I paused for a moment before climbing onto the table.

Not because I didn’t want to. I absolutely did. The music was playing, everyone was dancing, and I wanted to let go and have fun. It was my 50th birthday party after all.

Still, there was a pause.

That tiny moment of “What will people think?”

Then I remembered a guy I play padel with. He’s in his 80s and loves dancing. The first time he told me this, I pictured him elegantly wafting around a ballroom floor.

Boy, was I wrong.

With a fist pump into the air and a twinkle in his eye, he told me he loves trance music. Whenever the duff duff starts playing, he’s the first one dancing, whether it’s at a party or in the middle of the street.

I loved that.

There’s something refreshing about people who stop managing themselves so much.

So, I got up on the table and danced.

What I remember is feeling alive. Smiling down at everyone dancing on the sand below, and them smiling back. Exchanging fist pumps with strangers. Nobody cared how old I was. They just saw a woman having a great time dancing on a table on the beach in Spain.

Last year on my birthday, I did it again. And I already know where I’ll be this year when I turn 52. At the same restaurant on the beach in Spain in July, which is exactly where you should be if you enjoy dancing on the beach in the afternoon sun.

I’ve been thinking about that pause though. Because I don’t think it came from nowhere.

I think it came from old judgments I absorbed and carried around for years.

When I first moved to London, I did some contract work for a tech startup. When the contract ended, they wanted to hire me full-time. The head of the company sat me down and made me an offer.

I was appalled.

The role and salary were incredibly junior. I asked whether he’d actually looked at my CV. Was he aware of my experience and age?

He told me he assumed I was younger because of my energy.

Not because of the work I’d delivered for them. My energy.

I turned down the role. The sensible thing would have been to accept it. I was about to travel for a few months, living off savings, with no income coming in. Having something lined up when I got back would have been the smart move.

But I still couldn’t bring myself to take an offer that was beneath me just because my energy had made me appear more junior. What really stung was that when I corrected him, he didn’t correct himself or the offer. It felt like a double rejection. Not of my work, but of me.

Looking back now, I can see how much that shaped what I showed the world. On several occasions after that, especially in work situations, I found myself toning it down. Trying to appear more measured. Packaged the way people seemed to expect. I was just reinforcing the same dynamics I resented.

I don’t know exactly when that started to shift. Maybe it was the dancing on the table. Maybe it started before that. But somewhere along the way I stopped performing an overly serious version of myself and started showing up as the actual one. And the thing I didn’t expect: the more I’ve owned it, the more I find other people want it.

Here’s the thing about me. I make shit happen. I also happen to like laughing loudly, dancing when good music comes on, and bringing a lot of energy into the things I care about. Apparently, being visibly energetic and being taken seriously are not always considered compatible. Especially for women.

Women are often given a narrow range of acceptable ways to be competent. Don’t be too emotional. Show you can get shit done, but not like that, not with that energy, not laughing that loudly. You’ll come across like a schoolgirl. Be serious enough to be credible, but not so hard that you’re difficult. It’s a very small box to squish yourself into.

And it intensifies as we get older.

There’s this subtle pressure to become more contained over time. More polished. More measured. Less visibly excited by things. Like seriousness is somehow the price of being taken seriously.

A lot of women start editing themselves without fully realising it.

Not in dramatic ways. Just small adjustments. Lowering the energy. Laughing less. Becoming more measured, more contained, more careful about how they come across. Performing a more serious version of themselves until the performance becomes the habit.

I met my husband because I wasn’t doing that.

I was 40 and on my way to running club in Cape Town with a friend, one of those people who brings out your most ridiculous self. As we got close, we started doing the running man down the street like complete goofballs, laughing our asses off and not caring what anyone thought.

Chris told me later that when he saw that, he knew I was ‘the one’. He hadn’t even met me yet.

I’ve thought about that over the years.

How much of life changes depending on whether you shrink yourself or stay open inside it.

Maybe choosing yourself means expressing the parts of you that make you feel most alive. Even if they don’t match how other people expect you to show up.

What parts of yourself have you been hiding away?

