Mindfulness Practice

I used to be highly functional—a woman who could do it all, juggle countless responsibilities, and forget nothing. My mind was sharp, my memory impeccable. I thrived on organisation, on efficiency, on being able to manage everything life threw at me. And the man I loved? He was the same. My soul mate. We understood each other’s drive and passion, our shared hunger for achievement, our ability to handle it all. Then everything changed when he burnt out. It was sudden and devastating. He couldn’t work anymore. The fire that once drove him dimmed, and then extinguished. I stood by him, unwavering. I fought for him, fought to keep him alive. I pulled blades from his hands, stopped him from slitting his wrists, did everything in my power to keep him safe. Even having him committed in the hopes that it would help, that it would give him a fighting chance. But it didn’t. In the end, he lost his battle. He took his own life. And with him, he took a part of me. Not just a huge chunk of my...

I recently read something that struck a deep, personal chord in me. In her powerful book I Will Not Be Silenced , journalist Karyn Maughan quotes her late friend, Eusebius McKaiser , who once said during a particularly difficult time: "People are not entitled to your trauma." Those words hit me like a lightning bolt—so simple, yet so profound. How often do we feel obligated to explain ourselves? To relive painful moments just to justify who we are or why we act the way we do? Whether it’s a friend, a stranger, or society at large, there’s a subtle expectation that we owe others a peek into our suffering—our story—on their terms. But we don’t. Your trauma is not a public property. It’s not something anyone is entitled to dissect, minimise, or judge. Sharing your pain is deeply personal. It’s your choice—when, how, and with whom. And sometimes, protecting your peace means keeping parts of your story to yourself. For me, McKaiser’s words stirred a kind of "motivated anger...