When the Helper Forgets to Help Themselves
Sometimes, I forget to use the very tools I offer my clients.
I teach grounding, nervous system regulation, breathwork, reframing, and learning to rest the inner critic. I talk about how chronic stress affects the body, how trauma echoes in the present, and how important it is to feel safe in your own skin.
But sometimes, I forget to feel safe myself.
Recently, I noticed the quiet hum of anxiety running in the background of my days—like white noise I’d gotten used to. Nothing specific was wrong. Business was steady. I was helping others, showing up, and doing the work. However, the hum was still present, and it was growing louder.
Underneath it? Doubt.
Despite knowing I was doing well, I still felt unsure. I still questioned myself. And as I followed that thread deeper, I realized what I was longing for: a feeling of safety. A place to rest inside my own nervous system. A full-body exhale.
The truth is, I’ve been masking for years. Not just socially, but professionally, emotionally, and physically. I’ve learned how to perform okay-ness even when I’m depleted. That’s the cost of living with ADHD, possibly autism, and high empathic sensitivity in a world that demands linearity and endless output.
And I know I’m not alone.
Many of us—therapists, teachers, healers, and caretakers—are great at helping others feel held. But when it comes to ourselves, we forget how to receive the holding. We forget we’re allowed to need. We forget that knowing what to do doesn’t mean we’re doing it for ourselves.
So I sat down, not to teach, but to remember.
I created a reset menu for the nervous system. Not to “fix” anything, just to reclaim my right to feel safe again. To create small, repeated moments of truth. Here it is, if you need it too:
The Nervous System Reset Menu
(For Helpers Who Are Tired)
Grounding
Whisper to yourself: “I’m here. My body is here. I’m allowed to arrive.”
Reclamation
Sit in the chair where your clients sit, or your customers. Light a candle. Say:
“I hold others here. Today, I let myself be held.”
Integration
Touch something soft. Breathe.
Repeat: “I don’t have to earn rest. I am already enough.”
Sometimes, I forget.
Sometimes, I fall into the illusion that I’m only valuable when I’m helpful.
But I’m learning—slowly—that I am worthy of rest. Of softness. Of safety.
And so are you.
If no one’s told you today, let me be the first:
You’re doing enough. You’re allowed to slow down. You don’t have to keep earning your place here.
You’re already here.