I lay on the floor of my apartment for a week, crying. I had opened the gate, and the tears just kept coming and coming. I had to call in sick for work. I could only stomach bananas. My therapist was worried the workshop had gone too deep, too fast.

I was glad it had.

I’d always prided myself on being strong. If shit hit the fan, I was a rock. I got things done. I fought whatever battle was needed. Vulnerability was for everyone else.

An earlier therapy session comes to mind. My therapist had me do a visualisation and then asked me to draw what I saw. I can’t remember what the visualisation was, but I remember exactly what I drew. A person covered in dark armour from head to toe. Spikes protruding from all sides. Two bright blue eyes peering out from behind the heavy metal headpiece.

I knew it was me.

That image had been accurate for a long time.

Then I went to an intensive personal development workshop, and something shifted.

We spent the weekend doing exercises to explore ourselves, open up, and trust each other. The grand finale was an exercise of your own choosing. Something that let a previously hidden part of you emerge.

For people who were usually shy, it was performing in front of the group. A dance, a song, a reading. But that wasn’t me. I had no problem performing.

That was exactly the problem.

I was always performing in one way or another. Being who I thought others needed me to be. Acting strong and capable. Getting shit done.

The hidden part of me was the little girl who was unseen, in pain, and who had built armour around herself for protection.

So, my exercise was different.

All the workshop participants sat on chairs in a big circle. Maybe twenty or thirty people. I slowly walked up to each person, stood in front of them, and held up a photo of me as a young girl. I looked each person in the eyes and asked them to look at the photo, and to see me and love me.

The armour that had protected me for so long felt like it was ripped off.

I’m sure I was shaking as I moved from person to person. But each person took time to look at the photo, then me, and really see me with love. No one laughed or mocked me or pitied me. They just held the space and saw me and loved me.

As I made my way around the circle, tears began to flow. Giant tears, from a well that had been building for a long time. I let them come. I felt supported.

I didn’t walk out of that workshop having it all figured out. I walked out feeling seen and supported, but cracked open and raw.

Slowly, in between the waves of tears on the floor of my apartment the following week, I began to integrate it. The tears were cathartic in a way I hadn’t expected. It was a release. I was painfully sad, but in a weird way, it also felt good. Like how you feel after vomiting, even though vomiting is a bit shit.

Fully integrating the experience and this newfound part of myself took time. A lot of journalling. Conversations with my therapist and people from the workshop who continued to support me.

What I found on the other side of that workshop wasn’t weakness. It was a different kind of strength. One I hadn’t known was available to me. A real strength that comes from allowing yourself to be vulnerable and being okay with it.

Now I feel my emotions and I give them space. If I feel lost or scared or overwhelmed, I can admit it, to myself and to others. And if I need to cry, I cry.

Where are you wearing armour that you think is protecting you, but might be keeping you hidden? Is there a part of you that’s been asking to be seen?

Cape Town had an energy that drew me in. When I was there, I felt like I was being plugged into a socket. Recharged.

My best friend had moved back after a stint in London. He invited me to visit for Christmas. I’d been there once for work and it hadn’t done much for me. This time was different. Living his life alongside him, it felt magical. I just knew I had to be there.

I started visiting more often. A couple of weeks every few months, then four out of every six weeks. I still had a job back in London but I couldn’t bear to be there anymore. Eleven years, and I was done. The trains, the tubes, the volume of people, the distance to real nature. Done.

The guy I worked for was open to me going back and forth. As long as the work got done, it was fine. We were both happy.

Until he left the company.

My happy arrangement started crumbling around me. People started questioning why I got to spend so much time in Cape Town. The new guy didn’t like it. What really upset me was that I knew most of those people wouldn’t do the same even if they had the chance. Why did they have to piss all over my parade?

I’d always wanted to do a PhD, and my plan had been to do it at the University of Cape Town while continuing to work from there. But it was made very clear that if I stayed with the company, Cape Town wasn’t an option.

I could do the PhD remotely and travel for classes once a quarter, the way some people did. But I wanted to be there. Properly. Immersed in it.

