There’s a version of getting better from anxiety that gets talked about a lot. The one where you do the work, find the right therapist, take the right steps, and then one day you wake up and you’re better. Lighter. Free. That’s not quite how it goes. What actually happens is quieter than that. And messier. And honestly, more interesting. The thing about anxiety is it doesn’t announce itself as anxiety For a lot of women, it arrives as something else entirely. Exhaustion. Irritability. A sense that you’re always just about to drop something. A constant low-level hum of what if that you’ve lived with for so long, you stopped noticing it was even there. Is this just who I am? Or is this something I could actually change? Research consistently shows that women are diagnosed with anxiety disorders at roughly twice the rate of men. But that statistic doesn’t tell the whole story. It doesn’t capture how differently anxiety tends to show up, and how differently it tends to get dismissed. Men’s anxiety often gets read as stress or anger. Women’s anxiety gets read as oversensitivity, hormones, or just personality. We internalise it. We manage around it. We become very, very good at functioning while quietly falling apart. That competence is a kind of armour. It’s also part of why getting better takes longer than it should. Getting better from anxiety doesn’t look like a before and after One of the things nobody tells you is that recovery isn’t a straight line. It’s not even really a line. It’s more like weather. Some days are clear. Some days the fog rolls back in and you think: have I actually changed at all? Or have I just been waiting for the next thing to knock me sideways? I spent years managing anxiety that had taken a real physical toll on my body. Muscle tension, nerve symptoms, and eventually a full panic attack. At my worst, I couldn’t choose a sandwich at lunch without the decision sending me into a spiral. That’s not hyperbole. That was my reality. The work I did, journaling, mantras, cognitive behavioural techniques, Alexander Technique, attending a spiritual movement, none of it produced a dramatic turning point. What it produced was something more like a shift in the floor beneath me. Small. Gradual. Barely perceptible, until one day I looked back and realised I was standing somewhere different. The test of how far I’d come didn’t arrive quietly. It arrived as a police arrest, a Crown Court charge for racially aggravated criminal damage for something I hadn’t done, and nine hours in a cell with nothing but my own thoughts for company. And I didn’t panic. Not because I’d become someone who didn’t feel things. But because I’d done enough work that my feelings no longer had to run the show. I knew how to breathe. I knew how to slow my thoughts down. I had practised, enough times, the difference between fear and danger. This is frightening. And I will get through it. That’s what getting better actually looks like. Not the absence of hard things. The ability to meet them without dissolving. The layer that doesn’t get talked about enough For women, and particularly for Black women, there’s another dimension to this that sits underneath all the clinical language about anxiety. We are often raised to be capable in the face of everything. To hold it together. To not burden others with what we’re carrying. Asking for help can feel like admitting weakness, especially in communities where strength has been both a survival strategy and a source of pride for generations. If I fall apart, who holds everyone else together? That question has real weight. It’s not irrational. It comes from somewhere. But it’s also one of the quieter ways anxiety keeps its grip, by convincing you that your distress matters less than your function. Getting better, for a lot of women, starts with the uncomfortable act of believing that your inner life matters. That you are not just a vehicle for getting things done. What the work actually involves There isn’t one path. What worked for me won’t be the same as what works for you. But some things tend to be true across the board. The work is usually slow and usually unglamorous. It’s a journal entry at 6am when you haven’t slept well. It’s a mantra you’ve said so many times it’s started to sound like your own voice. It’s choosing, on an ordinary Tuesday, not to let your thoughts run unsupervised. It’s also about building something to lean on before you need it. The women I’ve seen move through anxiety most meaningfully aren’t the ones who found a single solution. They’re the ones who built a quiet infrastructure of techniques, practices, and people that held them when life did what life does. Because life will do what life does. The test of your progress won’t come in a controlled environment. It’ll come at 5am, or in a courtroom, or in the middle of an ordinary conversation that suddenly isn’t ordinary anymore. And when it does, you’ll find out what you’re made of. Not in the dramatic sense. In the quiet sense. In the sense of: I’ve been here before. I know what to do. If any of this resonates, if you’re somewhere in the middle of the work and wondering whether it’s adding up to anything, the How Did I Get Here? journal was written for exactly that place. It’s for anyone sitting with anxiety that has roots, that has history, that needs more than a breathing exercise. You can find it at Samantha Clarke’s shop. If you want to sit with this a little longer Writing isn’t a fix. But it is a way of slowing your thoughts down enough to see them clearly. If something in this piece stirred something in you, you might try putting it somewhere. When I first started managing my anxiety instead of addressing
Think about that for a moment. Childhood trauma and adult anxiety are often deeply connected. The anxiety you carry, the hypervigilance, the overthinking, and the way your body tenses before anything has even gone wrong didn’t arrive from nowhere. It was built carefully, over time, by a younger version of you who needed a way to get through something that felt impossible to survive. That’s not weakness. That’s extraordinary resourcefulness. The problem is that the system she built doesn’t know the danger has passed. It’s still running. Still scanning. Still doing the job it was made to do, even when you’re sitting in a perfectly safe room on a perfectly ordinary Tuesday with nothing to be afraid of. Why am I like this? Why can’t I just relax? That question, and the shame underneath it, is where a lot of women live. But it’s the wrong question. The right one, the one that actually leads somewhere, is gentler. What was I responding to? And what did I need that I didn’t get? The connection that doesn’t get made often enough There’s a significant body of evidence linking childhood experience to adult anxiety. Not the dramatic, obvious kind of childhood trauma, though that matters too, but the quieter, more common kind. The home where feelings were never talked about. The parent who was physically there but emotionally somewhere else. The child who learned that her needs were inconvenient, that love came with conditions, or that the world was fundamentally unpredictable. These experiences don’t have to be extreme to