Writings

The Body Holds What the Mind Cannot:
On Caregiving Fatigue
 

My body hurts.

Whispers of new pain have been surfacing over the last ten months. Aches and twangs in my neck. A tingling in my shoulders. A strange twisting through my spine that has settled into my hips.

I am in pain because my son has been sick—and I am his mum.

My body has quietly been soaking up the trauma and sadness, holding it all, kindly allowing my mind the space it needed to keep going. And there has been so much to hold.

Hospital stays. Doctors’ meetings. Multiple surgeries. Keeping vigil. Witnessing. Helping my brave boy shoulder the shock of a diagnosis that turned his world upside down in a day.

Trying to make sense of something that makes no sense.

And carrying on nonetheless.

There was no time to feel it.

The crisis is over now—thankfully. He is back at work, finding his way back to himself.

And only now, these shoulders that have been holding so much are starting to ache.

The pain in my heart has travelled into my body—tightness through my back, rivers of tension pulsing down my spine. Choked tears rising from my chest into my throat.

When my body is held—when it is deeply touched—it sobs.

I am deeply, deeply tired.

When I put my health psychologist hat on, I understand this. Of course I do.

We are wired to feel the pain of those we love. Our nervous systems resonate; our bodies mirror. We carry each other.

But we are not built to carry this kind of pain indefinitely.

Something has to give.

Sometimes we fatigue.
Sometimes we fall apart.
And sometimes—we store it away.

We keep going, and the body quietly holds what the mind cannot.

Until later.

This is familiar territory for me. It’s what I teach.

And mostly, I do take my own medicine. I practise yoga. I meditate. I have good support, wise teachers. Self-compassion is my daily practice.

I know how to do this.

So what is this?

This feels deeper than fatigue. More visceral. A kind of pain that reaches into the bones.

Perhaps this is vicarious trauma—of watching my boy’s body be cut, be hurt, be in unbearable pain. Of witnessing what no mother wants to witness.

And perhaps it is the accumulation of other things, all arriving at once.

I didn’t think I could bear it.

And yet—bear it we must.

My dear body has held the overflow, titrating the shock, bit by bit, until now—when there is finally space to feel.

I thought I was doing fine.

It turns out there is more.

There is always more.

And the only way through…
is through.

Even now, as I begin to feel this for myself, I am still aching for him. Still wishing I could take it all away.

But I can’t.

What I can do is go slowly.

Very slowly.

I can take things as easefully as I need. I can keep myself company on this path. I can wrap myself in the grace of time and space.

And I can listen.

Because what I need right now is not only tender self-compassion—the soft, soothing, nurturing presence.

I also need fierce self-compassion.

Clearer boundaries.
A stronger, more embodied no.
A turning toward what truly matters.

Less obligation.
Less performing.
Less pushing through.

More truth.

It is time to turn up the power.

Time for more space.
More rest.
More joy.
More fun.

Life is getting shorter by the day.

So for now—no more workshops this year. No more new clients. No more saying yes when I mean no.

It is time to close the doors.

To shut up shop.

To stop.

To let this body rest.

To curl inwards.

To soften.

To feel.

And to trust…

that something wise is unfolding here too.

Lost at Sea

A few weeks ago, just before New Year, I found myself lost in a big sea — swept several kilometres from shore, clinging tightly to my paddleboard.

I felt very small. Very fragile. Rising and falling with increasingly large ocean swells.

A simple decision to test a new board became something else entirely. The offshore wind picked up, the current strengthened, and suddenly I was in trouble.

Eventually, I was rescued by the local surf lifesaving crew, responding to calls from people who had seen the wind rise and carry me away.

I lived to tell the tale.
And I won’t be paddleboarding in conditions like that again anytime soon.

So why am I telling you this?

Aside from offering a heartfelt thank you to the surf lifesavers (you’re extraordinary), what struck me most was this:

I wasn’t panicked.

I was uncomfortable, yes. And I knew my husband would be doing everything he could to get help. But still — it was a dangerous situation. I was a long way out and not easy to find.

