt heavier than I expected.

I actually wrote a letter to the new owners. A little way to honour the life we lived within those walls before it becomes someone else’s. It was emotional. It felt like closing a chapter. And I wasn’t quite ready for the next one.

Moving is hard enough. But add renovations, two businesses, motherhood, and personal loss, and suddenly everything feels unanchored. My office was under construction, so my workdays looked like balancing my laptop on a pillow, trying to find a hot spot on my phone, while stepping over boxes and toys and half-assembled furniture. I was living in between spaces. Not quite settled, not quite functioning.

Nothing felt grounded.

And life didn’t pause just because I needed it to. There were still emails, clients, newsletters, homework, daycare pickups, dinner to cook, mouths to feed. I was holding it all, and I felt like I was breaking.

The week I quietly call “the week from hell” was when it all came to a head.

We found problems with the floors of my new office, a roof leak, and the costs started adding up fast. And for someone who still carries money trauma from being a teenager living alone, those surprise costs didn’t just rattle my budget, they rattled my nervous system.

At the same time, my huge lingerie stock order (for my other biz) arrived… except it wasn’t mine. It was someone else’s order. And my actual stock? Still missing. My heart sank. I dropped to the floor in disbelief, wondering how I’d sort it all out.

Then, my brand new laptop battery gave up. And the internet installation? Delayed for a month. So there I was, trying to run two businesses from mobile data, with faulty tech, no working space, no team, and zero support. And two children needing me.

The smallest things became too much. Even opening my brand-new lounges felt like a final blow, they arrived damaged and dirty. I stood there looking at them, heartbroken. I wanted to cry, and I then I start howling.

I had nothing left to hold it all.

And I still showed up. Somehow. For my clients. For my kids. For Karl. For the people I love. But I was running on empty.

I remember sitting on the floor of the shower, water pouring over me like rain, and whispering, “I can’t do this.” I felt fragile. Unsteady. Alone. It was one of those moments where you wonder how you’ll get through, and somehow… you do.

The thing that shook me most wasn’t the events themselves. It was the ungroundedness. That feeling that there’s nowhere to land. That everything is moving and messy and loud and there’s no safe corner to rest in. And all of that was layered with grief I haven’t shared publicly yet. But it was there. Quiet and heavy.

And in the middle of that grief and that chaos, I was still being mum. Still reading bedtime stories, packing lunchboxes, tucking them in and telling them everything was okay. Even when I wasn’t sure it was.

Of course I got sick. Of course my body gave out. After carrying so much, for so long, it had to. I spent days in bed, aching from more than just the virus. Exhausted from the weight of it all.

And through it all, I learned something again. Something I’ve learned before but life keeps reminding me of, that surviving and thriving are not the same. That we can look like we’re coping on the outside, but inside we’re unraveling. And that’s not weakness. That’s being human.

Sometimes, surviving is the victory.

That week reminded me what it’s like to be fully inside the chaos. No bypassing. No pretty lesson at the end. Just raw, real, messy life. And I let myself feel all of it. I didn’t rush to fix it. I didn’t force myself to make sense of it. I cried. I sat. I breathed. I let myself unravel gently.

Because there’s power in not pretending.

There’s strength in saying, “This is hard,” without needing to justify or explain. There’s growth in holding your own hand through the storm, in saying, “I’m here with you,” even when no one else is.

So if you’re walking through a season that feels too heavy, I want you to know this. You’re not doing it wrong. Life is messy. Growth is messy. Grief is messy. Sometimes everything breaks at once, and we just have to sit among the pieces until it’s time to rebuild.

And even then, we don’t have to rush. We don’t have to rise quickly. We don’t have to be productive in our pain. We can be tender. Slow. Honest.

Since then, I’ve slowly started finding my feet again. There’s still so much I’m carrying, but I’ve been letting myself rest. I’ve been letting myself receive support where I can. I’ve been asking less of myself and softening into this slower season.

Because not every season is for blooming. Some are for surviving. Some are for grieving. Some are for simply breathing.

If you’re in that space too, I see you. And I’m sending love into the places that feel heavy.

You are not behind. You are not broken. You are simply human, and that’s more than enough.

With love & support,

Shorina | Mindful Soul Collective

Holistic Counsellor, Wellbeing Coach & Business Mentor

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