I Was the Good Girl

I was a sensitive soul.
Who would rather have been making mud pies.
Looking for dragons in the clouds.
Making daisy chains
for my imaginary friends.

But I was taught
that the way to success
and love
and fitting in
was to be a good girl.
Do well at school.
Get the grades.

School is not for the sensitive.
School is harsh.
But one can scrape through,
if one is a swotty student.
At least the teachers like you then.
Even if the other kids don't.

So I became the good girl.
Top of the class.
Top of the profession.
Speech and language therapist.
Lecturer on memory and thinking skills.
Scores in the 90s for my courses.
Helping everyone.
All the time.
At 100%.

And my silly, playful, childish side
became more and more hidden.

Because no one had taught me
how to manage my life force.
My energy.
My eggs.

We all know about AI now.
AI runs on tokens,
and it runs out if you use too many.
Deep thinking uses them up faster.

Sensitive souls are the same.
We run on what I call energy eggs.
And we spend them on everything.
Reading the room.
Worrying what people think.
Understanding what people want,
and often giving them it.
Running on deep thinking at all times,
because it feels essential.
For safety.
For acceptance.
For survival.

No one teaches us this.
School doesn't.
Work rewards us for spending more.
So we spend,
and spend,
and spend.
Until one day the basket is empty.
And we call it burnout.
Or illness.
Or "I don't know who I am anymore."

I know.
Because I did it.

And because about forty years ago,
a psychologist looked at everything I taught
and said:
you're just teaching what you need yourself.

I, as a perfect, high-achieving professional,
was very insulted.

But they were right.

There were things I also knew, even then.
In my core,
if not yet in words.

When the frightened autistic children I worked with
hid under the table,
I did my speech therapy sessions
under the table.

Other people thought I was mad.
Said I ought to make them sit properly.
But why waste eggs —
a term I didn't know then —
on sitting properly?

Teach them where they are,
and they have eggs left
for learning.
And it worked.
That's why I was asked to lecture to other professionals.

I didn't know about nervous systems
and regulation.
But I understood enough.

Now.
I must say something that may be unfashionable.

Some of us ARE broken.
Truly.
Brain injury.
Stroke.
Illness.
Disability.
Burnout that empties you out.

I won't say
"you're perfect exactly as you are."
When you're in pain,
that platitude feels patently untrue.
Because it is.

But this is the wonder of neuroplasticity,
and it's why I've spent more than forty years believing it.

Brains rewire.
Broken things can regrow.
I've seen it many times.
It's not necessarily easy….
It's not for everyone….BUT
It's never too late to change.

Whatever age.
Whatever the damage.
Whatever the box
they tried to fit you into.

Not by magic.
Not by willpower.
By my Plus One Principle.

Which is not baby steps,
and not "push harder."

It starts by looking,
gently and honestly,
at where you actually are.
What you've done before.
What capacity you have today.
Where you want to go.

And finding
the one right next change.

Sometimes that's a tiny step.
Sometimes a whole stride.
And sometimes —
the part no one expects —
the next step forward
is one thing less.

Once you've seen something.
Once you've understood it.
Once you've realised the patterns.
Then you can do something about it.

Understanding,
and simple instructions,
create the clarity
to make choices.

I won't tell you who to become.
That's not mine to decide.
It's as individual as each person.

What I can share
is what I finally found for myself,
after the burnout.
After rebuilding an identity.

How to be happy
despite the circumstances life throws at you.
Despite illness.
Despite job loss.
Despite pain.

Peace.
Choice.
Psychological freedom,
despite the constraints.

These are the strategies I share.
You can teach yourself, or teach your children.
And I hope you'll share them with more people.

Because no one deserves to be misunderstood.
And fitted into a box.
That ultimately makes them ill.