Tag: mental-health

The Cost of Carrying Too Much

What People Pleasing Really Looks Like..

Caryn Clegg
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My mom once said to me,
“I gave and I gave and I gave… until I was forced to slow down.”
And here’s the thing — her forced to slow down wasn’t some beautiful sabbatical or life-changing moment of clarity on a yoga mat.
It was stage four colon cancer.

Ten years, the doctors said. That’s probably how long it had been growing. Quietly. Slowly. While she kept showing up for everyone else.
And I remember. Years before the diagnosis, she’d talk about this tiredness. Not the kind of tired you fix with a good night’s sleep — but a deep, heavy kind of fog that just never lifted.
She’d say things like, “I’m just so tired,” or “I’m struggling a bit lately.”
But did we listen?
Like, really listen?
No. Because she was still doing all the things. The lifts. The grocery runs. The babysitting. The meals. The endless helping.
She still said yes. Still smiled. Still showed up.
We thanked her. Of course, we did. We said thank you, and we meant it.
But now I wonder — when someone is quietly disappearing behind their yeses… is thank you enough?

I grew up watching my mom live like that.
And she grew up watching her mom do the same.
Give, give, give.
Put everyone else first.
Show up. Smile. Keep going.
And so — without even realizing it — I became her.
I don’t know how to say no without guilt.
I carry the weight of everyone else’s needs before I even think about my own.
I show up even when I’m falling apart inside.
And the truth?
It’s catching up with me too.

Just the other day, my mom and I were walking in nature — one of the few things that still feels healing.
She’s years into remission now, but her body still carries the scars. The toll it took. The weight of years of self-sacrifice.
As we walked, I opened up to her. Told her how exhausted I’ve been. How my immune system’s wrecked. How my hair’s falling out in clumps, leaving bald patches on my scalp.
How I feel like I’m running on fumes but still carrying everything like it’s fine.
She looked at me and said softly, “You have to take care of yourself. You have to say no.”
And I looked at her and said, “But mom… I learnt it from you.”
I didn’t mean it as blame. Not even close.
It was just the truth.
What we model as mothers becomes our daughters’ belief systems.
I saw her give until there was nothing left — and somewhere along the line, I thought that’s what love looked like. What worthiness looked like. What womanhood looked like.

But It ends with me.
I won’t let my daughter grow up thinking her value is based on how much she can do or how many people she can please.
I’m trying — really trying — to break the cycle.
To stop saying yes when I mean no.
To stop offering up explanations for my boundaries.
To stop worrying if people will be disappointed in me for choosing rest.
But I won’t lie. It’s hard.
These patterns run deep. They’re stitched into how I was raised, what I saw, what I believed I needed to be to be loved.
And the truth?
Some people will take advantage of that kind of people pleasing — knowingly or not.
They’ll soak up your yeses. They’ll let you carry the load.
And when you start putting it down… they won’t like it.
But still, I’m learning.
Because every time I say no, I’m saying yes to me.
And that doesn’t make me selfish. It makes me human.

If you’re reading this and feeling that weight — that bone-deep exhaustion, that fog, that quiet ache of burnout from always being the one who holds it all…
Please hear me:
You don’t have to earn your worth by giving yourself away.
You are worthy.
Not because of what you do.
Not because of how strong you are.
Not because of how well you carry the load with a smile on your face.
You are worthy because you are here.
Full stop.
And the people who love you?
They’ll still love you when you rest.
When you say no.
When you finally put something down.
And if they don’t?
They were never your people.

And one more thing, before I go…
Pay attention to your friends.
To your sisters. Your moms. Your daughters.
To the ones who keep saying, “I’m so tired. I can’t do this anymore.”
That’s not drama. That’s not a mood. That’s a quiet scream.
That’s someone who’s drowning but still showing up with a smile.
Don’t be fooled by how well they carry it.
Don’t assume they’re okay because they haven’t collapsed yet.
Hold space. Make it safe to rest.
Don’t let your friendship be another place where they have to perform.
We all need a soft place to land.
Let’s be that for each other.
Let’s stop glorifying the giving and start honouring the being.
Because we deserve to rest.
And we deserve to be loved in our resting, too.

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The Messy Middle:

When everything shifts and nothing makes sense anymore..

Caryn Clegg
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I don’t know if it’s the heaviness of the world lately… or maybe it’s just been building quietly inside me over the years. But somewhere between the heartbreaking headlines, the stories of real suffering we see play out in real time on the same phones we use to call our family, post cute reels, and text our friends – I felt something crack open.

It was subtle at first. Like a whisper inside me saying, This isn’t it anymore.

The business I’d built, the brand I’d poured into, the strategy I could do in my sleep – it suddenly felt so… hollow. Frivolous even. How was I supposed to care about engagement rates and launch calendars when people were burying their babies, losing their homes, living through war, famine, injustice?

I couldn’t shake it.

And I still haven’t.

I tried to carry on like nothing had changed, but I wasn’t fooling anyone – especially not myself. So, I burnt it all to the ground. Not in a dramatic, throw-my-laptop-out-the-window kind of way. But in a quiet, sacred kind of way. I let it die, slowly. I stopped pushing. I stopped trying to “pivot” or “rebrand.” I just stopped.

And then something beautiful happened.

I became a mama – through adoption.

