Connected Independence

Loving them well isn’t doing everything for them. It’s inviting them into the weight of responsibility — into contribution, into capability, into the quiet dignity of learning to carry their part.

The Secret Ingredient

I was about to prepare dinner when the words of my supervisor echoed in my ear. Not about food. Not about nutrients. About doing a disservice — in loving them only through acts of kindness.

That landed. Because kindness, when overextended, can quietly become protection. And protection, when habitual, can quietly become limitation.

I was tired. Fatigued in that bone-deep way that doesn’t announce itself dramatically — it just hums beneath everything. And still, dinner needed to be made.

That’s adulthood. No matter how depleted you are. No matter how long the day has been. You still need to cook. You still need to show up. You still need to feed the people you love — and yourself.

So I made a decision. Tonight was the night. “Everyone in the kitchen.”

Truth be told, seven in a kitchen is a lot. It was crowded. Someone was in someone else’s way. And it heightened my anxiety. That material, instinctive pull to protect them — to smooth the edges, prevent mistakes, take over.

The chopping took its time.

Instructions were repeated with patience. It would have been easier to do it all myself.And sometimes, it still is.

But that’s not the point. Because loving them well isn’t doing everything for them. It’s teaching them what it means to carry responsibility.

To contribute. To participate even when you don’t feel like it. To understand that nourishment doesn’t magically appear. It is made.

And so we cooked. 

Seven pairs of hands learning the choreography of adulthood. Learning that fatigue and responsibility can coexist. Learning that contribution is part of belonging.

It wasn’t seamless. It wasn’t serene. But it was growth. Small steps toward connected independence.

Not the kind that says, “I don’t need you. ”But the kind that says, “I can stand beside you.”  Independence that still gathers at the table. Independence that knows how to chop, stir, serve — and someday, lead.

And maybe loving them well

isn’t lightening every load —

but teaching them how to carry it.

L, L, P,

Tash xo

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Unspoken Label

 If you’ve been following along, you may have noticed something slightly… intense.

Over the course of just a few days, I published seven blogs. On paper, that doesn’t sound extraordinary. One per day feels reasonable, balanced, disciplined. But that isn’t how it unfolded.

Those seven blogs poured out over three, maybe four days, in bursts of hyperfocus that overrode everything else. Emails waited. Laundry waited. The world waited. My mind, however, would not. Ideas collided and overlapped. Sentences formed before I could catch them. And somehow, it all needed to be captured.

And so, I wrote.

When Hyperfocus Takes Over

When hyperfocus kicks in for me, it’s not gentle or rhythmic. It doesn’t knock politely or ask permission. It overrides. It absorbs. I try to capture ideas as they come - in my phone, in the margins of notebooks - but when the tunnel of focus locks in, everything else dims until the thread is complete.

The methodical part of me wants to plan, pace, structure. Hyperfocus laughs at that order, pulling me into intensity that feels both exhilarating and exhausting.

When the seventh blog - “Becoming Her” - was complete, something shifted.

Climbing into bed beside my sweet men, I released a deep, auditory, sigh - the kind that empties your lungs completely. My mind unclenched. The fog lifted. The dense tangle of thoughts loosened. It felt like the clapboard snapping shut at the end of a take. A cut. A pause. A landing.

And yet, in the dark, ideas began stirring again - overlapping, forming threads I could almost reach for but had to let go. I chose rest. And in that choice, I recognised another paradox: even in stillness, my mind is never truly quiet. And perhaps it never should be.

The Un-named

Still, it highlighted something in me I’ve been circling for a while now. A word. A label. One I’ve been breadcrumbing through posts without actually naming. Whenever I edge toward declaring it, there’s a debate within me - a tug of war. Part of me leans in, relieved at the possibility of a lens that might explain the way my mind ignites and then exhales. The oscillation between immersion and relief.

Another part resists - wary of boxes. Of trends. Of being perceived as following some orchestrated global narrative. Of reducing an entire life to a single word. Perhaps that resistance is upbringing. Perhaps the echo of other people’s ideals. Perhaps societal pressure whispering, Don’t make it your identity.

