Control. Curate. Collapse.

I built myself a prison, decorated it beautifully, and called it healing.

I have been unable to write for the last few months. As I have learned many times, your body will pull you into line and force you to stop and take note of where you are. For me, the past eight weeks have been a crash course in moving from the mind into the body — a deep integration of both systems learning to work as one.

It was no great surprise to me that I had entered a new phase of my healing: hyperthyroidism. My body is now producing too much thyroid hormone, which in turn gifts me insomnia, heightened anxiety, and the occasional bout of mania. The likely culprit? A cocktail of stress mixed with being over-medicated on thyroxine.

Although I cannot control life events that bring pain and stress, I can control my responses to them. Tackling the thyroid feels like trying to ride a dragon, but it has also been an opportunity to take a life inventory — to look closely at who, what, and where brings me stress… or peace.

It turns out, sadly, that responsibility sits solely with me. Everything else is just a mirror reflecting the dark, murky bits I’ve swept under the carpet.

For the past three years, I have tried (and failed) to be perfect. As an avid oversharer of my so-called accomplishments — from quitting drinking to “nailing” cancer — I shared the journey with anyone who would listen. I devoured the advice of manifestation gurus, plastered my feed with quotes shouting LET THEM or whatever, and adopted perfectionism as a survival technique. The quest to curate my life left me at odds with how I was actually feeling.

The truth is, I am angry. I didn’t know what to do with that, so I swallowed it down. I became small and resentful. I built myself a little prison with windows so others could see in — but not truly connect. I couldn’t even connect with myself.

Every time I tried to step out into freedom, the comfort of that prison — the self-inflicted sadness — dragged me back, whispering, You are safe here. Hide out long enough and someone will rescue you.

But nobody came. Not because they didn’t love me, but because they didn’t know I had locked myself away.

It took a bomb going off to wake me up.

I believe humans are the most delusional of all God’s creatures. I was in massive denial — clinging to the idea that my way was the only way, and that safety meant controlling and curating every detail. I prayed for a miracle, for my feelings to vanish.

But something happened that I couldn’t pretend was a gift, and suddenly my life, through my own lens, looked… sad. Lonely. Therapy, along with coming off the antidepressants I was prescribed before my cancer diagnosis, revealed something I hadn’t wanted to see: the thing I feared most, the blame I placed elsewhere, was actually inside me. The darkness, the mess, the chaos I had “othered” was, in fact, mine.

What they don’t tell you about manifestation is that it works both ways: you attract your fears, and your fears are usually within you. My fear? Anger. Nobody celebrates it as a positive emotion, but it’s important. I could write about it, talk about it, dissect it — but I wasn’t allowing myself the grace to feel it. Why? Fear of rejection.

We write romantic stories about love but edit out the most uncomfortable parts. We live in make-believe worlds where we are right, others are wrong, and people will hurt us unless we force them into the mould we prefer. When our expectations aren’t met, we feel crushed — yet rarely do we ask: Am I meeting my own expectations? Am I so perfect that I have the right to judge how others act, think, or feel?

It’s exhausting. And it’s human.

But my body said, No more. It said, You’re doing the same thing, just in a different font. It called out the lies I told myself and the prison doors I kept building — doors that only led to more doors. No exits.

Now, I have the opportunity to burn down the limitations and rewrite the stories I’ve told myself. To speak the truth. To bring my emotions into the light so they can’t haunt me in the dark.

We owe it to ourselves to liberate ourselves again and again — to be messy, chaotic, human. Perfectionism is a disease that breeds real disease, and it weighs heavily.

If you can recognise your own bullshit, you can see others’ mistakes for what they are. You take away their power to hurt you, because you no longer give them that responsibility. From there, you can move into acceptance.

And maybe, after that, you can let them, and they can let you. What follows is a story far more compelling than the one you’ve been telling yourself your whole adult life.

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