Fretters Unite

For anyone who suffers from any form of anxiety, there is a specific kind of blind spot. Between the physical exhaustion of managing my heart health and the mental loop of 'what ifs,' mine has felt especially huge lately. It’s a gap in our vision that only affects our own progress. You can see the persistence of those around you with total clarity, but when you do the exact same thing, your brain automatically files it under 'the bare minimum.' We aren't ignoring these moments on purpose; we’re just disqualifying them from the record before they even have a chance to count. It’s not that we’re being ungrateful or failing to be positive enough—it’s simply because somewhere along the way, measuring ourselves by the size of our struggles became the focus, and we lost the softness of our progress. If you read my last post, you’ll know I talked about how, like a lot of us, I can struggle with my own self‑compassion. It can feel like a foreign language, where being gentle...

I imagine there are people out there who practice self-compassion without a second thought. For them, it’s a reflex. And then there are the rest of us. We’re the ones who can comfort a friend in a heartbeat, yet find ourselves freezing when we try to offer even a tiny bit of that same gentleness to ourselves. We have kindness in droves for others, but the moment we turn it inward, we feel clumsy. Lost. As if we’ve been asked to speak a language we were never actually taught. We know the theory. We logically understand that being gentle is healthier than self-criticism. But knowing something in your head and feeling it in your bones are two very different experiences. It’s a strange, lonely feeling when you say the words, but you don’t actually believe them. You try to tell yourself, "It’s okay. You’re doing your best," but the words land with a dull thud. It feels like you’re talking to an empty room, or like you’re trying to convince a stranger of something you aren't ev...

There’s a feeling I carry around that I don’t talk about much. It’s not dramatic or loud — more like a quiet hum that settles somewhere under my ribs . And every so often, it whispers the same thing: “What if I’m just… a bit much?” I’ve spent years becoming a world‑class architect of the mask. I know exactly how to file down the sharp edges of my personality, how to tuck away my needs so they don’t inconvenience anyone, and how to keep a version of “peace” that doesn’t actually match what I’m feeling. However, even the most well-designed structures have a cost. Somewhere in the blueprints, the quiet hum started to sound less like a choice and more like a fixed fact. I’ve spent so much time perfecting the architecture of the "easy" version of myself that I nearly forgot the original designer was still in there, somewhere beneath the work. But here’s the thing I’m only just beginning to understand: it takes a ridiculous amount of guts to feel that hum and still show up anyway. ...

In my last blog I wrote about the invisible effort of 'getting on with it,' and to be honest, at that time I was mostly focused on just surviving the day. But it got me thinking and I realised there’s this weird shadow that follows that effort—a double-life you end up leading when you’re struggling inside but still appearing 'fine' to everyone else. It’s strange because the version of me people see—chatting, nodding, saying the right things—is clearly very convincing. When someone tells me I seem to be doing well, I can hear that they really mean it. They aren’t just being polite; they’re responding to the person I’m putting out there. But there’s a massive gap between that 'public' version of me and what’s actually going on. I might be sitting there, genuinely wanting to be part of the conversation and hear about someone’s day, but half my brain is busy fighting a completely different battle. It’s like a constant mental calculation: How much longer can I keep ...

It’s no secret that I struggle. Between the constant worry about my heart and the general weight of anxiety, some days are just hard. Yet I’m always a bit baffled when people tell me I’m “coping well.” I know they aren't just saying it to be polite; I can tell it’s sincere. And look, I get why they think that. I’m dressed. I’ve brushed my teeth. I’m not currently sobbing into my afternoon cuppa. On the surface, I’m simply “getting on with it.” I’m replying to the WhatsApps (well, eventually). I’m nodding in the right places and making the right noises so nobody feels awkward. I even show up to things looking relatively presentable. But—and you knew there’d be a but—this version of me is mostly just a massive, exhausting performance. It’s the “public-facing” me. I talk the talk and I walk the walk, but the internal reality is a completely different story. While I’m sat there listening to someone explain the latest plot twist in their favorite soap, half my brain is actually just cal...

We’re told that good news is supposed to be the "big exhale”right? That moment the weight finally drops off your shoulders, you let out that "oof" of relief, and you can finally just... be. But for me (and probably you if you are reading this) well, good news doesn't feel like a relief. Oh no, it feels like a threat. It’s this jarring, static-y feeling where the facts tell you that you’re safe, but your body is still reacting like you’re waiting for an impact that hasn’t even happened yet. Instead of feeling like a moment of gentle relief, the good news feels suspicious . It’s unstable. It’s like standing on a floor you aren’t quite sure will hold your weight yet. You’re waiting for the "but." You’re looking for the catch. Because when you've spent a long time braced for impact, a sudden lack of danger doesn't feel like peace—it feels like an ambush. If you’ve ever finally gotten a "yes," a bit of stability, or even just a week where the ...