Growing Up Unnamed

When I think about why a label sits so heavily in my mind, I am reminded of the world I grew up in. In the 70s, 80s, and 90s, differences like the ones I’m circling simply weren’t named. Children who were “too much,” “too sensitive,” or “gifted but inconsistent” were expected to adapt. To mask. To blend. There was no language for wiring that didn’t match the norm. You either internalised… or you learned to create order where understanding didn’t exist.

Heightened Sensitivity

There is another element here, too. As a child, I could hear, see, and sense things others couldn’t. Even now, that remains true. I’m speaking both physically and metaphysically - heightened sensitivity to tone shifts, micro-expressions, energy in a room. The atmosphere before a storm - relationally and literally. Subtle details others miss. Patterns beneath behaviour. Undercurrents beneath words.

It has often felt like living with the volume turned up. Not hallucination. Not fantasy. But intensity of perception. And when the world tells you that what you sense isn’t real - or is “too much” - you begin to question your own instrumentation. You try to turn it down. Sometimes you succeed. Often you don’t.

Structure and Freedom

Even now, I feel the tension between structure and freedom shaping how I move through life. I’ve always liked doing things methodically. Across my home, my work, my routines - I like defined lines. There’s a place for everything. Structure is my safety rail when the mind and heart feel unmoored.

And yet, I long for the version of myself who can leave the house without rehearsing a checklist. Who can immerse in spontaneity without discomfort. That version feels wild. Untethered. Free. Maybe she is me. Maybe the wiring just runs differently.

Motherhood and Reflection

I see the tension most clearly in my children. I remember my beautiful boy coming home from school, upset, asking me why he was different. My heart shattered - not because he was different - but because he couldn’t yet see the beauty in that. Months later, he shared his aspiration for the future: “To just be myself.” Such a simple statement. Such profound courageousness. It’s depth still reverberates.

Moments like that remind me why understanding - rather than labelling for the sake of labelling - matters. In 2020, my oncology psychologist asked if I had ever been assessed. She wasn’t questioning dysfunction - she was reflecting on resilience. Despite surgery. Despite the pandemic. Despite upheaval. I pushed through. Her question caught me off guard. And yet, underneath it, I felt seen. I rejected testing then. Why would I need it? What would it change? I’ve built a life. Raised children. Created. Loved. Endured.

Labels and Accountability

And yet, the tension remains. I have seen what a diagnosis did for my youngest - how it opened doors to school support that made a tangible difference. Offering language, context, and accommodation where previously there had been only struggle. And so, I understand the utility of a label, even if I resist it for myself.

I fear labels becoming alibis. I’ve witnessed that. I never want one to excuse poor behaviour or replace accountability. Growth and responsibility remain mine. But perhaps a label isn’t an excuse. Perhaps it’s a lens. A framework. A way to decode patterns rather than judge them.

Emotional Regulation and Recognition

In the past, emotion would build - sometimes invisibly - and then erupt. Sharp. Immediate. I blamed insecurity. Bottling. Weakness. But what if it was dysregulation? Sensory overload? Emotional saturation? A nervous system stretched too thin? Expectation versus intensity. Containment versus overflow. A collision between internal intensity and external expectation.

A lump forms in my throat as I write this - not from sadness but recognition. I’ve spent decades trying to smooth edges I didn’t fully understand. Trying to discipline intensity instead of decoding it. Suppress reaction instead of learn regulation. Maybe I wasn’t “too much.” Maybe I was overstimulated. Maybe I wasn’t dramatic. Maybe I was dysregulated. Maybe I wasn’t broken. Maybe I was wired differently.

Maybe I Was Wired Differently

Hyperfocus, sensory intensity, emotional surges, metaphysical sensitivity - perhaps they aren’t random flaws. Perhaps they form a pattern. A nervous system tuned finely - sometimes beautifully, sometimes painfully. Perhaps perfection was never the goal. Perhaps understanding is.

The Gift and the Grit

Hyperfocus is still a paradox. It derails structure, yet it propels me forward in ways nothing else can. Deadlines are met. Projects completed. Ideas realised. It prevents languished indecision. What looks like procrastination is often internal alignment - sorting before immersion. Once it lands, it’s a current I can ride with surprising efficiency.