leave a mark. What matters is whether they were too much for you to process at the time. Whether they left you with a nervous system that learned: the world is not reliably safe. I need to stay alert. That lesson, absorbed young enough, becomes the way you move through the world as an adult. It can look like a constant low hum of what if that never quite goes quiet. It can look like people-pleasing so automatic you barely notice you’re doing it. It can look like difficulty trusting that good things will last, or a persistent sense that you are too much, or not enough, or somehow different from everyone else who seems to be managing just fine. Maybe I’m just a worrier. Maybe this is just who I am. It isn’t. It’s who you learned to be. And that distinction matters more than it might seem. The shame that lives inside anxiety One of the cruelest things about anxiety rooted in childhood experience is the shame it carries. Because you grew up. You became a functioning adult. You have a job, relationships, responsibilities, maybe even children of your own. And yet underneath all of it, there is this thing that won’t leave. This persistent fragility that you hide, manage, work around, and quietly despise yourself for. I should be over this by now. Other people had it worse and they’re fine. What is wrong with me? Nothing is wrong with you. Whatever happened, whatever form it took, shaped a nervous system that is still, all these years later, doing exactly what it was trained to do. The shame belongs to the experience, not to you. And one of the most significant shifts that can happen in healing is the moment those two things come apart. When you stop asking what is wrong with me and start asking what happened to me, something changes. The ground shifts. Not dramatically. But enough. What it means to have grown up too carefully on Childhood Trauma and Adult Anxiety For many women, the childhood that produced their anxiety wasn’t chaotic or obviously harmful. It was simply one where they had to be very, very careful. Careful not to upset anyone. Careful not to take up too much space. Careful not to need things that made other people uncomfortable. Careful to read the room, manage the mood, smooth things over before they escalated. That carefulness was a skill. It kept the peace. It may well have kept you safe. But it came at a cost that tends to show up in adulthood, as anxiety, exhaustion, difficulty knowing what you actually want, and a deep-seated belief that your needs are somehow less valid than everyone else’s. If I just keep everything together, nothing will fall apart. That belief is still running. Still costing you. And it started long before you were old enough to question it. The work of becoming safe in yourself Healing from childhood-rooted anxiety isn’t about going back and fixing the past. It’s about updating the system. Teaching your nervous system, slowly, with patience and repetition, that the old dangers are no longer here. That you are no longer a child who needs to brace for impact. That you are allowed to exist without earning it. This kind of work often benefits from professional support, a therapist who understands trauma, who can help you connect then to now, and who won’t rush you toward resolution before you’re ready. In the UK, trauma-informed therapy is available through both the NHS and private practitioners, and approaches like EMDR and somatic therapy can be especially helpful when anxiety lives in the body as well as the mind. But some of the work is quieter than that. It’s noticing, day to day, when the child takes over, when you’re reacting to now as though it’s then. It’s learning to offer yourself the reassurance that nobody offered you at the time. It’s the slow, unglamorous work of becoming a safe place for yourself. That work is not linear. It is not quick. But it is possible. And it is worth it, not just for you, but for every relationship you’re in, and every version of yourself that’s still waiting for permission to exist. If you’re beginning to make sense of where your anxiety comes from, tracing it back, asking harder questions, sitting with things you’ve kept at a distance, the How Did I Get Here? journal was
Some people spend years, even decades, trying to fix themselves. They work on their anxiety, their relationships, their self-esteem. They try therapy, journaling, meditation. They make progress, lose ground, make progress again. And underneath all of it, there’s a quiet question that never quite goes away. For some, the answer may lie in the lasting effects of Big T Trauma, experiences that continue to shape thoughts, emotions, and behaviours long after the event itself has passed. Why is this so hard for me when it doesn’t seem this hard for everyone else? If that question is familiar, it might be worth pausing on something that doesn’t get talked about nearly enough. Not because the answer changes everything overnight. But because sometimes, understanding where something comes from is the first real step toward not being ruled by it. There’s more than one kind of trauma The word trauma gets used a lot these days, and that’s not a bad thing. Awareness matters. But one of the side effects of a word becoming more common is that it can start to feel like it only applies to extreme situations. Like it’s a word for other people. People who’ve been through things you haven’t. What’s less discussed is that trauma exists on a spectrum. The end of the spectrum we’re talking about today, what some psychologists call Big T Trauma, is far more common than most people realise. Big T Trauma refers to events that are deeply threatening to your life, your safety, or your sense of the world as a place where you are protected. These are experiences that overwhelm your capacity to cope at the time they happen. Not because you’re weak. But because what happened was genuinely overwhelming. For more information on trauma and its effects on mental health, see NIMH: Trauma and PTSD The kinds of events that tend to fall into this category include serious accidents or injuries, physical or sexual assault, witnessing violence, the sudden or traumatic loss of someone close to you, natural disasters, war or conflict, childhood abuse or neglect, or experiences of racial violence and discrimination. Childhood abuse or neglect can have long-lasting effects that continue into adulthood, making healing from childhood trauma an important part of recovery for many people. This is different from what’s sometimes called small t trauma, the more chronic, cumulative wounds that come from things like emotional unavailability in childhood, persistent criticism, or ongoing instability. Both matter. Both leave marks. But Big T Trauma tends to produce a particular set of responses that are worth understanding on their own terms. What it can look like from the inside Here’s the thing about Big T Trauma: it doesn’t always announce itself as trauma. Often it announces itself as anxiety. Or depression. Or anger that feels out of proportion. Or a numbness you can’t quite explain. If you’ve ever wondered about the connection between anxiety and past experiences, understanding the relationship between anxiety and trauma can offer