The problem was, I had no other job lined up and my savings, while okay, weren’t great. The thought of not having income freaked me out.

I scribbled living costs and PhD costs in my journal, over and over, trying to bring the numbers down wherever I could. Each time I found a way to shave something off, I’d feel a flicker of hope. Okay, this looks more doable.

And then I’d sit back and feel it. That low pull in the pit of my stomach. Because this wasn’t how I had pictured my life in Cape Town.

I kept having to remind myself that I wouldn’t end up a bag lady living in the gutter. I was smart, I was willing to work hard, I would figure it out.

Everything in me said: go for it. Take a risk. Jump in and trust yourself.

So I did.

I quit the job, gave away most of what I owned, packed two suitcases and moved.

The first week I was there, before my PhD had even started, I met a guy who was launching a new fintech company and needed a Chief Marketing Officer. I ended up co-founding it with him and leading marketing while doing my PhD at the same time. And the week after that, I met the man who would become my husband, Chris. But that’s another story.

I’m not going to pretend the leap wasn’t terrifying. It was. The self-convincing was real, the fear was real, and there was no guarantee it would work out the way it did.

But something in me knew. And the one thing I’ve learned is that when something in you just knows, it’s worth paying attention to.

Is there a pull you’ve been ignoring? Something in you that just knows, but you haven’t quite let yourself trust it yet?

It took me years to be able to say it with any confidence. “I don’t work Fridays.” And even longer to actually mean it.

For a long time, I didn’t dare ask for what I wanted. I was consulting, but most of my time was going to one company and its clients. I wanted Fridays for myself. Time to breathe, to think, to do the things I actually wanted to do. But I was terrified to ask for it. At the heart of it, I was afraid people wouldn’t want me anymore. If I wasn’t there when they needed me, why would they keep choosing me?

The move to Spain gave me the opening I needed. Chris had been retrenched from South African Airways during COVID, and there were no opportunities for him in South Africa. We had to find a place to rebuild, and everything pointed to Spain. Suddenly, for the first time, I had a reason to ask for what I wanted. One that other people might actually accept. We needed time to explore different areas to find where we wanted to live, and Fridays would give me that time.

This was before the whole movement around four-day work weeks had really taken off. I couldn’t point to that and say everyone’s doing it. I just had Spain.

So I asked the person I worked for. And he said yes.

I felt a huge sense of relief. Like a door had finally opened in a cage I had been locked inside for a long time.

You know what? The world didn’t fall apart. Work kept coming. People didn’t care as much as I had feared. That extra day gave me something I hadn’t even fully understood I was missing. I realised that two-day weekends, the norm we’ve all just accepted, aren’t really enough. One day to wind down, one day to prepare for the week ahead. There’s no day to actually breathe, to explore, to just be. Now I had that day. And I loved it.

After a year in Spain, it was time for a new role. This is where the real test came. My previous client and I had found a comfortable rhythm. But this was someone new, and I couldn’t use settling into Spain as a reason anymore. But I wasn’t willing to give up what I had found. The pain of going back to working Fridays was greater than the fear of being rejected. So, with some trepidation, I told my new client I didn’t want to work Fridays. It came out as more of a request than a statement. I breathed a sigh of relief when he agreed.

But here’s the thing about patterns. They don’t just disappear because you’ve won a battle. New role, new clients, and almost immediately my old habits started knocking. When someone asked for a Friday meeting, I could feel everything inside me wanting to say yes. I didn’t want to let anyone down. I didn’t want them to think less of me. The fear of not being wanted was still there.

I realised something important. If I don’t keep my own boundaries, nobody will keep them for me. No one was going to protect my Fridays except me. That meant I had to get practical. I had to find ways to protect me from myself.

I added a note to my email signature saying I work Monday to Thursday. It was a bigger step than it sounds. I was announcing it to the world. What if people didn’t like it? But if I didn’t tell them, how would they know?