That intensity spills into creativity - art, music, writing - ways to process and make sense of life. I am, in many ways, a dabbler of crafts. Not for mastery. To inhabit different facets of myself. I don’t like conformity, yet I crave order. I like rules, yet I chafe under them. The methodical version of me and the hyper focused version of me don’t sit neatly together – they’re more “clogs” than cogs.

Even in light-hearted spaces, I see myself reflected. The Big Bang Theory remains my favourite show. Sheldon mirrors my precision and rigidity. Leonard mirrors my relational warmth. Academia doesn’t come easily like it does for Sheldon - my HDs come through hyperfocused grit and persistence.    

Fire and Fog

And yet, with all these threads - intensity, sensitivity, hyperfocus, structure, resistance to naming - I’m learning to offer myself grace. Life is a negotiation between wiring and desire. Between fire and fog. Between compulsion and calling. Growth isn’t linear. Perfection was never the goal. Understanding and acceptance are enough.

I see this in my children - their courage to just be themselves. And I see it in the quiet moments when I remember that resilience and intensity can coexist.

Perhaps wiring, difference, and depth are not flaws. Perhaps they are simply patterns. Even now, I sit with the tension between producing seven blogs in three days and needing to close my eyes and remember I am human. Perhaps both are true. Perhaps both are me. And perhaps naming it won’t diminish it - but simply give lyrics to the rhythm I have always lived inside.

I think this is the most exposed I have ever felt.

L, L, P, 

Tash xo

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Becoming Her

What Clinical Placement Is Really Teaching Me…

The clinic smells like herbal tinctures and the quiet desperation of people who have sacrificed a lot to be here. Not desperation for healing - but for the finish line. For the degree. For the version of us that waits on the other side of it. There is something sacred about the moment before the door opens. But there is also pressure.

Becoming her starts long before I stand at that clinic door. Monday and Tuesday I move with timed precision because if I slow down, the weight of it might catch me. Up at 5:30am. Shower by 5.45am. Out the door by 6:10am. On the platform at 6.20am for the 6.30am train to Southern Cross. Always ten minutes early.

Those ten minutes are mine. I send morning messages - positivity to my mum, my sister, my best friend, my family. I delegate from afar. I check everyone is okay. I stabilise home before stepping into a space where I am required to hold other people. There is something heavy about being needed everywhere.

The Journey

On the train, I sit in silence. I people watch. I breathe. Sometimes I close my eyes just long enough to gather myself. The world already feels loud. My mind is already racing - cases, protocols, differential diagnoses, the possibility of getting it wrong. The rhythm of the carriage steadies the jumbled brilliance of my mind.

Southern Cross greets me with urgency - and the unmistakable stench of stale urine in the elevators as I transfer to platform 9. And yet, platform 9 becomes my confessional. I sing. Loudly. The acoustics hold me while the chaos swallows my voice. It is the last moment I belong only to myself - not assessed, not observed, not responsible.

At Melbourne Central, the escalators unsteady me. I am already slightly unbalanced and they amplify it. At the pedestrian lights outside campus, I pause. I breathe in the city skyline. I am steadying more than my breath. I am steadying the part of me that still whispers: Who do you think you are?

At 7:30am, I enter the clinic. First: I need to pee. Second: I check my family is okay and tell them I’ve arrived. Third: Almost instinctively - I compartmentalise. Not because I don’t love them. But because I cannot carry everyone into that room.

We begin at 8am. I use the 30 minutes beforehand to pause, to socialise, to feel the space. To switch. Not into someone else. Into the part of me that doesn’t get as much space at home. Practitioner.

Active Learning

What surprised me most about placement is that we are not playing pretend. From day one, it is us. We take the consultation. Supervised, yes - but the supervisors are not in the room for the whole session. They do not feed us answers. They guide gently if we drift. It is me taking the case. Me asking the questions. Me prescribing the herbs. Me suggesting nutritional and lifestyle strategies. It is responsibility before full confidence. And when you care deeply about not getting it wrong, that responsibility feels heavy.

Sensory Overload

The dispensary smells sharp with concentrated tinctures lining the shelves like silent witnesses. The hallways carry wafts of moxa that settle whether you like it or not — a scent I haven’t learned to love. Fluorescent lights hum overhead. For a natural health clinic, it is oddly sterile. Rubrics exist. Marking criteria exist. There is, for every case, a container of “right answers.” I struggle with that. Because people are not containers.

