I grew up in the Black Country, in a tight-knit family full of warmth, laughter and love — the kind of childhood that gives you roots. But like many girls, I began to shrink to fit. I overcompensated with big energy, loud opinions, rebellious choices and a desperate need to belong. I poured myself into being liked. Being fun. Being what others needed.

I spent my twenties in a haze of night clubs, chaos, credit card debt and collapsing boundaries. And then I did what I thought would fix it all: I got married.

It looked dreamy on paper — Santorini wedding, glowing smiles. But inside, I was ignoring every red flag. Every gut nudge. Every truth in my bones.

That marriage broke me. And when I left, I didn’t heal — I ran. Straight into another relationship, even more controlling. More suffocating. More soul-silencing. I never took any time to heal from the abuse, the toxicity, the pain and loss of identity.

But there’s only so long you can keep pretending to be okay before your body screams for you.

Mine did — with high blood pressure, thyroid issues, panic, sadness and exhaustion.

And finally, I listened.