Then came the Fuck Off Friday message. Every Thursday before I sign off, I set up an out-of-office. I started out calling it my Freedom Friday message, but let’s be honest, that was never really what I meant. Everyone and everything can wait. This time is mine. Go away. I do still have to make sure I can’t see emails on my phone every weekend to stop myself from getting sucked in.

Basically, I had to find ways to outsmart my own patterns.

It reminds me of Bella, my dog. When I’m running an online workshop and need to keep her downstairs, she’ll try absolutely everything to get past whatever I’ve put at the bottom of the stairs. She jumps around it, squeezes past it, stares at it willing it to move. My patterns are a lot like Bella. Determined, creative, and completely shameless. If I don’t stay one step ahead of them, they’ll find a way through.

It took years to get here. But I can now say “I don’t work Fridays” with confidence. Looking back, I’m a bit annoyed with myself for letting it take so long. I couldn’t take the first step without a reason I thought other people would find acceptable. Just wanting it for myself wasn’t enough. I was too scared of how people would react.

But here’s what I know now. Wanting something is a reason. It doesn’t need to be dressed up or justified or made palatable for anyone else. And honestly, that goes for a lot more than just Fridays.

Is there something you want that you’re putting off because just wanting it doesn’t feel like enough? Or because you’re worried about how people might react if you actually asked for it?

The sun was coming up over the lake. My dad would be awake in about 30 minutes. I had my window.

Chris had tried to call from Spain. I’d sent him a message asking how things were going. He responded asking me to call him and then tried to phone. My phone was still on silent from the night before. I should call him back. I should be there when my dad came out for breakfast. But I wanted to run.

I could feel the frustration building. That familiar tug of the shoulds pulling against what I actually wanted.

I went for the run.

I’ve always loved running along the lake near my parents’ house in Canada. It’s a big lake, nestled amongst the hills and the pine trees. Something about it just takes you away from everything else for a little while. I only get back every one or two years.

I’ve been battling the shoulds for a long time. I now hate the word. I hate when I say it to myself and I hate when other people say it to me. These weren’t big life-changing shoulds. They were just the small everyday ones that quietly stack up and crowd out what you actually want.

These shoulds were all about time. And I’ve come to appreciate how precious it is. If you don’t protect it, it just slips away, used up by other people and things, with nothing left for yourself.

As I ran, I thought about a friend who messaged me recently, laughing. Her kids thought she was depressed because dinner was late and dad had to drive them places. She’d started making time for herself, to play pickleball.

It’s funny how when we start to prioritise time for ourselves, the people around us aren’t always quite sure what to make of it. But here’s what I’ve learned. When I make time for myself, I actually have more to give. I top up my own tank first, and then I can be more present for the people I love.

I got back from my run feeling alive, energised, and ready. I had felt the sun on my face, smelled the pine trees, and watched the ospreys flying overhead.

My dad was at the table eating his cornflakes when I walked in. He looked up, already knowing the answer, and asked if I’d been for a run. I smiled, went to the fridge, grabbed my yogurt and fruit, and sat down beside him.

I called Chris after breakfast. He was down at the beach with friends, enjoying the Spanish sun.

The version of me that sat down with my dad that morning was better for having run. So was the version of me that called Chris.

Is there something you keep putting off for yourself because the shoulds keep getting in the way?

I pulled out my personal journals recently. Thirty years’ worth, kept in a box. I grabbed a handful, opened to whatever page I landed on, and started reading.

What jumped out again and again was my struggle with self-doubt and the pull to please people who wanted to fit me into boxes that made sense to them. Yes, I made big life changes and went for what I wanted. But it was an all-out battle. I’ve spent most of my life fighting, in one way or another, to choose myself.

A friend once told me I inspired her. It surprised me. I thought she was talking about someone else, or she was a bit looney tunes.

To her, I was someone who beat to my own drum. I left relationships and jobs that didn’t fit, moved to countries that called to me, and always created the life I wanted. On the outside, I looked like I had it all sorted. On the inside, it was a shitshow.

As I read those pages, I felt sadness for the girl who struggled, and no one really saw. I felt anger at all the people who tried to put her into boxes. And I felt something spark within me.