Yet when I got home, others seemed more distressed about it than I had been. I’m grateful for that — it felt good to be loved and cared for — but I was left quietly curious.

Why had it felt, relatively speaking, easeful?

Especially given that it came at the end of a year that, by many accounts, had been incredibly difficult.

Over the past year, my son became suddenly and seriously ill, requiring three weeks in hospital and major surgery to save his life.

Someone I love hurt me deeply, and it took time and space to find forgiveness and repair.

My house flooded.
My hand was badly injured.
And hard things happened to people I care about.

And yet — life continued.

Another son graduated from university.
We celebrated my mother’s 80th birthday.
My overseas family came home for Christmas.

I kept working and teaching.
I practised yoga most days.
I meditated.
I lived.

In truth, I would describe the year as rich and full.

So back to the ocean.

While at times I got caught in my own internal waves — fear, for instance — I can say with certainty that my suffering in response to that fear was not as intense as it once might have been.

I focused on my breathing.
I lay down on my board.
I followed the rhythm of my in-breath and out-breath.

And I spoke to myself kindly.

I wrapped myself in compassion and waited.

In that moment, my paddleboard became my meditation mat.

I knew what to do.

If years of meditation practice have changed anything in me, it hasn’t been through sudden transformation or dramatic insight.

It has been through small, steady shifts — micro-steps towards a more easeful way of being.

Long ago, I gave up striving for a particular outcome when I sit down to practise (and any hopes of enlightenment can wait for another lifetime).

Sometimes I touch a place of calm.
Occasionally there is clarity or insight.
Mostly, I notice my mind wandering and gently bring it back.

And yet, something has changed.

I am less upended by the unexpected.
More equanimous.
More able to savour and appreciate.

I am kinder to myself — and, I hope, to others.

While I have always been able to sit with others’ suffering (I am a therapist, after all), I now bring a greater sense of emotional buoyancy to that space.

Very often, I feel joyful.
Most of the time, I feel content.

It turns out this practice is not just good for me.

When we suffer less in response to adversity, we are less likely to create further suffering.

We don’t escalate anger.
We don’t panic and make things worse.
We don’t catastrophise when life delivers its inevitable blows.

We blame less.
We recover faster.
We sweat the small stuff less.

We learn, in some small way, to surf the waves.

Life goes on — until it doesn’t.

Meditation helps.
Kindness matters.

For now, the conditions are calm, the sea is warm…

And yes — I’m heading out for another paddle.

The Practice of Coming Home to Yourself
On mindfulness, self-compassion, and living well

​

I teach the practice of mindfulness and self-compassion.

At its heart, this is about learning to treat ourselves with kindness and understanding when we are experiencing stress, pain, or difficulty.

In other words, learning to relate to ourselves in the same way we would naturally relate to someone we love.

For many people, this begins with a simple but profound realisation:

That being continually tough on ourselves is not a sustainable way to live.

And that it is through kindness—towards ourselves and others—that we not only flourish, but are actually more able to achieve what matters to us.

Curiously, many people fear that if they were kinder to themselves, they might lose their edge. Become complacent. Let themselves off the hook.

But the opposite is true.

When we feel safe within ourselves, we are far more likely to take care of our health, to make wise choices, and to show up in our lives with clarity and courage.

This understanding shaped my research, where I explored self-compassion as an intervention for people living with diabetes. The hypothesis was simple: if people could relate to themselves with greater kindness, they might be more motivated to care for themselves—both physically and emotionally.

And that is exactly what we found.

Coming out of the head, into the body

One of the first invitations in this work is to gently come out of the head and into the body.

To pause.

To check in.

To feel.

Particularly when things are difficult.

Because emotions—whether subtle whispers or powerful waves—are not problems to be fixed.

They are a form of intelligence.

They give us information about what we need.

And yet, many of us have learned to override this system.

We distract. We push through. We tell ourselves to “get on with it.”

Or we have been shaped by a culture that suggests we should feel good all the time—that something is wrong if we don’t.

But feelings are not flaws.

They are energy in motion.

And when we allow ourselves to feel them—without immediately reacting—we create space.

From that space, we can respond more wisely.

