A love letter to the woman who is exhausted, burned out, and barely holding on
Three years ago, I couldn't get out of bed.
Not because I was lazy. Not because I was depressed (though I was that too). But because my body—after decades of overworking, over-giving, and over-surviving—finally said no more.
I'd been working four jobs at once. Taking care of my narcissistic mother financially and emotionally. Housing family members while paying for everything myself. Saying yes when I meant no. Carrying burdens that were never mine to carry.
I was the provider. The fixer. The strong one. The one everyone leaned on.
And then I collapsed.
Completely. Totally. Utterly.
I couldn't cook for myself. Couldn't shower. Couldn't do laundry, pay bills, or answer emails. I was just... gone. Depleted in a way that went beyond tired. It was like every cell in my body had shut down in protest.
And my thirteen-year-old daughter Rose became my caregiver.
The Breaking That Became a Beginning
Rose brought me water. Made me food. Helped me to the bathroom. Held me while I cried.
She should have been living her teenage life—worrying about school, friends, and her own dreams. Instead, she was taking care of her mother, who couldn't take care of herself.
She saw me at my absolute worst.
And honestly? That was the greatest gift we could have given each other.
Because of that complete breaking, we finally started talking.
Really talking.
About the trauma we'd both survived.
About the patterns we'd inherited.
About how I'd been so busy taking care of everyone else that I hadn't been there for her.
About how she'd learned to disappear because I was always overwhelmed.
About the abuse in my childhood that I'd buried so deep, I'd convinced myself it never happened.
About my violent first marriage to her father.
About the narcissistic family dynamics that had shaped both of us.
We started healing together.
What Saved Me (And What I Want to Share With You)
I tried everything during those months of bed rest.
Therapy. Yes.
Medication. Absolutely.
Books, podcasts, and all the self-help advice the internet could offer.
But you know what actually brought me back to myself?
My altar.
I know that might sound woo-woo or too simple. But when I couldn't do anything else—when I couldn't work or be productive or even get dressed—I could light a candle.
I could pour a cup of water for my ancestors.
I could sit in front of that small sacred space and just... be.
Not fixing. Not performing. Not achieving.
Just being.
And slowly, my ancestors started holding me in ways the living world couldn't.
They reminded me: You come from a long line of survivors. You carry strength in your bones. You are not the first to break, and you won't be the last. But you are held.
That altar became my lifeline. My daily practice of showing up for myself when I had nothing left to give. My connection to something bigger than my pain.
The Patterns I Had to Break
As I healed, I began to see the patterns clearly for the first time.
The pattern of people-pleasing that came from a mother who withheld love unless I was useful.
The pattern of overworking that came from generations of poverty and survival mode.
The pattern of having no boundaries came from being taught that my needs didn't matter.
The pattern of attracting narcissists was because that's what felt familiar.
The pattern of abandoning myself to take care of everyone else.
I'd inherited these patterns. They weren't originally mine. They came from my mother, and her mother, and her mother before that—generations of women who survived by making themselves small, useful, and endlessly giving.
And I was the first one to say: This stops with me.
Rose and I talked about it endlessly during those months. How the cycles had affected her. How she'd learned to be hypervigilant, to read my moods, to disappear when I was stressed. How my burnout had hurt her, even though I was "doing it all for her."
We decided to heal it together.
Not just for us, but for the generations that came before and the ones that would come after.
Why We Created the Soft Hearts Society™
Rose and I didn't set out to start a business.
We just knew we'd found something sacred in our shared healing—something we couldn't keep to ourselves.
We'd learned that:
Rest is not laziness. It's the most revolutionary act a woman can choose.
Boundaries are not cruel. They're self-love made visible.
Softness is not weakness. It's the bravest thing you can be in a world that demands your constant depletion.
Ancestral healing is real. Your ancestors want to support you—even if they couldn't support themselves.
You don't have to heal alone. In fact, you can't. We're not meant to.
And we knew there were other women out there—so many other women—who were where I'd been.
Burned out.
Boundary-less.
Barely holding on.
Giving everything to everyone and collapsing under the weight of it all.
Women who needed permission to rest.
Women who needed to learn how to set boundaries without guilt.
Women who needed to connect with their ancestors for support.
Women who needed to heal their inner child, their shadow, and their mother wounds.
Women who needed a soft place to land.
A Soft Place to Return
When Rose and I began building Allonia Rose, we wanted to create something we both understood the need for. A place where women could be seen, heard, and witnessed without having to hold everything together.
I know what it feels like to carry too much and have nowhere to set it down. I also know how meaningful it can be when someone simply sits with you and acknowledges what you've experienced.
That is the heart of our work.
Through Sacred Sittings™, our free circles, and Soft Hearts Society®, we make room for women to reconnect with themselves and their lineages.
There is no expectation to have everything figured out. No requirement to arrive healed or ready to tell your story.
Come as you are.
We witness. We release. We remember. Together.