valuable insight. I’ve always been like this. It’s just my personality. That thought is more common than you’d think. And it makes sense. If the nervous system has been in a heightened state for long enough, it starts to feel like baseline. Like just the way you are. Some of the signs that unprocessed trauma might be at the root of what you’re experiencing include: Sleep problems, difficulty concentrating, or a sense of disconnection from yourself or from what’s happening around you, almost as though you’re watching your own life from a slight distance. None of these signs in isolation confirms trauma. But if several of them feel familiar and you know there are things in your past that were genuinely frightening or destabilising, it may be worth sitting with that connection. What if this isn’t a character flaw? What if it’s a response? The cultural context that makes this harder For a lot of women, particularly Black women, there are layers on top of all of this that make recognising trauma even more complicated. Many of us were raised in communities where endurance is a virtue and talking about pain is coded as weakness. Where the instruction, spoken or unspoken, is to keep going. To not dwell. To be strong. And there’s a specific kind of experience, racial trauma, that can sit in the Big T category and yet rarely gets named as such. Being on the receiving end of racial violence, discrimination, or the chronic stress of navigating spaces where you are othered: these experiences can produce the same neurological and psychological responses as any other form of trauma. But they often go unacknowledged, even in therapeutic settings. The result is that a lot of women arrive at midlife carrying something they’ve never had the language for. Something they’ve managed around, worked through, built their lives in spite of, but never actually addressed. Maybe I’ve been coping. But have I ever actually healed? That’s not a question designed to alarm you. It’s an invitation. Because recognising something is not the same as being undone by it. In fact, it’s usually the opposite. What seeking help can look like There is no single path through trauma. What matters is finding something, and importantly someone, that takes your experience seriously. Trauma-informed therapy is worth seeking out specifically. Not all therapeutic approaches are equally equipped to work with trauma, and it’s reasonable to ask a therapist directly whether they work in a trauma-informed way. Approaches like EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitisation and Reprocessing), somatic therapy, and trauma-focused CBT have strong evidence behind them and are available in the UK through both NHS and private routes. Community matters too, more than clinical language often acknowledges. The experience of being witnessed, of telling your story to someone who doesn’t flinch, is itself part of healing. Community support can play a vital role in recovery, particularly when people are working through collective trauma and learning how to rebuild a sense of safety and connection. And then there’s the
It has a plan for you. A carefully managed, smallish life. Not unhappy necessarily. Just contained. Safe. Familiar. A life where you don’t reach too far, ask for too much, or put yourself anywhere you might be judged, rejected, or found out. This is often how anxiety holding you back begins: quietly, reasonably, and in ways that can feel like protection. Anxiety is very committed to this plan. And the insidious thing is that it doesn’t announce itself as a limitation. It announces itself as logic. As caution. As the reasonable voice in the room. I’m just being realistic. Now isn’t the right time. What if it goes wrong? That’s not wisdom. That’s anxiety in a sensible coat. The ways anxiety holding you back aren’t always obvious When most people think about anxiety holding them back, they picture the dramatic version. Panic attacks. Inability to leave the house. The kind of anxiety that is clearly, visibly a problem. But the more common version is quieter. It’s the email you drafted and never sent. The conversation you rehearsed but didn’t have. The opportunity you talked yourself out of before anyone else had the chance to say no. It’s the persistent sense that you need to feel ready before you begin. And the readiness never quite arrives. When things calm down, I’ll focus on that. Once the children are older. When I’m more confident. The goalposts move. They always move. Because anxiety isn’t waiting for conditions to improve. It’s generating the conditions that keep you waiting. For women specifically, this pattern tends to run deep. Research consistently shows that women experience anxiety at higher rates than men, and that the way it shows up in women often looks like over-responsibility, perfectionism, and people-pleasing rather than the more visible presentations that tend to get taken seriously. We internalise it. We manage it quietly. We become expert at functioning while simultaneously holding ourselves back. And we often don’t recognise it as anxiety at all. We call it being sensible. Knowing our limits. Being realistic about what’s possible. What it looks like for mothers If you’re a mother, anxiety has additional material to work with. There’s the anxiety about your children, which is so normalised it barely registers as anxiety anymore. The constant low-level monitoring. The vigilance. The mental load that never fully switches off. But underneath that, there’s often something else. A woman who existed before the children. Who had ambitions, desires, a sense of her own direction. And anxiety, which was perhaps already present before becoming a mother, has quietly used the demands of parenting as a very reasonable-sounding reason to keep her in place. I can’t think about that now. The children need me. It feels selfish to want something just for myself. What kind of mother puts herself first? The guilt and the anxiety become so intertwined that it’s difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins. What’s clear is that both have the same effect: keeping you small. Keeping you waiting. Keeping you available to everyone except yourself. This isn’t about choosing between being a good mother and living fully. It’s about recognising that anxiety will use whatever story is available, including the ones about being devoted and selfless, to keep its grip. The cost of the contained life There’s a particular kind of grief that doesn’t get talked about much. The grief for the things you didn’t do. The version of yourself you never quite got to be. It’s not dramatic grief. It doesn’t arrive all at once. It shows up in small moments: watching someone else do the thing you always wanted to do, or finding an old notebook full of plans you quietly abandoned, or lying awake at 3am with a thought you don’t examine too closely. Is this it? Is this who I am now? That question isn’t despair. It’s important information. It’s the part of you that hasn’t agreed to the contained life. The part that is still, quietly, paying attention to what you gave up. Anxiety wants you to dismiss it. To tell yourself you’re being ungrateful, or unrealistic, or that it’s too