Three months ago, my very good colleague Tanja brought in a groove instructor to our office. We ended up on the rooftop, dancing under the open Copenhagen sky. The music filled the air, and for a while, nothing else mattered. We moved without hesitation, alive and completely free. I caught my self in a thought how grateful I was for me, my colleagues, my job and my life.

The next day, I fell apart. Nothing dramatic happened, but from the moment I woke up, everything felt wrong. You know those days when one little thing after another just keeps going wrong? It wasn’t anything big—just small annoyances like missing the metro by seconds or the printer breaking down right before I had to run a workshop. Each tiny setback felt heavier than it should. By the end of the day, those small hurdles had grown into mountains I couldn’t climb.

On the way home, I told myself, “Hold it together. Just get through the door.” And I did. But the moment I got home, I broke down completely. I cried and cried until there was nothing left.

I felt guilty for having stress and for feeling weak. But through this journey, I’ve discovered incredible support. My psychologist offered me clarity, my body therapist SDS helped me reconnect with myself, and my clairvoyant and shaman opened doors to understanding I never knew existed. My colleague Bettina, my friends, my sons and my husband Tom have been pillars of strength, reminding me of the love and kindness around me.

Stress isn’t just a word we toss around to explain a tough day. It’s a labyrinth. A winding, confusing maze that can seem endless when you’re in it. For me, the entrance was subtle. Deadlines, expectations, the constant need to prove myself—to others, and to the strict inner voice that’s always been my toughest critic.

If you’ve ever found yourself in this maze, you’ll know what I mean. You’re walking paths that feel familiar, yet you keep hitting walls. You try harder. Push more. And all the while, you’re losing pieces of yourself—pieces you might not notice are gone until you finally stop and see the empty spaces.

My sick leave began as a reluctant surrender. At first, it felt like failure. A part of me kept whispering, “You’re giving up.” But another part, quieter yet steadier, began to speak up: “You need this. You deserve this. You are not weak for needing time to heal.”

Three months later, I’m still finding my way. Some days, it feels like progress. Other days, I’m back at the start. But in this labyrinth of self, I’ve learned something precious: falling apart isn’t the end. It’s an invitation. To pause. To listen. To rebuild in a way that feels more true.

When I collapsed, I thought I’d lost myself. But maybe, just maybe, this is how we find ourselves again—not in the moments of strength, but in the moments of letting go.

If you’re walking a similar path, know that you’re not alone. One thing I’ve learned—and am still working on—is to truly listen to my inner voice. Instead of merely coping with my emotions, I try to stay with them, accept them, and honor them. I’ve started giving more attention to my own inner voice than to my father’s rigid ideas of 'rights' and 'wrongs.'

What I’ve come to understand is this: I am good, even when I feel weak or messy. I am enough, always. Just breathe! Listen! And feel the inner voice, the inner child! And love it! Love it unconditionally!