I grew up in survival mode, and I don’t mean that as a vibe or a metaphor. It was physical, emotional, and financial. From unstable housing and food insecurity to anxiety, perfectionism, and the constant pressure to “keep it together,” my nervous system didn’t really learn what safety felt like. I was always bracing for what might happen next, and my body reflected that — tight, inflamed, tired, bloated, overwhelmed. Even when I looked “disciplined” on the outside, I didn’t feel steady on the inside.

So I did what a lot of women do when they don’t feel safe: I chased control. I poured myself into fitness, achievement, productivity, being “good,” being easy to love, pushing past exhaustion, shrinking where I shouldn’t have had to shrink. Strength became my survival strategy — and anxiety quietly ran the show.

The turning point hit my first year at UCLA. I was heartbroken, lost, and completely worn down by my own burnout. And in that season, I finally faced a truth I’d been avoiding for years: I wasn’t broken — I was scared. Scared of slowing down. Scared of not being enough. Scared of what would happen if I stopped performing my way through life.

That’s when everything changed.