late. But the fact that the question keeps arriving is worth paying attention to. What moving through it actually involves There’s no version of this where anxiety disappears before you begin. One of the more unhelpful myths about overcoming it is that you wait until you feel brave, and then you act. It’s usually the other way around. You act, imperfectly, uncertainly, with the anxiety still present. The bravery is something you discover you had afterwards. What tends to help isn’t eliminating anxiety but changing your relationship with it. Learning to recognise it for what it is: a very loud, very insistent voice that is not the same as the truth. Learning to act in spite of it. Learning, over time, that the catastrophe it was predicting didn’t arrive. This takes practice. It takes support. Sometimes it takes professional help from someone who understands how anxiety works, not just the surface symptoms but the deeper patterns beneath them. Trauma-informed therapists, CBT practitioners, somatic workers. There are different routes. What matters is finding one that takes your particular experience seriously. It also takes honesty. With yourself, about the life you actually want. Not the life that feels manageable. Not the life that anxiety has decided is appropriate for someone like you. The life that, if you’re very quiet and very honest, you already know you want. If you’re somewhere in the middle of this, trying to understand the shape of your own anxiety and where it came from, the If you’re somewhere in the middle of this, trying to understand the shape of your own anxiety and where it came from, the How Did I Get Here? journal was made for exactly that process. It’s for anyone sitting with anxiety that has roots and a history, and who wants to start understanding it more clearly. You can find it
Imani entered today’s session exuding the same effortless elegance she always did. Her satin, deep blue blouse draped perfectly over her frame, paired with high-waisted black trousers that accentuated her poise. Her sleek bun, subtle gold hoop earrings, and polished nude manicure were impeccable. Yet beyond her refined appearance, it was clear she was on a journey toward building healthy relationships—not just with others, but with herself. But this time, something was noticeably different. There was a lightness to her presence, a quiet confidence that had nothing to do with perfection. As she settled into her seat, she smiled—not the practiced, polite kind I had grown accustomed to, but one that seemed to come from a place of ease. “I think I’m starting to get it,” she said, crossing one leg over the other. “Self-acceptance. It’s not just about saying I’m enough—it’s about believing it.” I returned her smile. “Tell me what’s shifted.” She exhaled, her gaze thoughtful. “I’ve been paying attention to how I show up in my relationships. With Jaden. With my sisters. Even at work. And I realised something: I’ve spent years trying to earn my place in people’s lives—like I had to prove I was worth keeping around. But the truth is, real connexion isn’t about proving anything. It’s about being.” The Cost of Performance in Relationships Imani paused, her fingers tracing the edge of her bracelet. “For so long, I thought being perfect would make me more lovable. That if I could be the best at everything—successful, beautiful, composed—no one would leave me. But what I didn’t see was that my perfectionism was keeping people at arm’s length.” I nodded. “Because perfection isn’t intimacy. It creates admiration, maybe, but not closeness.” She tilted her head, considering. “Exactly. When I was performing perfection, I wasn’t giving people the chance to really know me. They were connecting with an image, not a person.” This realisation was crucial. For so many women—especially Black women—perfectionism isn’t just a personal trait; it’s a survival mechanism. Raised in cultures where strength is revered and vulnerability is often misunderstood as weakness, many of us learn early that being ‘flawless’ is the safest way to navigate the world. But at what cost? Rebuilding from a Place of Wholeness “So, what does self-acceptance look like for you now?” I asked. Imani leaned back slightly; her posture still graceful but more at ease. “It looks like choosing relationships where I can be real. Where I don’t have to shrink or over-perform to be accepted. It looks like giving myself the same grace I give other people. And it looks like saying no to spaces that only value me when I’m at my best.” I could see the conviction in her words. This was a woman who had spent her whole life trying to fit an impossible mold, and now, she was stepping out of it. “And Jaden?” I prompted. “How has this shift affected your relationship with him?” She smiled softly. “He’s been patient with me. The more I let myself relax around him, the more I see that he’s not with me because I’m perfect—he’s with me because he enjoys me. The real me.” She hesitated before continuing. “I even told him about my dad.” I raised an eyebrow, surprised but pleased. “That’s a big step.” She nodded. “I’d never really talked about it before—not in a way that was real. But I told him how it shaped me. How I spent years trying to make sure no one else would abandon me like that.” I studied her face. “And how did it feel?” “Like taking off a pair of heels after wearing them all day,” she said with a small laugh. “Uncomfortable at first, but then… freeing.” The Role of Self-Acceptance in Healthy Relationships “So,” I asked, “what do you think is the key to building healthy relationships now?” She thought for a moment before answering. “Honesty. With myself and with the people around me. Not just saying what I think people want to hear, but actually being open about what I feel, what I need. I think I spent so much time fearing that my imperfections would push people away, but now I see that hiding them is what kept me isolated.” I nodded. “When you accept yourself fully, you give others the permission to do the same. Healthy relationships aren’t built on perfection; they’re built on authenticity, mutual care, and the freedom to be imperfect together.” She smiled, this time with no hesitation. “That’s exactly it.” Closing Thoughts: A New Chapter Imani’s journey was never about fixing herself—because she was never broken. It was about uncovering the parts of herself she had hidden away, learning to embrace them, and realising that she was worthy of love, just as she was. For years, she believed her worth was something she had to prove. But now, she was learning that real love—the kind that lasts—is not transactional. It doesn’t require perfection as a prerequisite. It requires presence. Truth. Vulnerability. If you’ve ever found yourself performing perfection, fearing that your flaws make you unlovable, ask yourself: What would happen if you stopped trying to earn love and started believing you already deserve it? How might your relationships change if you showed up as your whole, unfiltered self? As Imani steps forward into this new chapter, she is not just building healthy relationships—she is building a healthy relationship with herself. And that, more than anything, is where true freedom begins.