We are less likely to hurt others.

And we are far less likely to hurt ourselves.

Small ways to practise self-compassion

Self-compassion doesn’t require grand gestures.

It begins with small, intentional moments.

Stopping, even briefly, to check in with yourself.

Remembering that you are a human being, not a human doing.

Dropping anchor. Taking a breath. Allowing yourself to pause in the midst of a busy day.

Sometimes, it can be as simple as offering yourself a gentle, supportive touch.

Placing a hand on your heart. Feeling its warmth.

This may sound small, but it is powerful.

Soothing touch activates the body’s caregiving system, releasing oxytocin—helping us feel calmer, safer, more held.

And from that place, something shifts.

A different relationship with striving

Much of our suffering comes from the belief that we must constantly strive, improve, and perfect ourselves.

But a well-lived life is not built on relentless self-criticism.

It is built on balance.

Giving yourself permission to be imperfect. To be human. To be, at times, a little messy.

This is not about self-indulgence or avoidance.

It is about recognising that harsh self-judgment does not help us grow—it often keeps us stuck.

Self-compassion, on the other hand, gives us the strength to face what is hard.

To say no when we are overextended.

To stand up for our needs.

To make choices that truly support our wellbeing.

Protecting yourself from burnout

We are living in a world that is increasingly busy, demanding, and overwhelming.

Burnout is not a personal failure—it is often the result of giving too much for too long without adequate replenishment.

One of the most important practices we can cultivate is the ability to “drop anchor.”

To pause deliberately, even for a few minutes each day.

There is a saying often attributed to the Dalai Lama:

“Meditate for 20 minutes a day—unless you’re too busy. Then meditate for an hour.”

The point is simple.

When life is most demanding, self-care is not optional—it is essential.

Self-compassion is not an indulgence.

Often, it is what allows us to keep going—without losing ourselves along the way.

A simple self-compassion practice

When stress arises—as it inevitably will—you might try a brief self-compassion break:

1. Notice what is happening
   Acknowledge: This is hard. (Mindfulness)

2. Remember you are not alone
   Others feel this too. This is part of being human. (Common humanity)

3. Offer yourself kindness
   Speak to yourself as you would to someone you love. (Self-kindness)

This simple practice can be profoundly regulating.

It interrupts the cycle of self-criticism and replaces it with something far more supportive.

What does it mean to live well?

For me, wellbeing is not about doing more.

It is about doing less—more intentionally.

It is about cultivating a kind of un-busyness.

Building a life in which practices like yoga and meditation are not extras, but foundations.

When I begin my day this way, I feel more grounded, more steady, more able to meet whatever arises.

A teacher once said to me that practising early in the morning is like pushing a boulder up a hill—hard at first—but then you spend the rest of the day rolling down the other side.

And when I fall away from these practices—as I sometimes do—I remind myself that I am human.

And I begin again.

This, ultimately, is the work.

Coming back to ourselves.

Again and again.

With kindness.

With curiosity.

With compassion.

Fly High Little Black Bird

This morning I walked past a small blackbird, contorted in pain, turning in small, desperate circles on the pavement.

A part of me wanted to pretend I hadn’t seen it. But I made myself stop, kneel down, and consider how I might help this tiny feathered creature. It was ghastly — and yet I’m so glad I stopped.

Before this pandemic began, back when the world seemed like a different place, many of us were perhaps more easily able to walk past the suffering bird. If we looked away, maybe we didn’t have to see.

Then COVID arrived, and suddenly suffering was everywhere — unavoidable for anyone with their eyes open. No country was spared.

In response, alongside many international organisations, the Center for Mindful Self-Compassion began offering online meditation circles for anyone in the world who wished to join. These were held four times a day across time zones, led by senior teachers guiding 45-minute compassion-based practices. They were — and remain — freely offered.

For many who join each day, these circles have become a light in what has sometimes felt like a bleak world. They offer gentle structure to long days, ease for tired bodies, rest for over-busy minds, connection for the isolated, and solace for the aching — a candle in the window warming countless hearts.

They are also quietly extraordinary. Often, people from all four corners of the globe gather together in a single Zoom room.