Imposter Syndrome

Imposter syndrome arrives when the clock starts counting down. When I must synthesise a case within a strict timeframe. When I present verbally. When I am asked, “Why did you choose that?” I know the answers. But academia prefers linear thinking. My mind is layered. It does not translate neatly onto a keyboard or into a concise narrative. My fingers fumble. My thoughts tangle. My words hover somewhere between my brain and my mouth. I chase precision because I am terrified of oversight. Underneath that is a quieter fear: What if I am not as capable as I feel in my own mind?

Sacred Moments

There are moments I feel profoundly aligned. When a client softens - shoulders dropping, breath releasing - it feels like trust. Like despite the sterility of the room, they feel safe in my presence. That tells me more than any rubric ever could. But what moves me most is not always the clients. It is my fellow student practitioners. We are different in age, background, life story, approach. Some travel extraordinary distances and still show up by 8am. Some carry burdens I only glimpse. There is a quiet determination in that space. It humbles me.

Clinic does not suddenly make me feel like I fit in the world. It can be overstimulating - noise, movement, layered conversations. But here, my uniqueness feels seen. My practitioner style has been labelled “earth mother.” The irony is not lost on me that even when I step away from home, the embodiment of mother permeates through every pore. Perhaps there was never a separation to begin with.

I don’t mind reception duty - it is ordered, predictable. Dispensary is less mystical than I imagined, so I make it playful: guessing what tinctures are for, choosing a nutraceutical of the day to study. I still yearn for teaching - to translate complexity into something digestible. And I feel something fierce rise in me when patient safety is sidelined for the sake of grades. When treatment plans are written to impress rather than protect, something in me tightens. I care more about integrity than approval. That may be the clearest sign of becoming.

Homeward Bound

The train home is not peaceful. I say I won’t run for it - and yet I do. I don’t delay being home. Home is where I am allowed to unravel. I crave the moment I remove my uniform and change into soft clothes. But on the train, I replay everything. The conversations. What I could have said differently. What I could have done better. By the time I walk through the door, I am depleted. And still, I begin reflection. Because exhaustion and purpose can coexist. I stop earlier than usual. Sustainability matters. Tuesday somehow holds more energy than Monday - as though the first day cracks me open and the second allows me to move within the fracture with more certainty.

The Reality

Clinical placement is not romantic. It is overstimulating. It is confronting. It exposes your gaps in real time. It forces you to think under pressure. It shows you where your ego lives and where your integrity stands. It is teaching me that healing is not linear. That listening is more powerful than fixing. That holding space does not mean absorbing everything. That confidence grows quietly - layer by layer, consultation by consultation - often disguised as simply showing up again.

And sometimes - in the stillness between questions, in the tapping of keys, in the scent of tinctures and smoke, in the subtle shift of a client’s breath - I feel it. Not certainty. Commitment. A whisper: I am really doing this. Not someday. Not when I graduate. Now. Not perfectly. Not effortlessly. But genuinely.

Becoming her is not glamorous. It is precise mornings. It is singing on platform 9 so I don’t disappear. It is choosing integrity over approval. It is holding others while learning to hold myself. And perhaps she was never someone I needed to become. Perhaps she is simply the woman who keeps showing up anyway - carrying both home and healing in the same hands.

I’m curious, what are you becoming right now - even if you don’t feel ready?

L, L, P,

Tash xo

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A Day in the Life of Tash

A day full of depth, contradiction, devotion, humour, faith, self-examination - and a fierce love running through it all.

A New Day

I wake with the most practical of physiological thoughts: I need to pee.

And then, almost immediately, a quiet, deep gratitude. How blessed I am to see another day.

My body is tired - reflecting the wrestling match with the shadows. My mind is tired too - but wired. There’s a hum beneath the fatigue, a readiness. I like to imagine that when my feet hit the floor, somewhere the devil mutters, “Oh crap… Natasha's up.”

Reality is less cinematic, there’s no sprinting. Just steady movement onward.

The first thing I reach for is my phone - not to scroll, but to check my kids made it safely to work. Even in their growing independence, my heart still does its quiet headcount.