Imani arrived today looking as poised as ever yet something felt different. This session focused on Strength Through Vulnerability, which was about letting go of perfection and embracing authenticity. She wore a satin emerald-green blouse that caught the light with every movement, paired with tailored forest-green trousers that fit her like they had been made just for her. Her signature elegance was as polished as always—gold hoops subtly accentuated her cheekbones, a sleek, low bun, and her usual muted nude manicure. She looked effortlessly composed, every detail intentional. But today, there was something different. When she sat down, her hands weren’t perfectly still. She didn’t adjust her blouse, smooth the fabric of her trousers, or glance at her reflection in her phone screen, small habits she normally used to ground herself. Instead, she exhaled deeply, her shoulders shifting slightly as if she had set something down. “I did what you asked,” she said, glancing up at me. “I let the mask slip… just a little.” I leaned in slightly, intrigued. “Tell me about it.” The Fear of Being Seen Imani hesitated before speaking as though the words themselves felt foreign on her tongue. She was stepping into Strength Through Vulnerability, unsure of what it meant to be seen without the shield of perfection. “It was with Jaden,” she admitted. “I was having a long day at work—one of those days where I felt like I couldn’t catch my breath. Normally, I would have just pushed through and acted like everything was fine. But instead, I told him the truth.” She paused, then sighed. “I told him I was exhausted. I felt like I was dropping the ball on everything. I was so sure he’d see me differently than I thought it would put him off.” I waited, sensing there was more. “For a second, I regretted saying anything. I thought—maybe I should’ve just kept it to myself. But then Jaden looked at me and said, ‘You know you don’t have to do everything yourself, right?’” She let out a small, breathy laugh, shaking her head. “And I just sat there, completely thrown off. It wasn’t some grand declaration; it wasn’t ‘I love you no matter what.’ It was just… simple. Like it was obvious to him.” She leaned forward slightly. “And for a moment, I didn’t know how to respond. Because I’ve never thought that way before, that maybe I don’t have to hold everything together all the time.” The Strength in Letting Go Imani shook her head, still absorbing what had happened. “I didn’t know how much I needed to hear that. I think, deep down, I was always afraid that if I let someone see the cracks, they’d run. But Jaden didn’t. He just… listened. And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I had to hold it all together.” Her confession struck a deep chord. For so many Black women, vulnerability is not something we are taught to embrace. Strength is often defined by how much we can endure, how seamlessly we can carry the weight of expectations, and how little we ask for in return. But what if real strength was something different? Breaking Generational Patterns “You know,” I said, “for a long time, many of us have believed that strength means handling everything on our own. Generations have passed it down—our mothers, our grandmothers, and the ancestors before them. They survived through resilience, through pushing forward no matter what.” Imani nodded. “My mother never let us see her struggle. Even when my father left, she acted like she had everything under control. I never saw her break down, never saw her ask for help. I think I learned that from her—that you just keep going, no matter how much it hurts.” “That kind of strength helped her survive,” I acknowledged. “And it got you far, too. But survival isn’t the same as living. At some point, carrying everything alone stops being a sign of strength and starts becoming a weight that holds you back.” Imani let those words settle in. “So, what now?” she asked. “How do I start trusting that I don’t have to be perfect to be worthy of love?” The Practise of Vulnerability “Vulnerability is a practice,” I said. “You don’t go from hiding everything to suddenly opening up overnight. But you’ve already taken a step. You let Jaden see a side of you that wasn’t perfectly curated, and the world didn’t fall apart.” She exhaled, a small smile tugging at her lips. “No, it didn’t.” “Now, the work is to keep leaning into that. Notice the moments when you feel the urge to retreat behind the mask and ask yourself—what might happen if I let others see me instead?” Imani nodded. “That still feels scary.” “Of course it does,” I reassured her. “You’re unlearning years of conditioning. But the more you do it, the more you’ll realize that the people who truly matter—the ones who deserve a place in your life—will embrace you, not for your perfection, but for your truth.” A New Definition of Strength Imani glanced down at her hands, then back at me. “I don’t think I’ve ever thought of vulnerability as strength before. But… maybe it is. Maybe being strong isn’t about how much I can carry, but about knowing when to put something down.” “That,” I said, “is exactly it.” She smiled, and for the first time since she walked in, her shoulders relaxed. Closing Thoughts Imani’s journey is one that many of us can relate to—the fear of being seen, the instinct to prove our worth through perfection, and the hesitation to show cracks in our armor. But true strength doesn’t come from pretending to have it all together. It comes from allowing ourselves to be human. As Imani continues her journey, she is discovering that Strength Through Vulnerability is not just about relationships—it’s about self-acceptance and true emotional freedom. Learning that she doesn’t have to be perfect for
Imani walked into today’s session, carrying herself with the same polished confidence as always, but today’s focus was different—this was about The Courage to Be Imperfect. Her outfit—a deep emerald-green blazer paired with tailored black trousers—complimented her flawless caramel complexion. Her hair was styled into soft, bouncy curls that framed her face, and gold earrings caught the light as she moved. But her eyes told a different story. They had a vulnerability, a quiet openness that hadn’t been there before. “I’ve been thinking about the question you asked last time,” she began, sitting down and placing her bag carefully on the floor. “‘What would it look like to accept myself as I am without the mask?’ It’s been on my mind all week.” “And what have you come up with?” I asked, leaning forward slightly. She hesitated, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “Honestly? I don’t know. I keep thinking about how much of my identity is tied to this… this needs to be perfect. Who am I without it? What will people see if I let the mask slip? What if they don’t like what they see?” The Weight of the Mask Imani’s fears are common for women of the African diaspora, where cultural expectations often carry an unspoken weight. Growing up, she likely heard the same messages many of us do: “You have to work twice as hard to get half as far.” These words, though rooted in love and preparation, can foster an impossible standard of perfection, one that leaves no room for mistakes or vulnerability. “You know,” I said, “The Courage to Be Imperfect means recognizing that perfection is a burden that was never yours to carry. It’s something you learned to wear, like armor, to navigate a world that often demands too much of us. But the longer you wear it, the heavier it gets. What would it feel like to set it down?” She exhaled sharply as though releasing some of the weight in her chest. “It’s scary,” she admitted. “But it’s also exhausting. I’ve been holding this together for so long, and I think I’m finally realizing… I can’t do it anymore.” Embracing Vulnerability “Letting go of the mask takes courage,” I said gently. ‘But The Courage to Be Imperfect isn’t about exposing weaknesses; it’s about embracing your humanity’ “It’s not about exposing your weaknesses; it’s about embracing your humanity. It’s about saying, ‘I am enough, even when I’m not perfect.’” Imani nodded, her fingers tracing the edge of the bracelet on her wrist. “I think about my mom sometimes,” she said after a pause. “She was so strong, holding it all together after my dad left. But now that I’m older, I wonder… did she feel like she had to be perfect, too? Did she ever feel like she could just be herself?” Her question lingered in the air, heavy with unspoken emotions. For women like Imani’s mother—and countless others in the African diaspora—strength is often a necessity, born from resilience and survival. But that strength can come at a cost, teaching generations to suppress vulnerability in favor of presenting a flawless exterior. Taking the First Step “Imani,” I said carefully, “The Courage to Be Imperfect means understanding that strength isn’t about hiding imperfections but allowing yourself to be seen. But what if strength also means allowing yourself to be seen? What if letting go of the mask isn’t a weakness but the bravest thing you can do?” She looked at me, her brow furrowed in thought. “But how do I even start?” “Start small,” I suggested. “You don’t have to let the mask fall all at once. Choose one moment, one person, where you can allow a little more of your authentic self to show. Maybe it’s sharing a fear with Jaden or admitting to a close friend when you’re struggling. See what happens when you let someone in.” The Storeys We Tell Ourselves Imani leaned back slightly, her gaze thoughtful. “You know, it’s funny,” she said. “I think about griots—the storytellers back home in West Africa. My mom always used to say that they carried the truth of the community. They weren’t just entertainers; they were keepers of history, of culture. And I wonder… what story have I been telling about myself? What truths have I been hiding?” Her reflection struck a chord. The stories we tell ourselves are powerful, shaping how we see the world and our place in it. For Imani, the story she had clung to was that she needed to be perfect, to be loved, to be worthy, to be safe. But perhaps it was time to rewrite that narrative. “What if your story didn’t have to center on perfection?” I asked. “What if it was about resilience, authenticity, and growth? What if you let yourself be the griot of your own life, telling a story that includes your imperfections as part of your beauty?” Imani smiled faintly, the corners of her mouth lifting just enough to reveal a glimmer of hope. “That sounds… freeing,” she said. “But also terrifying.” “That’s normal,” I reassured her. “Change is always uncomfortable at first. But you’ll feel a little lighter every time you let the mask slip. And you might be surprised by how people respond—not with judgment, but with connection.” Closing the Gap Imani’s journey is one of transformation, not just in how she views herself but in how she connects with others. Letting go of perfection is about closing the gap between the person she presents to the world and the person she truly is. It’s about creating space for real intimacy, where she can be seen, heard, and loved for who she is—not for the mask she wears. Moving Forward As the session ended, I gave Imani one small task for the week ahead. “Find one moment where you can let yourself be imperfect. It doesn’t have to be big—maybe it’s telling Jaden about a fear you’ve been holding back or asking for help
Imani arrived today with her usual flawless presentation as if she’d stepped straight out of a magazine spread, yet beneath the polished exterior, the fear of not being enough lingered just beneath the surface. Her crisp white blouse was perfectly pressed, tucked into tailored high-waisted trousers that elongated her frame. Her jewelry was minimal yet striking—a gold cuff bracelet on one wrist and small diamond studs that caught the light as she moved. Even her makeup, subtle and expertly applied, enhanced her already striking features. She looked, as always, completely in control. But as she settled into her chair, smoothing invisible creases from her trousers, her perfectly maintained exterior couldn’t hide the tension in her eyes. “I’ve been thinking about our last session,” she began her voice steady but with an undercurrent of hesitation. “About my dad and how I built this… armor. It’s strange to think I’ve been carrying that with me all these years.” I nodded, encouraging her to continue. The Origins of “Not Enough” Imani took a deep breath, her fingers fidgeting with the gold cuff on her wrist. “I remember when he left, there was this silence in the house. My mom tried so hard to keep things normal for us, but you could feel it—this… emptiness. And I think my sisters and I all felt like we had to fill that void in different ways. My older sister became the caretaker, and my younger sister, well, she acted like she didn’t care about anything. But me?” She paused, her voice softening. “I thought if I could just be perfect, maybe I could fix things. Maybe I could make him regret leaving. Or at least make sure no one else would ever leave me.” Imani’s words revealed the depth of her fear—that being “not enough” had become a central narrative in her life, one that had shaped her choices and driven her relentless pursuit of perfection. “I don’t think I realised it at the time,” she continued. “I was only a kid, but looking back, it’s clear. That’s when I decided that being good wasn’t enough. I had to be the best at everything—school, sports, even how I looked. If I wasn’t, it felt like… I didn’t matter.” The Shadow of Abandonment “Imani,” I said gently, “that’s a heavy burden for a child to carry. And it makes sense that you’ve held onto that belief all these years. It became a way to protect yourself, didn’t it? If you were perfect, no one would have a reason to leave you again.” She nodded, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Exactly. But now, it’s like… no matter what I do, it’s never enough. Even when people tell me I’m doing great, I don’t believe them. I just keep pushing, hoping that maybe one day, I’ll feel like I’ve earned my place.” Imani’s words captured the essence of high-functioning anxiety—this endless striving for perfection, not out of ambition but out of fear. It wasn’t about achieving success for its own sake; it was about earning safety and love. The Cost of Perfection “But what’s the cost?” I asked. “What has this need to be perfect taken from you?” Imani hesitated, then sighed. “It’s exhausting. I’m constantly overthinking, and constantly on edge. Even with Jaden, I can’t relax. I feel like I’m always performing, always trying to prove that I’m worth his love. And sometimes, I wonder… does he even see the real me? Or just this version of me that I’ve curated?” Her vulnerability hung heavy in the room, and I could see the weight of her realisation settling in. The mask that had once protected her was now suffocating her, keeping her from truly connecting with herself and others—all because of the fear of not being enough. Exploring the Shadow Self “Imani,” I said carefully, “what you’re describing is what Carl Jung called the ‘shadow self.’ It’s the part of us that we hide, suppress, or deny because we think it’s unacceptable or unlovable. For you, that shadow is the belief that you’re not enough as you are. You’ve spent your life trying to keep that part of yourself hidden behind a mask of perfection. But the more we hide our shadow, the more power it has over us.” She looked at me with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. “So what do I do? How do I deal with this shadow?” “It starts with acknowledgment,” I said. “You’ve already taken the first step by recognising how your father’s abandonment shaped this belief. But now, you need to allow yourself to feel the emotions you’ve been avoiding—grief, anger, fear. Those feelings are part of your shadow, and by bringing them into the light, you begin to take away their power.” The Path Forward Imani nodded slowly, her hands still fidgeting with her bracelet. “It’s scary, though. I’ve spent so much time trying to push those feelings away. I’m not sure I know how to face them.” “That’s completely normal,” I reassured her. “It’s not something you have to do all at once. Healing is a process, and it starts with small steps. For now, I want you to take some time this week to reflect on this question: What would it look like to accept yourself as you are, without the mask? How would your life—and your relationships—change if you believed you were enough, even with your imperfections?” Imani looked thoughtful, her gaze softening. “I don’t know if I have an answer for that yet, but I’ll think about it.” “That’s all I’m asking,” I said gently. “This isn’t about fixing yourself—it’s about understanding yourself. The more you explore where these fears come from, the more you’ll realise that you’re not broken. You’re human. And that’s enough.” Closing Thoughts As Imani left the session, her exterior remained as polished as ever. But beneath the perfect presentation, I sensed a shift—a quiet willingness to confront the shadows she had carried for so long. Her storey is a
Imani walked into the office today with a quieter energy than usual. The perfection in her appearance remained—the tailored outfit, flawless makeup, and confident posture—but her expression betrayed an uneasiness she couldn’t hide. As she settled into her chair, she let out a slow breath and glanced at me with a faint, nervous smile. The weight of the Fear of Rejection and Imperfection lingered in her posture, even as she tried to appear composed. “I’ve been thinking about what we talked about last time,” she began. “The mask of perfection… and how much pressure I put on myself to always be ‘on.’ It’s been hard to sit with.” I nodded gently, inviting her to continue. “What came up for you while you were reflecting?” She fidgeted with her bracelet, a sign that something deeper was brewing beneath her composed surface. “I realised it’s not just about Jaden or even my career. This need to be perfect—it’s been with me for as long as I can remember. But I don’t know why it’s so… intense.” The Fear Beneath the Mask I leaned forward slightly. “Let’s explore that together. You’ve mentioned before that you’ve always felt this pressure to perform, to succeed, to be flawless. What do you think might have planted that seed?” Imani hesitated, her eyes darting to the floor. “Maybe it’s… I don’t know, my upbringing? My parents were strict, always pushing me to excel. But it wasn’t just that.” She paused, her voice faltering as if she wasn’t sure whether to continue. “It was my dad. When he left, it changed everything.” Her words hung in the air like an unfinished melody. I let the silence settle, giving her the space to unpack what she was ready to share. The Impact of Abandonment “When I was nine, my dad just… disappeared,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “One day he was there, and the next, he was gone. My mom tried to hold it together for me and my sisters, but we all knew something was wrong. Turns out, he’d left to start a new family with another woman. He didn’t even say goodbye to us. Just… vanished.” Imani’s words were steady, but her trembling hands betrayed the emotional weight of the memory. “I remember waiting for him to come back, convincing myself that maybe he’d changed his mind or that we weren’t enough for him to stay. It wasn’t until years later that I realised I’d made a decision in response to his leaving: I was going to be enough for everyone else. I wouldn’t give anyone a reason to leave me like he did.” That’s when the Fear of Rejection and Imperfection became my way of life. Her confession revealed a critical piece of the puzzle. The perfectionism that now defined Imani wasn’t just a habit—it was a survival mechanism. The little girl who had been abandoned by her father grew up believing that being perfect was the only way to keep people close. The Legacy of the Past “Imani,” I said softly, “what your father did wasn’t a reflection of your worth. It wasn’t because you or your sisters weren’t enough.” She looked up, her eyes filled with doubt. “I hear that, but it’s hard to believe. When he left, my sisters and I all reacted differently. My younger sister became the rebel, always acting out, like she didn’t care. My older sister tried to step into his role, being overly responsible and making sure we were okay. And me? I became the one who had to be perfect. The good one. The one who wouldn’t give anyone an excuse to leave again.” Her voice cracked slightly, but she pressed on. “That’s the thing—this mask of perfection? It’s not just about Jaden or my job. It’s my armour. It’s how I keep myself safe.” The Shadow Beneath the Perfection Imani’s words brought us to an essential truth: her perfectionism was not just a personality trait but a defence mechanism born from trauma. Her father’s abandonment left an unspoken belief that love and stability were conditional—earned through flawless behaviour and constant achievement. But that belief wasn’t without consequences. The mask that once shielded her from rejection now kept her trapped in a cycle of anxiety and self-doubt. “Imani,” I said carefully, “the fear of rejection and Imperfection you feel, the pressure to be perfect—it’s not just about avoiding mistakes or pleasing others. It’s about protecting yourself from the pain you felt when your father left. That pain is still there, buried deep, shaping how you see yourself and your relationships.” She nodded, tears welling in her eyes. “I think I’ve always known that, deep down. But I never wanted to face it. It’s easier to just… keep moving, keep achieving, keep pretending everything’s fine.” Laying the Groundwork “What would it look like,” I asked, “if you started to let yourself feel what’s underneath the mask? If you let yourself acknowledge that pain, instead of trying to outrun it?” Imani hesitated, as though the idea of sitting with her emotions felt foreign, even dangerous. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’m afraid that if I take off the mask, there won’t be anything left. That it’ll all fall apart.” “That’s a natural fear,” I said gently. “But here’s the truth: the mask isn’t who you are. It’s something you put on to protect yourself. Underneath it is the real Imani—someone who is worthy of love and connection, even when she’s not perfect.” Imani wiped away a tear, her expression a mix of vulnerability and curiosity. “I guess I’ve been so focused on proving my worth that I’ve never thought about what it would mean to just… be me.” “That’s where we’ll go next,” I said. “To understand where this need to be perfect began, we’ll need to look at the shadows it’s been hiding. The pain, the fear, the beliefs about yourself that you’ve carried since childhood. It’s not easy work, but it’s the path
9-minute read The door opens, and Imani walks into the office. As usual, she looks immaculate. Her tailored, navy-blue business suit, with sharp lines, highlights her confidence. Her hair is perfectly styled, her makeup flawless. With her rich, caramel complexion and striking features, she exudes success. To the outside world, she’s the epitome of poise— a senior executive at a major merchant bank, constantly praised for her work ethic and leadership. But today, there’s a subtle tremor in her step. Her usual confidence is overshadowed by something else. She’s tightly clutching her bag, her jaw slightly clenched, and there’s a faraway look in her eyes. Something’s off, and it’s clear she’s carrying a heavy weight. I smile warmly as she enters, trying to ease the tension I sense. “It’s good to see you, Imani. You look sharp as always. What’s going on today?” Imani exhales slowly, but her hands tremble slightly as she sits down. She’s visibly unsettled. “I… I don’t know if I’m being dramatic, but I messed up last night. I really messed up.” I wait for her to continue, sensing that something deeper is going on. Imani, who’s always composed, never shows this much vulnerability. “What happened?” She looks down, avoiding my gaze. “I tried to cook Jaden’s favourite meal, oxtail with rice and peas. I’ve never made it before, and of course, I messed it up. I burned the damn thing. Then, at dinner, I made this joke, and no one laughed. It was awkward. And now I’m sitting here, thinking that Jaden’s going to think I’m a total failure. Like… how could he love me if I’m this… imperfect?” Her voice cracks as she says the last part, and I can hear the panic rising in her chest. She’s still sitting upright, though, like she’s trying to hold it together despite feeling completely undone inside. “Okay,” I begin gently, “I hear you. But what makes you think Jaden is going to reject you because of that?” Imani hesitates, and when she speaks, I hear the fear in her voice. “I don’t know. I just can’t shake the feeling that if I’m not perfect, he won’t want me anymore. Jaden is… he’s like this unicorn. A high-value Black man in the UK, known for loving and caring for Black women and Black women alone. He’s the kind of man everyone talks about, the kind who doesn’t just settle for anyone. He’s so put-together, so successful. And I just feel like… I’m not enough for him. If I mess up, even in small ways, what if he just walks away? What if I’m too much of a disappointment?” The words hang in the air, and I see the way her shoulders tense. There’s a deep vulnerability in her, and I know it’s more than just the dinner or the awkward moment. It’s her fear of not measuring up to the image of who she thinks Jaden needs her to be. “I think I understand,” I say slowly, letting the words sink in. “You’ve built a life where you’ve had to wear a ‘mask of perfection.’ You’re in this high-powered job, always polished and in control. You’ve mastered the art of looking like you’ve got it all together. But now, when things don’t go according to plan, you feel exposed. You’re afraid that the mask will slip, and Jaden will see the real you—imperfect, vulnerable, human.” Imani nods, the weight of what I’ve said settling in. “Exactly. I’ve worked so hard to build this image, not just for the world, but for Jaden. And now I’m scared that this one thing—the dinner, the mistake—might destroy everything.” I lean forward, my voice soft but firm. “But here’s the thing, Imani: this need to be perfect, to never make a mistake, is rooted in fear. Fear of rejection. Fear of judgment. You’ve been so worried about keeping up this perfect façade that it’s caused you anxiety. But perfection is a mask that isolates us from real connection. Jaden isn’t looking for someone flawless; he’s looking for someone real. And I promise you, he’ll appreciate the real you far more than any perfectly curated image you try to present.” Imani pauses, clearly processing what I’ve said, but there’s still worry in her eyes. “But what if he thinks I’m not good enough for him? What if he’s disappointed in me?” I smile warmly, trying to reassure her. “Imani, think about your relationship. Jaden knows you. He knows you’re not perfect, and he loves you anyway. You don’t need to wear that mask for him. Perfectionism only creates pressure and distance—it doesn’t create intimacy or trust.” She lowers her gaze to her hands, her breathing slowing a bit. “I guess I’ve been so focused on not disappointing him that I forgot it’s okay to show him my real self. I don’t have to have it all together all the time.” “Exactly,” I reply, my voice soothing. “The more you embrace your imperfections, the more authentic you can be. And the more authentic you are, the more Jaden can truly see you—and love you—for who you really are, flaws and all. That’s where real connection happens.” Imani smiles faintly, her shoulders relaxing. “I think I get it. Maybe I need to start being more honest with myself and with Jaden about the pressure I feel. I’ve been trying to be perfect, but I don’t need to do that.” “That’s a great start,” I say. “Letting go of the mask doesn’t mean you’re not good enough—it means you’re ready to be fully seen, fully loved, and fully accepted. That’s where your true strength lies.” She exhales, a bit of the weight lifting from her shoulders. “I feel a little lighter, but I know there’s still a lot of work to do.” “I’m glad to hear that,” I reply, “but remember, this isn’t just about what you’re doing for Jaden. It’s about what you’re doing for yourself. You’ve been living behind a mask, but
