I’ve Softened

As the seventh anniversary of my first hospitalisation in 2019 approaches, I've found myself reflecting on how much has changed over the years. Not necessarily the big milestones or dramatic breakthroughs, but the smaller, quieter changes that have gradually become part of my everyday life.

One thing I've noticed recently is that I simply don't react to things in the same way anymore. Situations that might once have triggered a strong emotional response no longer seem to affect me quite so deeply. I still experience frustration, irritation and anger, of course, but my relationship with those emotions has changed. I've softened.

Looking back at the person I was before my hospitalisation, I can now recognise just how anxious I had become, and how much tension I was carrying in my body. At the time, I wasn't necessarily aware of it. I was simply getting on with life, doing what needed to be done and meeting the expectations I felt were placed upon me. I was working part-time, running a household and raising two young children. I carried a lot of responsibility, and I wasn't particularly good at expressing what I needed or acknowledging when I was struggling. After all, what did I have to complain about? We weren't struggling financially, I was only working part-time, and there was plenty in my life to be grateful for.

But the reality was that I was struggling.

What I've come to understand through my own therapeutic work is how much of my behaviour was shaped by earlier experiences. Growing up as a British-born Chinese girl, navigating different cultural expectations and trying to find my place in the world, I learned to adapt myself to fit in. There were expectations around obedience, respect, achievement and responsibility, alongside difficult childhood experiences that I hadn't fully processed.

By adulthood, those patterns had become deeply ingrained. The good girl, the perfectionist, the conformist. The parts of me that had learned to behave in certain ways to gain acceptance, avoid conflict or protect myself. I was so accustomed to doing what was expected that I struggled to recognise, let alone express, what I actually needed. And those unexpressed needs and emotions didn't simply disappear. They found other ways of coming out. I would hold on to frustrations, allowing them to simmer beneath the surface until something relatively insignificant could provoke a completely disproportionate reaction. I became impatient, often quite snappy and passively aggressive. Looking back, I can recognise that I was carrying so much that I simply didn't know how to express.

In 2019, things reached a crisis point, and following a particular incident, I was admitted to a mental health hospital. That first admission lasted six weeks, and although the circumstances that brought me there were incredibly difficult, I can now recognise the experience as a blessing in disguise.

For the first time in a very long time, I was able to let go of everything. I didn't have to think about what the children were doing, what we were having for dinner, whether the shopping had been done or any of the countless everyday tasks that had occupied so much of my time and energy. I was able to focus entirely on myself and what I needed in that moment. During that time, I received psychiatric and therapeutic support and was introduced to different approaches, including CBT, mindfulness and group work. There was also something incredibly valuable about being alongside other people who understood what I was experiencing. People who knew something of that darkness and didn't need me to explain or justify how I had reached that point.

It was the beginning of learning about compassion, forgiveness and self-acceptance. Not just towards other people, but towards myself. And that learning has continued ever since. Over the years, I've explored different therapeutic approaches, healing modalities and ways of understanding myself. Some have helped me make sense of experiences intellectually, while others have allowed me to explore and process things in a more experiential way. I've come to recognise that understanding something doesn't necessarily mean we've finished working through it. There can be many layers to our experiences, and what feels resolved at one point in our lives may reveal another aspect when we revisit it later.

I remember once being frightened by the thought of needing therapy for the rest of my life. Not because I didn't value it, but because I thought being in therapy meant there was something wrong with me that needed fixing. My perspective has changed considerably. I now recognise that I can return to therapy when I feel the need, explore through therapeutic groups, or continue my own personal practices. For me, it's become less about being in therapy and more about maintaining a curiosity and willingness to keep learning about myself.

And alongside that inner exploration, I've made some very practical changes to the way I live.

One of the biggest has been learning to recognise and honour my own needs. I've become much more aware of my energy levels and the different ways that situations and interactions affect me. I enjoy being sociable, but certain environments and groups require more energy from me than others. I also need time alone, not just to recharge, but because those quieter moments are often when I do my best thinking and when new ideas emerge.

Understanding this has allowed me to make different choices about how I spend my time. I've learned that it's okay to reduce the frequency of family visits when they become too demanding, or to decline an invitation to an activity that I don't particularly enjoy. I can still maintain those relationships without feeling obliged to participate in everything.

Perhaps the biggest shift has been learning to let go of the guilt associated with those choices. Even over the past year, I've noticed how much more comfortable I've become with recognising when I'm tired and simply allowing myself to rest. I don't have to justify how I've spent my day or explain why I need some downtime. And if a household chore can wait until tomorrow, then it can wait.

These might seem like relatively small changes, but for someone who spent much of her life trying to meet expectations, they've been significant. Which brings me back to something I've been noticing about myself recently: I'm less reactive.

There are things that genuinely don't bother me as much as they once did. And when something does frustrate or anger me, I'm much more able to recognise what I'm feeling and respond to the situation in front of me. In the past, I would often hold on to frustrations, allowing them to build until eventually something would happen and I would explode. Now I'm more likely to speak up when something bothers me, rather than allowing it to accumulate. I can still get angry, and I might occasionally raise my voice or lose my patience, but I'm much more able to step away, breathe, gather my thoughts and allow the emotion to pass.

Importantly, when I do feel angry, it tends to be about what's happening in that moment. I'm no longer bringing quite so much accumulated frustration into the situation. The emotion feels more proportionate, and it passes more readily. I think that's an important distinction, because healing isn't necessarily about eliminating difficult emotions or reaching a point where we never get triggered. Anger, frustration, sadness and disappointment are all part of being human. The difference, for me, lies in how I recognise, express and respond to those emotions.

When I reflect on the past seven years, I don't see a neat journey from being unwell to being healed. There have been challenges, setbacks, discoveries and continued opportunities to learn. I'm still exploring aspects of myself and my experiences, and I still encounter old patterns. But I also recognise how much has changed. I've become more accepting of myself. I've learned to understand the parts of me that developed in response to difficult experiences, rather than constantly judging or fighting against them. I've become more comfortable acknowledging what I need and more willing to make choices that support my wellbeing.

And somewhere along the way, I've softened.

I don't believe healing necessarily has an endpoint. As we move through life, we encounter different experiences and discover new aspects of ourselves. There is always more to understand, more to learn and perhaps more to let go of.

But I also think it's important to recognise how far we've already come, rather than continually focusing on what we still need to work through. Because progress isn't always found in dramatic breakthroughs or moments of profound realisation. It can be found in the ordinary moments when something that once would have overwhelmed us no longer does. When we notice frustration but don't carry it around for the rest of the day. When we say no without guilt, or allow ourselves to rest without feeling the need to justify it.

I'm still learning about myself, and I don't expect that will ever stop. But looking back over these seven years, I can recognise just how much has changed. I've spent so much of my life trying to be the person I thought I should be, meeting expectations and questioning whether I was doing enough. These days, I'm much more comfortable simply being myself, recognising what I need and accepting that I don't have to get everything right. And perhaps that's where the greatest change lies - not in becoming someone different, but in finally allowing myself to be who I am.