Last week, I could feel a cold peeking around the corner.
You know those people who get ill but somehow keep going? Like their cold is just a tiny bird on their shoulder - there, fluttering, but not enough to stop them?
I have never been one of those people.

In the past, a cold would wipe me out for two whole weeks. Eyes barely open, every breath heavy, nose raw, body aching. I’d be miserable. And yes, I’ve heard the comments: “It’s just a cold - it’s not that bad.”
The guilt would rush in. I’d question myself. Why can’t I just push through this?
But my body always had other ideas.

It took me years to understand how much mental health affects physical health. When your nervous system is already worn down from depression, anxiety or trauma, even a small virus can feel like the final straw. Everything gives way.

There’s a saying that “depressed” can also mean “deep rest”- the body finally saying, enough, we can’t cope, we need to stop.
But we usually don’t stop. We fight, because there are bills, children, jobs, responsibilities. Rest feels impossible.

Things only shifted for me when I stopped fighting and actually sat with my depression:
“Okay… what are you trying to tell me? I’m listening.”
Therapy helped me understand my triggers, the story behind my depression, and just how long my body had been white-knuckling through life.

I also grew up in a home where rest wasn’t okay. Maybe you know that feeling - eyes watching you the moment you sit down, followed by comments like:
“What have you even done today?”
“Did you do x yet?”
Rest was something to be earned, never a right. When you’re already struggling to get dressed or eat breakfast, those comments land like a final blow.

So when clients tell me they feel guilty for not “doing enough,” I understand deeply - because I’ve lived it.

It wasn’t until I tuned out the noise around me and listened to myself that things softened. I began to hear quieter thoughts:
“A short walk might feel good.”
“This meal is actually nice.”
“I think I want a shower.”
Slow, gentle, pressure-free. Step by step, my body learned to trust me again.

And yes - our bodies trusting us is a strange idea. But from research, lived experience, and years with clients, I believe depression is often an accumulation of unfelt feelings. When we give them space, they release a little at a time -like drawing water from a well.

Eventually, my body gave back. The day I could get out of bed without racing thoughts holding me down, I celebrated.

So when my cold arrived last week, I sighed -annoyed, human- but then remembered everything I’d learned. I listened. I slept for two days, ate nourishing food, drank ginger tea.
By the end of the week I had a small cough, but also something I’d never had after a cold: energy, clarity, and genuine excitement to return to my clients.

It felt important to share that link.

To summarise: listening to our bodies really does loosen their grip - whether it’s a cold or depression. But facing depression alone can feel overwhelming. That’s where I come in. As someone who has been there, and as a trained Counsellor, I can walk with you as we gently lower that bucket into the well and pour it out together.

Reach out today if you’d like support.