The Night everything fell apart

I want to die. I want to die. I want to die.

Four words, on repeat, like a beat. A hammer striking my brain. Each blow sharper. Each strike stronger. Blinding. Deafening. Endless.

It was New Year’s Eve 2022. Curled up on the dirty floor of Whittington hospital A&E, crying, vomiting, head in hands. Focusing my mind on these four words, because they were the only thing louder than the pain.

I’ve always had a decent tolerance for pain. Like many women, pain had always been around, like a loud, self-centred companion, talking over me, derailing my plans, refusing to leave. Eighteen months earlier I had given birth to my daughter after three days, 31 hours of excruciating drug free labour (not by choice). I thought I knew what pain was.

But this was different. It was a much darker pain. It was a pain without hope. Without end. One that made me want to die more than it made me want to live for my 18-month-old daughter. And that thought still haunts me to this day.

On the cold, dirty floor of Whittington Hospital A&E, surrounded by the low murmur of drunk strangers piecing together their New Year’s, I was face-down in my own private nightmare.

The torture was relentless. Every few seconds it was like a knife was cutting my brain open. Each wave of pain brought a fresh round of vomiting, even when there was nothing left. Just dry convulsing. Just waiting. For it to stop. For it to end.

Running, my savior and and tormentor

Rewind to the beginning of that year. I was working as a marketing manager at a major alcohol brand company, constantly feeling like I was falling behind, that I wasn’t meant to be here, that everyone else seemed to get it but me… The promotion, the praises, the progress… While I sat there feeling like a fraud, wondering when I’d finally be found out.

But there was something people admired me for:

“Motivated.”

“Dedicated.”

“Badass.”

“Batshit crazy.”

All words used to describe the 40km I was running each week “just for fun.” The equivalent of a marathon. Every. Single. Week.

And every time I heard those words, I felt a rush, dopamine flooding my brain like a warm, approving wave. For a moment, I felt enough. Worthy. Belonging.

But holding on to this feeling was like trying to catch sand. It would slip through my fingers every time. So like a junky chases the high of that first hit… I ran, for validation, for peace.

Running was both my salvation and my punishment. I ran when I felt insecure. When I was too much. When I wasn’t enough. I ran to numb, to fix, to disappear.

Even on holiday, I packed my running gear like medication. Sometimes I tried to leave it behind, to relax, but I’d end up buying replacements anyway. Once, I spent two hours in the scorching heat of Athens searching for trainers… €100 spent for a five-day trip. It didn’t just cost me time and money. It cost me memories I’ll never get back.

I ran to erase nights out, big meals, hangovers, even comedowns. It gave me a twisted permission slip, to all the excess, the “rewards.” I was finding my balance in these extremes and called it control.

Until that night in the hospital. Until these four words: I want to die.

The life changing shift : Do nothing.

I was hospitalized that night. It took the doctors a week to figure out what was wrong with me. My diagnosis turned into a terrifying guessing game, but after ruling out brain tumor and meningitis, I was told I had: Acute sinusitis, bacterial lung infection, gallbladder and liver inflammation, sepsis.

My body was not joking around this time. It was saying: “If you’re not going to listen to my whispers I will make you hear my screams. Enough”.

Thanks to modern medicine, I survived. And something unexpected happened.

For the first time in my adult life, I couldn’t run. And that meant I couldn’t hide. I couldn’t erase. I couldn’t “make up for it” the way I always had.

And that’s when I discovered something life-changing: When I stopped trying to fix or outrun my thoughts, they settled, like dust in the air. And when the dust cleared, I returned to something deeper.

My Self, with a capital S.

Something that has been talked about for thousands of years. Science called it Instinct, psychology called it Self, spirituality called it Soul. I call it wisdom, gut feel, intuition.

The you behind the noise. The you that simply “knows what to do.”

In that Self, I moved when it felt good, rested when I needed to, and stopped measuring every inch of my life.

This was a revelation. I’d spent over a decade trying to fix every uncomfortable thought with food, exercise, overthinking, always chasing peace of mind that never came.

The answer was so simple, so radical… I needed to do nothing.

Not “nothing” as in avoidance, but “nothing” as in acceptance. To allow thoughts and feelings to come and go without gripping them. Without trying to give them meaning, power, or permanence.

I always tell my clients that there is a big difference between:

“I am insecure” and “I have an insecure thought.”

The first becomes an identity. The second is just a thought. A passing cloud.

Thoughts create feelings. Feelings drive behaviours. But when you remember they’re just thoughts, not truth, you don’t have to keep obeying them.

It’s like watching a horror movie and feeling scared, but not calling the police because Jason’s on your screen. You feel it, but you know it isn’t real.

That’s the job of our psychological immune system. It reminds us what’s fiction and what’s real. It brings us back. To centre. To Self.

And when I did that, everything changed.

My strength, health, and fitness were the best I had ever experienced. My relationships softened, I became more patient, more loving, more present. My work transformed, I made bolder choices, felt more creative, saw setbacks as feedback instead of failure.

Life became less like a battlefield, and more like a game. Successes started to pile up naturally and, bottom line, it was fun.

That night on the hospital floor felt like the end. But it was the beginning.

It didn’t just change my life. It changed my purpose.

Now, I guide women back to the place I had forgotten. The Self behind the striving. The one that’s always been there, quietly waiting for us to listen.

Because when we find her, life stops feeling like a battle. It becomes something we get to live. Results feel effortless. Setbacks feel like feedback. And peace, the kind we’ve been running toward for years, finally meets us where we are.

One of my clients once said,

“I feel like I’ve finally cracked the code of life.”

And you know what? So did I.