I co-founded a nonprofit with my friend.

I started doing things that actually made my heart beat again.

But here’s the thing no one tells you about following what lights you up: you don’t always know where it’s leading.

And while that sounds poetic, it can also be really freaking terrifying.

Which brings me to my point:

So… what now?

What do you do when the life you had doesn’t fit anymore?

When the job title you used to say with pride now feels like wearing someone else’s clothes?

I had planned to take a year off to bond with my baby. That part? No regrets. She’s my miracle girl. But with that choice came a whole new identity crisis I didn’t expect.

Every time I met someone new, the question would come up: “So what do you do?”

Harmless, right? A basic get-to-know-you question.

But for me? It was layered.

“I’m a stay-at-home mom… with a nonprofit.”

And although my days were jam-packed – feeding, playing, rocking, comforting – I felt this tinge of shame. Like I had to justify my worth now that I wasn’t “working.” Like I was somehow less than, now that I didn’t have clients or a pitch deck.

I’m not the business and marketing consultant right now. Or maybe I still am. I don’t know.

I’m somewhere in-between.

The messy middle.

I’ve surrendered to it.

To not knowing.

To not having a five-year plan.

To letting the tears come when they need to.

To trusting that this version of me – raw, undone, redefined – is still worthy.

Becoming a mom, witnessing the pain in the world, it’s cracked me open in ways I’m still learning to hold.

I can’t pretend it’s business as usual.

Because nothing inside me feels usual anymore.

And here’s what I’ve learned:

Forcing clarity never brings peace.

Forcing creativity when your heart isn’t in it, is like yelling at a flower to bloom faster.

It doesn’t work.

It wilts you.

So instead, I’m pausing.

Slowing down.

Trusting that the next steps will reveal themselves in time.

Because they always do.

The other day, someone said to me, “But Caryn, you’re so good at marketing and business – don’t let that talent go to waste.”

And I just smiled and said, “It’s just not my season.”

And that’s okay.

Because some seasons aren’t about building.

They’re about becoming.

And that’s exactly where I am.

If you’re in your own messy middle, I see you. It’s not easy. But maybe – just maybe – it’s the space where the truest version of you begins to emerge.

If this resonated with you. Please drop me a comment, I’d love to hear from you.

Drowning in Gratitude and Exhaustion

Caryn Clegg

“I’m so exhausted, I need help,” I said to my mom—my voice cracking before the sentence even finished. Not the kind of tired a nap could fix. The kind that wraps around your bones, that makes your muscles ache, your soul heavy, and your brain foggy. The kind of tired that feels like you’re walking through life wearing a weighted blanket you can’t take off.

This season? It’s beautiful. It’s sacred.
But it’s also breaking me in places I didn’t know could break.

I fought so hard for this little girl of mine. I prayed for her. I dreamed of her. I ached for her before I even knew her. And now that she’s here.. my daughter, my miracle, I’m still fighting. But now, some days, it feels like I’m fighting for myself.

The naps, the feeds, the physio appointments, the cleaning, the cooking, the laundry – oh the endless piles of laundry, the playtime, the walks, the singing, the rocking, the comforting – it’s holy work. It’s magical. And it’s utterly exhausting.

I had no idea motherhood would feel like this.
And I definitely didn’t know that having a premature baby – born two and a half months early – would come with all the extra layers. The physio. The exercises. The medical check-ins. The constant wondering if I’m doing enough, if I’m doing it “right.” Add adoption into the mix, and I overthink it all ten times more. Is she securely attached? Is this normal? Will this cause her more trauma? Will she feel safe, seen, secure?

Motherhood, for me right now, feels like I’m drowning.
And the only one who could maybe save me is my husband…
But he’s drowning too.

And that’s the part no one really talks about.
The way the world keeps spinning, family lives abroad, friends are busy, and suddenly it’s just the two of you. No village in sight.
Just two people, clinging to each other, tired and overstimulated, trying their best not to unravel.

I told my mom, “I think I’ll only be okay again when she starts school.”
And then I exhaled, paused.. because I don’t want to wish this time away. The Lord knows, I don’t want to wish it away.
I just… need help.

My mom’s getting older. Cancer took its toll. She helps when she can – and I’m so grateful – but it’s not the way I remember the aunties and grannies stepping in when I was growing up.
And even saying that feels like betrayal.
Like I’m ungrateful. But I’m not. I’m just tired. And I miss what I never had.

I don’t have the answers.
But I understand now why women lean on nannies, daycares, au pairs – whatever it takes. Because truly, I don’t know how we were ever expected to be everything to everyone – mothers, caregivers, providers, nurturers – all at once, all the time.

I heard someone say once,
“They say it takes a village – but then they shame us for what our village looks like.”
Especially when our village comes in the form of paid help.
But what else are we meant to do when there’s no one else around?

We’re all just trying to survive.
We’re all just trying our best.

So here’s what I do know:
We need patience with ourselves.
Buckets of grace.
We need to know it’s okay if they had frozen nuggets again, if Ms. Rachel was on way more than we’d like to admit, if we sobbed in the kitchen while breathing deeply to keep ourselves from snapping.

It’s okay.
It really is.

And if no one has told you today –
You’re doing beautifully.
Not perfectly. Not always calmly. But beautifully.

I don’t have the answers.
But I’m here with you.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for today.