Imposter Syndrome or Divine Timing? When Your Life Asks You to Trust Yourself
My first reaction to being invited to write for a global digital magazine wasn’t excitement—it was suspicion. A quiet, conditioned reflex whispered, this must be a scam. And perhaps what’s sadder is how easy it is to find evidence to support that belief, thanks to a digital world that increasingly mirrors back whatever doubts we already carry. Algorithms or intuition? — hard to tell these days. And yet, despite the scepticism, here I am. Writing. Published. Doing the very thing I’ve been quietly manifesting for as long as I can remember. This article isn’t proof of success or arrival; it’s simply a marker on an ongoing spiritual journey—one that has repeatedly reminded me that everything I’ve ever truly envisioned for my life has found its way to me, often just not on the timeline I expected.
Who am I to write this?
Until recently, I would have answered that question with a long list of reasons not to be here. A personal trainer who spent years inside a gym, clocking hours and working with the same thirty-seven clients each week (whom I adore, truly). A single mother to two boys who are both my anchor and my why. A woman with a pattern of loving deeply, losing painfully, and rebuilding quietly. Not exactly the profile one imagines when they think of a global publication. And yet, beneath the familiar rhythm of reps and routines, there has always been a steady knowing: that my work was never meant to stop at the physical body, and that my voice—especially through writing—was asking to be trusted.
Heartbreak has been one of my greatest teachers. While I understand that rock bottom looks different for everyone, mine has often arrived through the collapse of relationships I invested my whole heart into. The aftermath is hard to put into neat language: a heaviness in the chest, a fog in the mind, a kind of functional numbness where life continues on the outside while something inside goes very quiet. It’s not dramatic despair—it’s the slow ache of disconnection, from self, from safety, from hope. And yet, the most recent heartbreak was different. It carried a clarity I hadn’t experienced before.
Because of my understanding of the nervous system, I could see what was unfolding beneath the story. Two people deeply wanting to be in each other’s lives, yet bringing nervous systems shaped by past survival. No amount of love could override the constant push-pull, the dysregulation, the unconscious trauma-bond cycle we kept slipping into. What once felt like destiny began to reveal itself as misalignment—not of intention, but of capacity. Letting go was devastating in a way that felt cellular. And still, something in me knew this pain was not here to break me; it was here to initiate me.
So I made a quiet vow: to extract every lesson this experience had to offer. What followed was the most profound healing journey of my life—one that required me to sit with discomfort rather than bypass it, to feel rather than fix. I began gently peeling away old identities, outdated roles, and protective armour I had worn for years to stay safe, liked, and chosen. Beneath it all was a version of myself I had always sensed—intact, wise, and waiting—only obscured by scar tissue from unhealed trauma and the masks we learn to wear to survive.
What surprised me most was how seamlessly the science met the spiritual. Nervous system healing didn’t pull me away from my intuition—it refined it. As I learned to regulate my own system, to recognise safety in my body rather than chase it externally, my inner world became quieter, clearer. Prayer felt less like asking and more like listening. Manifestation stopped being effortful and became embodied. Purpose, I realised, isn’t something we think our way into—it’s something the body consents to once it feels safe enough to receive it.
