After my daughter left home, just as I turned 40, everything in my body—but also my mind—began to collapse.

I’d been raising her alone for 19 years, and this was meant to be my time. The long-awaited breather. A season of freedom. But instead of stepping into a new life, I slowly stopped being able to function at all.

An energetic breakdown is the best way to describe it. It didn’t hit all at once. But over weeks and months, I went from running my business and walking in the hills to being bedbound. On bad days, I couldn’t walk without a stick. My mind was hazy. I’d sometimes forget what I was doing. The smallest task could send me under.

This lasted, on and off, for four years. I lost everything I loved. Simple things: hiking, travelling, taking a train to visit my daughter, making plans with a friend, having the energy or ability to hold a conversation over dinner. I had to move back in with my mum. She did my laundry and shopping. I couldn’t stand up long enough to even cook.

None of the language really fits it. But “devastating” gets close. I stopped being able to see a future. My thoughts became very dark. I looked like I was resting, but I wasn’t. I was surviving.

Eventually, I was diagnosed with Hypothyroidism, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, and Autistic burnout. It was difficult to untangle which symptoms belonged to which diagnosis. But little by little, I did make sense of it. The real turning point came two years in when I discovered I was neurodivergent.

From there, everything came into focus.

Of course I was sick! After years of masking—pretending to be someone I wasn’t and could never be—my entire system had just burned out. It explained why I’d never coped well with mainstream work environments. I always needed time off. I thought it was just because I was weird and a loser.

That’s why I went self-employed. I didn’t have the words at the time, but I was responding to my demand avoidance, the overwhelm of overstimulating workplaces, and the stress of following arbitrary rules I didn’t really understand.

But even self-employment hadn’t saved me—because I was still masking. I’d unknowingly recreated the same nightmare. I was following business advice for neurotypical men... and then wondering why it broke me. I spent thousands of pounds on courses that didn’t work. I hired coaches who didn’t understand my brain. I’d post constantly on social media and get some traction, but never the results others seemed to.

Each time I burned out, I thought the problem was me. Not the system.

I considered quitting coaching more times than I can count.

After neurodivergent discovery, I began doing things differently. Slowly. Quietly. Carefully.

I simplified. My business had become wildly complicated, so I stripped it back to the bones. I removed everything that didn’t feel aligned or messed with my nervous system. Including all social media.

I strengthened. I created one clear offer and invested time getting the messaging spot on, so the people I do my best work with could recognise I could help them straight away.

I trusted myself. Deep down, I knew those tech-bro marketing strategies were ineffective at best and manipulative at worst. I abandoned them all and instead asked myself: How would you like to do this?

I sought support. I stopped trying to do it all alone and asked for help with the bits that drained or distressed me.

The result is the business I have now. Calmer. Successful in the ways that matter to me. Built around my needs.

That’s what I help other neurodivergent women do now, too.

Not by pretending to be someone else. Not by pushing harder.

But by honouring what’s true, clearing the noise, and trusting that our way is the right way.

If you'd like to know more about me, my values—and how I work with people—click here to head to my About page.