Bali was a season in my life. Like adolescence, like grief, like the slow reshaping that happens when you’re no longer who you were—but not yet who you’ll become.
There, I stepped into what Jung might call the third space. Not just as a concept, but as a lived experience: where ritual didn’t just honour change—it gave it form.
This piece isn’t about replacing clinical frameworks. It’s about widening the field of what healing can mean—beyond language, into something felt, embodied, and respectfully held.
Recovery hasn’t felt like a breakthrough. It’s felt like a shedding. I am not who I was when I left, and returning to my life has felt like waking up in someone else’s dream. Everything familiar—but slightly off. I’m not just reclaiming my energy. I’m reclaiming myself. It doesn’t look like bouncing back. It looks like thawing. At first, you’re still. Then you’re soft. Then, slowly, you start to feel again—the ache, the grief, the hunger—for life, for joy, for yourself.
Burnout isn’t just a mental state—it’s a physical one. It shows up in your hormones, your appetite, your ability to feel joy. In this piece, we explore what happens when stress becomes chronic, when the nervous system forgets how to rest, and how one woman began to heal not by doing more—but by finally being witnessed.
