When I was younger, I was plagued by a chronic belief that I wasn’t good enough. At anything.

Ever. I sort of hangover from perfectionism, I didn’t want to engage with anything unless I thought I’d be really good at it, and when I did (for example, at work), I still thought I was rubbish.

Crazy, right? There were days I thought my head would explode from the anxiety, the nerves, on constantly being on edge, and my coping mechanisms were food, alcohol and exercising too much, even when what I really needed was rest. It was avoidance 101. I was petrified of slowing down, of what I’d find in a quiet space, should I let it enter.

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