It took a conversation with that same friend to turn the spark into a flame. As long as I’ve known this woman, she’s been driven, successful, and takes no prisoners. I admired her and was even a little scared of her sometimes. She’s recently discovered a part of herself that’s been hidden, even to her. A softer, more emotional side that wants space and a voice. That can be a scary thing to do, and an even scarier thing to share.

Listening to her made me realise I’m not alone, and neither is she. And surely, we aren’t the only two women on this journey.

That’s why I built this.

I want other women to know they aren’t alone. I want them to feel seen, and to know someone gets it.

I haven’t reached some final destination. There isn’t one. It’s an ongoing journey. It does get better, but sometimes it’s still frustrating as hell. But I’m still here, still working at choosing myself.

Maybe you are too. Is there a version of you that nobody really sees? Maybe she’s been waiting long enough.

I was on a plane to Helsinki, thousands of feet in the air, sun on my face, butterflies in my stomach. I looked down at the clouds and thought: I know I need to do this. I would regret not having done this.

My marriage wasn’t working. I just didn’t know what to do about it yet. I was 23 when we got married, 25 now. We had just moved to Silicon Valley from Vancouver for my work. I had been offered a Product Marketing position at Verifone. It was exciting. I was travelling, meeting new people, and at the center of the dot com boom. Life was starting, and I felt alive. But the same wasn’t true for my husband.

He wanted to be back home, close to his parents, have kids. The big wide world didn’t seem to call to him as it did to me. He struggled to fit the fast-paced dynamism of Silicon Valley. When I’d go on business trips, he would drink all the alcohol in the house and use my work Internet connection to entertain himself with women’s naked mud wrestling. It was dial up connections back then and the content got flagged on the work system and I received warning emails. Not great.

Life was great, but we weren’t. I realized that one of us was going to end up unhappy. Either I was going to drag him around the world when he just wanted to be back home, or I’d end up back home feeling like a bird with clipped wings. The tension grew... but I didn’t do anything about it. I was too scared. It had only been about two years. It felt like such a failure.

I’d always believed people got divorced too easily. That they just didn’t try hard enough. On top of that, I grew up Catholic. We’re not supposed to get divorced. I couldn’t talk to anyone about it. I held it all inside and it would try to come out of me through green bile vomit.

I must have eventually mentioned something to someone at work. Or perhaps I just started looking worse for wear because somehow I ended up seeing a company-funded counsellor. And that’s where I learned the difference between my learned self and my authentic self. Who I learned to be was the girl who married my husband. But my authentic self was someone different. She was starting to emerge, like a tiny light amongst the darkness, shining light on things that didn’t fit who I truly was or maybe who I was meant to become.

I hadn’t been able to trust my internal voice because it was still such a quiet whisper. I needed something external to help me see more clearly. And then I met someone on a business trip. He was a business guy who wanted to experience the world, someone who got it, who felt the pull of it the same way I did. Suddenly I was facing a choice: stay with my husband, take the safe route, maybe have a pleasurable life. Or take a risk and possibly have the love and romance of a lifetime, the kind people only dream about but few ever experience. I booked a flight to Helsinki to see him.

I knew people would have opinions about it. A married woman flying to another country to see another man. But for the first time, I felt something I hadn’t felt before. A quiet, solid knowing that this was right for me, regardless of what anyone else thought about it.

I didn’t know it then, but that moment on the plane was just the beginning. I was starting to choose myself, maybe for the first time.

But truly learning to choose myself? That took another 25 years. Because even though I had made a bold move, my authentic self was still just emerging. I had so many patterns and learned behaviours pulling me backwards, keeping me stuck. It took time, and experiences, and a lot of work to strengthen that voice. Shit, the journey was hard. And it’s not over yet.

Maybe you’ve had a moment like that. A moment when the door to choosing yourself opened, even just a crack. It doesn’t have to involve dramatic decisions or big life changes. Sometimes it’s just a quiet pull inside you, nudging you toward something you can’t quite name yet. If you feel that, pay attention to it. That pull is your authentic self. And she’s worth listening to.