For a long time, being busy felt like a badge of honour. My days were full. Work. Kids. Planning meals. Grocery shopping Cooking meals. Emails. Activities. Appointments Laundry. Trying to keep the house running. Trying to keep everyone happy. If someone asked how things were going, my answer was usually the same. “Busy.” And I wore that word like proof that I was doing life well. Being busy meant I was productive, responsible, showing up for everyone. Somewhere along the way, I started...

I used to always say yes to my husband Dave. He’d ask if he could go out with friends, stay out late, go and play golf. And I would smile and say, “Yeah, that’s fine.” Every time. But inside? I was getting more and more resentful. I was exhausted, overwhelmed, quietly drowning in responsibility. And yet, I kept saying yes. He would say, “I can stay home.” Or “I can come home with you and the kids.” But I’d feel guilty for making him. So I’d tell myself, if he really wanted to stay home, he...

I had co-hosted a full day retreat, picked up the kids from daycare, came home and started dinner - homemade, of course, because good mums don’t pull something from a box. Good mums feed their kids real food. Good mums don’t cut corners or at least that’s what I believed. I remember standing at the counter feeling like I was outside my own body, watching myself move through the motions. Chop. Stir. Plate. Smile. Hurry. We had to eat and get out the door for baseball. Every movement felt...