Sometimes I have the privilege of leading these sessions — usually the 4pm Pacific Time slot (11am NZT). I take my place alongside a community of people, some who come occasionally, and others who arrive every single day.

Over time, so much has unfolded among us — individually and collectively. Sorrows, joys, and the simple, ordinary business of daily life. Whatever arises is met with kindness, with warmth, and with a sense of connection that is palpable, even through a screen.

What a gift it has been to meet in this quiet way — to share breath, silence, collective wisdom, and a deep, unspoken positive regard.

The benefits of meditation practice are immense. For me, my mat has become a resting place — a refuge. A place to make peace with my thoughts and feelings, and to see things more clearly.

Taking a disciplined dose of “me time” each day has deepened my trust in what I think of as the heart-mind — that quiet seat of intuition and wisdom that has always been there, gently whispering the way.

Meditation has given me the courage to listen to that voice, and to follow where it leads — even when that has meant doing hard things. And it has.

It has also led me to work that feels deeply meaningful — work that offers daily opportunities to learn, to grow, and to be of service in the direction of a kinder world.

Along the way, I’ve been able to let go of things I once believed I needed to fix, and to see more clearly what truly matters. It turns out that includes caring for myself as well as others.

I’ve learned to protect my energy when I need to, and to give it freely when I can. That, in itself, feels like a quiet kind of power.

Most importantly, I am a little more able to lean into what is — even when it’s painful or hard — without needing it to be different.

It’s life.
Nothing right, nothing wrong — just life.
The highs, the lows, and everything in between.

And I find myself incredibly grateful to be living it.
I hope to do so, even just a little more lovingly.

And I know this too: none of us has to do it alone.

Fly high, sweet blackbird.

You would be so welcome to join the Center for Mindful Self-Compassion free meditation circles:
https://signup.centerformsc.org/

Feeling What is Feelable: On Embodiment 

Often in Mindful Self-Compassion (MSC) training, we are invited to move out of our heads and into our bodies.

To notice when we are caught in thinking—and to gently drop down into feeling.

In other words, to feel what is feelable.

When we tune into the body, we begin to access what is true. What is here. What is present.

Our emotions—whether subtle whispers or powerful surges of energy—do not lie. They are never wrong, even when they are uncomfortable, confusing, or hard to bear.

They carry information.

They have a purpose.

And they unfold in their own time—sometimes fleeting, sometimes long-lingering.

When we lean into our embodied experience, when we soften enough to listen, we open to an exquisite source of knowing.

Not the knowing of analysis or interpretation, but something deeper. Felt. Immediate. Alive.

This is the body’s language.

And when we learn to trust it—to be guided by it—we begin to move through the world differently.

With more attunement.
More honesty.
More compassion.

This is not always easy.

To feel is, at times, to meet grief, fear, shame, or pain.

But it is also to meet aliveness. Connection. Truth.

And this is the practice.

Again and again, we return—out of the head, into the body.

Learning to stay.

Learning to listen.

Learning to trust.

This is a powerful practice—one that serves us not only as individuals, but also as practitioners and teachers of mindful self-compassion.

Because we cannot guide others into a place we are not willing to go ourselves.

Making the In-Between Breaths Count: On what makes a life well-lived

In the space of a few short months, I watched—awestruck—as my granddaughter took her first-ever breath, and bore silent witness as a dying stranger took their last.

One life began.
Another life ended.

The veil lifted. The bells chimed.

I was reminded, once again, that life is miraculous, fleeting, fragile—and infinitely precious.

Nothing is permanent.
Everything is changing, arriving and leaving.

And somewhere in the space between those breaths, we are given a life to live.

With the New Year’s gift of slowed time—and the oxygen and inspiration that comes from travelling in foreign places—I found myself reflecting on what it means to make those in-between breaths count.

What makes a life well-lived?

1. Make friends with yourself

Learn who you are. What you like. What you need.

No matter who we meet, love, lose, or live with, the longest relationship we will ever have is with ourselves.

Learn to enjoy your own company. To find solace in your own care.

