I used to think healing would feel like sunlight. Like a slow, golden unraveling where the pain would loosen and float away, leaving only ease.
But healing, at least the kind I know, is messier. It's shadow and light, tenderness and grit. It's the quiet ache of realizing some parts of you have been waiting decades to be heard. And the even quieter truth that no one can walk that road for you, but you also don't have to do it alone.
I've been the girl who kept it together in front of everyone, only to fall apart in the safety of my own room. The one who played "fine" so well it became a second skin. The one who didn't know how to be soft without bracing for impact.
Somewhere along the way, I decided that survival was my job. Not joy. Not belonging. Not rest. Just survival.
Then life started peeling me open. Love, grief, therapy, failure, beauty. It was uncomfortable. Unsteady. It felt like losing my edges. But in that unraveling, I found the pieces of me I had been protecting for years.
The scared teenager who wanted someone to tell her it wasn't her fault.
The child who wanted to draw and sing and be loud without being told she was "too much."
The adult who wanted a life that wasn't just tolerable, but actually felt like hers.
Here's what I discovered: therapy gave me the map, but I still had to walk the terrain. Those insights were gold, but implementing them in daily life? That's where I kept getting stuck.
I'd leave sessions feeling clear and empowered, only to find myself triggered by Tuesday afternoon with no idea how to comfort my inner child. I understood my patterns but couldn't seem to change my responses when it mattered most.
That gap between knowing and doing became where I was drowning.
So I learned to bridge it. Not with more intensity or forcing myself to heal faster, but with gentleness. With daily practices that felt like coming home to myself rather than assignments to complete.
I discovered that my inner child didn't need perfect conditions to heal. She needed consistent, gentle presence. She needed someone who would show up for the 167 hours between therapy sessions, not just the 50 minutes inside them.
Mental Nesting was born from that discovery. From learning that healing doesn't happen on anyone else's timeline. That the gentlest thing you can do is stop waiting to be "ready" and start showing up exactly as you are.
Now I help therapy-experienced souls bridge that same gap. People who understand their patterns but struggle to implement insights in real time. Who know what triggered them but don't know how to comfort themselves in the moment.
Because I believe the way we heal matters. Not the speed. Not the "results." The way.
You can be a work in progress and still be worthy of gentleness. You can need support beyond therapy sessions and still be doing healing "right." You can take up space with your sensitivity and not apologize for it.
If you're tired of navigating those between-session moments alone, if you want someone to remind you that slow, messy healing still counts, I'd love to meet you there.
To walk with you in that tender space between where you've been and where you're going.
Ready to bridge the gap between insight and implementation? Learn more about my gentle coaching approach here.
