when self-destruction looks like survival

There was a time in my life when I didn’t realise I was destroying myself.

I thought I was just getting through. I thought the late nights, the reckless choices, the quiet spirals of overthinking and overwhelm were just part of life. I thought survival meant being numb. I told myself I was fine. That I didn’t care. That none of it really mattered.

But the truth is… I was tired.

Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes. The kind of tired that settles deep in your bones. The kind that comes from carrying too much pain, too many stories, too many masks. I was exhausted from pretending I didn’t feel anything. From running from the grief, the loneliness, the hurt that lived under the surface. I was tired of pushing people away before they could leave. Tired of trying to fill the void with anything that made it hurt less, people who didn’t value me, choices I didn’t understand, habits that left me emptier than before.

I told myself it was control. That I was independent. Strong. Resilient.

But really… it was self-destruction dressed in armour.

And that’s the thing about self-destruction. It doesn’t always look loud. It doesn’t always look chaotic or obvious. Sometimes it looks like high-functioning, always-doing, always-giving. Sometimes it looks like perfectionism. Like people-pleasing. Like telling yourself you’re okay, even when you’re breaking inside.

It looks like silence. Like busyness. Like keeping everything moving so you never have to sit still long enough to hear the ache in your chest. It looks like pride that says “I don’t need anyone” and wounds that whisper “because no one ever stayed.” It looks like shrinking so you don’t take up too much space. Like overachieving so you feel worthy of love. Like being the helper so you never have to admit you need help too.

That was me for a long time. On the outside, I looked like I had it together. But on the inside, I was unravelled. Not because I was weak, but because I had never been taught how to be with my pain, only how to hide it.

Healing didn’t arrive in one big moment. There was no lightning bolt, no dramatic turning point. It came slowly. Quietly. Through a series of small, almost unnoticeable choices.

It started the first time I allowed myself to cry without shame. Without swallowing it down. Without rushing to fix it or explain it away. It started the moment I stopped running and sat with myself instead. The moment I stopped asking, “What’s wrong with me?” and started gently wondering, “What happened to me?”

I began to see that the way I’d been living, always on edge, always striving, always disconnected, wasn’t the life I wanted. And more than that, it wasn’t the life I deserved.

I had to learn that I was safe now.

That I didn’t have to keep punishing myself for things that were never mine to carry. That I didn’t have to keep surviving in ways that cost me my softness. That I could lay down the armour and still be okay. That healing wasn’t about fixing something broken, it was about coming home to myself.

And that homecoming has been the most powerful journey of all.

If you’re in that place now, the one where everything feels heavy and confusing, where you’re doing things you don’t fully understand, pushing people away while craving closeness, feeling stuck in cycles that make no sense but somehow feel familiar… I want you to know I see you.

Because I’ve been there too.

And I want you to know this, you are not broken. You are not beyond help. And you are not alone in this.

There is another way.

You don’t have to keep running. You don’t have to keep performing. You don’t have to carry the pain by yourself, pretending it doesn’t hurt.

There is a gentler way.

A way that doesn’t demand perfection. That doesn’t shame your coping. That doesn’t rush your healing.

It’s a path that invites you to feel what you’ve buried. To breathe through what once felt too big. To unlearn the stories that told you love had to be earned and worth was something you had to prove.

It looks like slowing down, even when the world tells you to speed up.

It looks like listening to your body instead of overriding it.

It looks like recognising that numbness is not peace.

It looks like letting yourself be soft, even after a lifetime of being hard.

This isn’t a one-size-fits-all healing journey. It’s not linear. It’s not tidy. But it’s real. And it matters.

And most importantly, it’s possible.

You are allowed to heal. You are allowed to want more. To desire peace. To crave a life that feels honest and whole. You are allowed to be someone who once coped by surviving, but is now learning to live.

Because you are not your pain. You are not your past. You are not the habits you formed when you were just trying to stay afloat.

You are someone becoming. Someone returning to herself. Someone learning to trust again, your body, your needs, your voice, your story.

And if it feels like no one sees that part of you, let me be the one to remind you… I do.

I see the tiredness behind your smile.

I see the effort it takes to keep showing up.

I see the ache for something softer, truer, kinder.

And I want you to know, that ache is sacred. It’s the beginning of healing. It’s your body and soul calling you back home.

My own healing didn’t come in a single moment. It came in the steady practice of choosing differently. Of getting curious. Of forgiving myself for the ways I coped. Of finding support that felt safe. Of gently tending to the parts of me I used to ignore.

It came in therapy. In breathwork. In writing. In rest. In the mirror. In motherhood. In asking for help. In learning what it means to be with myself rather than running from her.

It came in softness. In slowness. In grace.

And still, some days are tender. Still, some days I feel the old patterns rise. But now I know how to meet them with love. Now I know how to stay. To breathe. To hold myself through it. To ask for support when I need it.

That’s the kind of healing I believe in.

Not healing that demands a version of you that doesn’t exist yet. But healing that meets you right where you are. In your fear. In your grief. In your uncertainty. And walks with you, one gentle step at a time.

A healing that isn’t about becoming someone else… but remembering who you’ve always been beneath the pain.

If this speaks to you, I want you to know there is support that honours your wholeness. There are safe, compassionate spaces where you don’t have to perform or pretend. Where you can exhale. Where you can be held in the softness you’ve longed for.

That’s the space I’ve built through my work as a holistic counsellor. One rooted in trauma-informed care, whole-body healing, and deep self-connection. Because I believe every woman deserves to feel safe in her own skin. Deserves to feel seen. Heard. Met in her truth, not just her achievements.

And if your path includes running a business, raising a family, or simply learning how to be with yourself again, please know, it’s okay to not have it all figured out. Healing isn’t about “getting it right.” It’s about reconnecting to what’s real.

So wherever you are on your journey, whether you’re in the early stages of awakening, deep in the messiness of unravelling, or slowly finding your way back to yourself, I honour you.

You are not behind. You are not failing. You are not too much.

You are here. And that is enough.

This is your invitation to soften. To remember. To reclaim. To choose, again and again, the kind of life that doesn’t ask you to abandon yourself to survive.

Because there is another way. And it’s waiting for you to say yes.

With love & support,

Shorina | Mindful Soul Collective

Holistic Counsellor, Wellbeing Coach & Business Mentor

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