Don’t confuse coupledom with connection.

Ultimately, the most important relationship we have must be with ourselves—because without it, we cannot sustain the energy required to truly be present for another over time.

Self-compassion is not selfish.
It is what allows us to flourish, to shine, and to thrive—whether we are partnered or alone.

And if you are single, there is opportunity here.

In truly getting to know yourself, you are far less likely to choose someone in the hope that they will do that for you.

They can’t.

It’s not their job.

And it rarely ends well.

2. Feel your feelings

All of them.

Even—especially—the difficult ones.

Emotions like anger, sadness, guilt, or fear are not problems to be fixed. They are a form of intelligence—one that all human beings have access to.

They tell us what we need.

Problems arise when we turn away from our pain.

Perhaps we were never taught it was safe to feel. Perhaps we were shut down, shamed, or shaped by a culture that insists we should be happy all the time.

But feelings are not flaws.

They are energy in motion.

They carry information—but they are not always the full truth.

So when things feel hard, try not to immediately act, speak, or react.

Pause.

Turn toward yourself with kindness.

Care for yourself as you would someone you love.

If you can stay with your experience—just for a moment—you may find a little more space.

And from that space, a wiser response can emerge.

You will be less likely to hurt others.

And more importantly—you will hurt yourself less.

3. Protect your sacred energy

None of us have an unlimited capacity to give.

Protecting your energy is not indulgent—it is a responsibility.

Give yourself permission to step back from people who mistake your presence for permission to take, talk over, or lean too heavily.

Learn to listen to your inner energy barometer.

It will tell you when something is off—when more is being taken than you have to give, or want to give.

(And those are not the same thing.)

Boundaries are not barriers to connection.

They are what make safe, sustainable connection possible.

You cannot be a harbour for others if you are drowning yourself.

It is ok to say no.

It is ok to say, “I’m not able to do that right now.”

It is ok to re-choose.

4. Don’t waste your precious time

Grow your mind.

Stay curious.

Keep learning—formally or informally—but be discerning about what and who you allow into your mental space.

Try to master something.

Anything.

Something that takes time, patience, and practice.

Because everything that looks effortless was once difficult.

A yoga posture.
An instrument.
Painting.
Knitting.
Dancing.

Whatever it is—choose something.

And begin.

Start small. Set the bar low. Keep going.

What matters is not perfection—but continuity.

Because what is not exercised, atrophies.

That includes both body and mind.

5. Practise forgiveness

Start with yourself.

Because you will get things wrong.

You will hurt people.
You will make mistakes.

That is part of being human.

Forgiveness is not about excusing what happened.

It is about releasing the story that keeps the pain alive—when holding onto it is no longer serving you.

And sometimes, you may not be ready to forgive.

That’s ok too.

No one can tell you when or how to do that.

But it is worth remembering this:

Resentment is like drinking poison and hoping the other person suffers.

It harms us more than them.

That said, anger can be protective.

If you still need it, honour that.

But gently ask yourself:

Is this still protecting me?
Or is it time to let it go?

And if it is time, don’t do it alone.

Find someone steady. Someone you trust.

Let it be worked through.

And if someone comes to you, sharing how they’ve been hurt by you—try to listen.

Without defence.

Without explanation.

You didn’t know then what you know now.

But now—you can choose differently.

6. Know what you stand for

What do you want to leave behind?

Most of us will not be remembered for long.

But the way we live—right now—matters.

To the people around us.

To the lives we touch.

In a world that often feels overwhelming, polarised, and uncertain, it is more important than ever to be steady.

To find your values. Your principles. Your ground.

And to stand there.

Not perfectly—but sincerely.

At the very least, practise compassion.

Be slow to judge.

Try, when you can, to walk in another’s shoes.

See the common humanity around you.

You won’t always get it right.

But you can keep trying.

Because the science is clear:

Compassion and kindness are not only gifts to others—they are gifts to ourselves.

And sometimes, a small act of kindness can change—or even save—a life.

And when that final breath comes…

Perhaps what will matter most is this:

That you lived with kindness.
That you did your best.
That you made those in-between breaths count.