The rhythm of morning is slow, deliberate, charged with purpose - and always laced with hope. Beneath it, though, is a yearning. A longing to begin with stillness. To sit. To pray. To set intention before the noise of doing begins. To breathe before the world asks anything of me. 

I haven’t mastered that yet. 

I carry the intention like a bookmark, saving my place for when I finally pause.

In Full Doing

Without pause, I am fully in motion.

Sometimes I’m driven by pressure - expectations, both mine and others’. But deeper than that, more often, I’m driven by choice. The choice to build something meaningful. The quiet satisfaction of ticking something off the list. The desire for a life that runs well. The devotion to making our home hum - instilling order amidst chaos.

Not out of restlessness.

Out of reverence.

I care about doing things well. Not loudly. Wholeheartedly. I want meaning and excellence to sit side by side. I want even the smallest act to ripple outward with intention.

And yet, I overthink everything.

Every decision. Every conversation. Every silent pause.

Was that enough? Was that too much?

And beneath it all, lives a quieter question:

Am I enough?

Or perhaps more honestly - am I too much?

I push through more than I should. My limits. My pain. My emotions. Even uncomfortable silences. I know how to endure. 

I am still learning when to soften.

Grounded By Presence

Around my children, I do soften.

My rigid edges dissolve. My heart opens wide. They are my compass - my greatest joy and my deepest responsibility. A living expression of the values I hold most sacred: love, loyalty, perseverance, chosen bonds. 

My life isn’t built on chance; it’s built on choice. The choice to love fiercely. To persevere. To grow. To keep believing in the goodness threading through our days.

Motherhood stretches me thin, though. There’s the constant quiet self-monitoring - am I guiding or gripping? Leading or hovering? I sometimes wonder if they see how intertwined my identity is with theirs. If I always know who I am outside of being their Mum.

Love, in the ordinary moments, looks simple.

All of us in the same room. Some scrolling. Some gaming. Some crafting. Some chatting. Me studying. No grand gestures. Just presence. Existing side by side in quiet contentment.

That is sacred to me. 

Grounded. Open. Attuned to grace.

When the Noise Lowers

Night is when I return to myself.

When the house quiets - seated beside my sweet man, my anchor - I finally exhale. This is when I feel most like me. When I can fully breathe. When I talk to God in the stillness. When I can hear my own thoughts without interruption.

But night also brings reflection.

That I don’t quite fit in the outside world. That despite a mind full of knowledge and reflection, my words sometimes tangle before they reach my lips. That I ramble. That I misstep. That I could have said it better. 

I replay conversations as though I can edit them after the fact. I ask how I could have been more. Or less.

And still - I am proud.

Proud of my resilience. My persistence. My dedication. My grace and grit intertwined. I am someone who builds and nurtures. Who reflects and renews. Who works hard and loves harder. 

Not perfect - present.

Still, there is so much unfinished.

My parenting. My becoming. The legacy still unfolding. The memories yet to be made.

Peace comes when the house is calm. When there is a place for everything and everything is in its place. When the tabs in my mind close, one by one.

The Deeper Thread

There are contradictions in me.

I say I have no regrets - because every moment shaped me - and yet there are things I would do differently if given the chance. I believe perfection is a mindset, and still I reach for it. I hunger for knowledge, while knowing the deepest answers rise from within.

I am learning to rest without guilt.
To question whether my values are truly mine.
To release society’s mould.
To stop pushing past every limit.

People sometimes misunderstand me.

They see adaptability but not the discomfort or the effort it costs. They assume forgiveness means open access. They mistake my faith for creed, when really it’s a current - a quiet presence moving through warmth, laughter, evening walks. A whisper that says: you are exactly where you need to be.

If someone followed me for a day, they might be surprised by how much happens in my slow, steady tortoise-like rhythm. How even in rest, I am tending something. How I can be both hard and soft. Structured and fluid. Comfortable in silence and steady in noise.

I even thrive in moments of uncertainty - knowing I am in the driver’s seat of my own life.

And maybe that’s what makes me, me.

Not perfection.
Not performance.
But devotion.
Steady movement.
Grace that rises - even in pause.

This is a day in the life of who I am.

Ordinary.
Layered.
Intentional.
Becoming.

Mine.

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