After years of armour, I didn’t realise how tense I had become. Not just in my shoulders or jaw or back—but in my whole being. I was holding everything. Holding myself together. Holding back tears. Holding in anger. Holding my breath through life like I was waiting for permission to finally exhale.
I had lived in survival-mode for so long that I forgot what it felt like to simply be in my body without preparing for the next battle.
I think many of us—especially women—carry invisible armour. We build it over time: after heartbreak, disappointment, grief, betrayal. Every time we were told to toughen up, smile through it, keep going. That armour helps us survive… but at some point, it starts suffocating the parts of us that want to feel free again.
Real healing, I’m learning, doesn’t always look like dramatic change. Sometimes it’s quieter than that. Sometimes it’s in the small, tender moments where you stop bracing. You let your stomach soften. You feel your breath drop into your belly. You cry and don’t apologise. You walk slower. You unclench your fists. You let your body remember safety.
After years of armour, the deepest healing isn’t more strength—it’s softness. It’s trusting that your body is no longer a battlefield. That you no longer need to be on high alert. That it’s safe now to come home to yourself.
So I’m letting myself breathe again. Not because I’ve figured everything out, but because I finally know I deserve peace—even in the middle of figuring it all out.