From the Founder’s Desk: My Body Was Honest Long Before I Was

For a long time, I thought I was coping well.

That’s the strange thing about high-functioning burnout. From the outside, your life can still appear completely intact while internally, you’re quietly falling apart in slow motion.

I was still showing up to work.
Still meeting deadlines.
Still responding to emails.
Still smiling in meetings.
Still being dependable.
Still being “professional.”

So naturally, I assumed I was fine.

But my body had already started telling a different story.

It began subtly at first.

Exhaustion that sleep didn’t fix.
Brain fog.
Tension in my shoulders that never fully disappeared.
Random anxiety.
Feeling emotionally overstimulated by small things.
Struggling to fully relax even during quiet moments.

Then came the deeper exhaustion.

The kind that doesn’t feel physical at first.
The kind that settles into your nervous system.

I started noticing how difficult it had become to simply rest.

Not scroll.
Not distract myself.
Not multitask.

Rest.

Even in stillness, my mind remained alert, almost as if my body had forgotten that it was safe to fully relax.

And honestly, I think many millennials — especially women — know this feeling intimately.

We became experts at functioning while overwhelmed.

Somewhere along the way, exhaustion became normalised.
Being busy became a personality trait.
Burnout became proof that we were trying hard enough.

So instead of listening to our bodies, we learned how to override them.

Drink more coffee.
Push through.
Keep going.
Be grateful.
Handle it.

Especially as women, and especially as Black women, there’s often an unspoken expectation that we should carry things gracefully.

Carry pressure gracefully.
Carry responsibility gracefully.
Carry emotional labour gracefully.

Even when it’s costing us internally.

And for years, I did exactly that.

I kept functioning.

But my body kept whispering truths my mind wasn’t yet ready to admit.

Truths like:
You’re exhausted.
You’re anxious.
You’re emotionally disconnected from yourself.
You’re surviving, not living.
You cannot build your identity entirely around labour and expect your body not to protest eventually.

At the time, I didn’t fully understand what was happening.

I just knew something inside me felt tired in a way that rest alone couldn’t fix.

Not because I hated my life.
Not because I wasn’t grateful.
But because somewhere deep down, I knew I had outgrown the version of success I had been taught to chase.

I had spent years building stability.
Building professionalism.
Building competence.

But I had not spent enough time asking myself whether the life I was building actually felt aligned with who I was becoming.

And eventually, the disconnect started appearing physically.

I think our bodies often reveal emotional truths before our minds can fully process them.

Before we admit we’re overwhelmed, our bodies become tense.
Before we admit we’re unhappy, our energy shifts.
Before we admit we need change, our nervous systems begin sounding alarms.

The body is honest that way.

It does not care about appearances.

It responds to what is real.

And the reality was:
I was tired of surviving constantly.

Tired of always being productive.
Tired of feeling emotionally stretched thin.
Tired of performing strength.
Tired of existing in a state of low-level anxiety while pretending everything was manageable.

So I started running.

At first, I think I just needed somewhere for the stress to go.

Now I run three to four times a week, usually early in the morning, before the world fully wakes up. And strangely enough, running has become one of the few places where my mind finally quiets down.

Something shifts when it’s just you, your breathing, your thoughts, and the road ahead.

Running has given me clarity in ways I didn’t expect.

Perspective too.

There’s something humbling about realising your body is capable of carrying you forward even when your mind feels uncertain. Some of my clearest thoughts about my future have arrived mid-run. Ideas for Cocoa & Coconut. Thoughts about Her Works Collective. Reflections about work, identity, softness, ambition, and the kind of life I actually want to build.

Running became less about fitness and more about reconnection.

Reconnection with myself.
With stillness.
With discipline that feels nurturing instead of punishing.

And lately, I’ve even started thinking:
Maybe I could run a half marathon soon.

That thought alone feels symbolic somehow.

Because a year ago, I don’t think I fully understood how disconnected I had become from my own body.

Now, I’m learning to listen to it differently.

The older I get, the more I realise how many millennials are carrying invisible exhaustion.

Not dramatic breakdowns.
Just chronic emotional depletion.

We are the generation of overthinking, overstimulation, hustle culture, side hustles, burnout, healing podcasts, nervous system conversations, and quiet reinvention.

Many of us were taught how to achieve, but not how to rest.
How to perform, but not how to soften.
How to survive, but not how to feel safe inside our own lives.

And I think that’s why so many of us are beginning to reassess everything now.

Our careers.
Our priorities.
Our relationships with work.
Our definitions of success.

Because eventually your body starts asking questions your mind has been avoiding.

Questions like:
Why does your life feel so heavy?
Why are you constantly tense?
Why do you feel guilty for slowing down?
Why does rest feel uncomfortable instead of restorative?

Those questions changed me.

Slowly, I started paying attention to what my body had been trying to say all along.

That I wanted softness.
That I wanted flexibility.
That I wanted creativity.
That I wanted a slower, more intentional life.
That I no longer wanted to build a future entirely around stress and survival.

And maybe healing begins there.

Not in becoming a completely different person overnight.

But in finally listening to yourself honestly.

Listening before your body has to scream what it has been whispering for years.

Because the truth is, my body was honest long before I was.

It knew I was exhausted before I admitted it.
It knew I needed change before I allowed myself to consider it.
It knew I was longing for a different life before I could fully say it out loud.

And now, for the first time in a long time, I’m trying to build a life my nervous system doesn’t have to recover from.