In my life, 27 has its own mythology, except mine isn’t about dying young.

It’s about my mum and me. Me and her.

I’ve been trying to work out my mum’s exact time of birth using a system called Human Design*, which is an article in it-self! A long story, one of which I’ll share more on another time. In the framework I’m using, every number comes with a formula: a Challenge on one side, a Wisdom on the other, and what you get when you move from one to the other. One of those Gene Keys is 27. Every Gene Key has a frequency scale - a range it moves along, shadow to gift. 27’s reads:

Resentment → Boundary = The Sympathetic Caregiver.

_{*When I talk about Human Design in this article, I’m using the language and framework taught by my mentor, - just so you know where the words are coming from.}

When I first realised that’s what I was looking at, I laughed. Trust me, not because it’s funny. If you asked me to describe my mum’s relationship with caring for other people, I could do it in two words: giving and resentment.

Mum was a martyr. She’d fucking hate my saying that about her to anyone else. In fact, I once said it to her and if looks could kill…

The sticking point, she would literally give you the last thing she had. We were piss poor growing up and lack of money was an ever present spectre, but if somebody needed something and she could help, she would. As a single parent at a time when that was shunned, she ran her-self ragged. Working, cleaning, caring in her own way. Taking on problems that weren’t hers to fix and fighting battles that people hadn’t asked her to fight.

All of it mattered. But being seen to do it, that mattered more.

What others didn’t know was that it came with an invisible invoice attached.

After everything I’ve done for you...

We would often hear it. Whether it was about us or someone else she had helped. “Ungrateful bastards” was a common phrase out of her mouth, even though she’d been smiling and chatting with said “ungrateful bastard” not 5 minutes earlier! Sometimes she didn’t say it, but you could feel it in the room. You could feel her dark energy in waves.

This is where 27 gets weird.

In the birth time I’m currently working with, Mum has the Gene Key 27 twice - 27.1 and 27.2. One of them is her unconscious sun or beacon. It’s really important and it’s what others will often feel coming from you. One of the shadows of the 27 is - resentment when you’re focused on caring for others. Ding, ding, ding!!

I have it too. In my natal design, 27.5 and 27.6. Then it turns up again in my Chiron - 27.2 and 27.4.

Not every line, it turns out. I checked and I’d got that wrong the first time around! That said, 27.2 showing up in both her chart and mine, twice over between us, was still enough to stop me.

There’s another layer here I’m deliberately not chasing down today. The numbers after the dot are the Lines, and they matter. A lot.

Mum’s 27.1 and 27.2 aren’t the same expression of 27 as my natal 27.5 and 27.6. The Line changes the flavour of the Gene Key - Julie describes it like playing the same melody in a different musical key. Same underlying song. Different expression.

I’m going to come back to that, because when I looked at what those particular Lines mean, one of mine made me laugh out loud. In a slightly horrified way.

For now, though, it’s the song itself that got me.

Now, before anyone gets excited and decides my dead mother sent me a coded message through her chart - I’ll be honest and say I have no idea what that means! Mum’s birth time still isn’t confirmed. That’s the whole experiment, but fuck a duck, it’s interesting!

It isn’t really the numbers that got me. It’s what sits on Gene Key 27’s frequency scale: Resentment → Boundary.

I learned that self-sacrifice was currency and I learned it long before I’d ever heard the word Frequency.

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I learned the exchange rate young

My mum leaned on me, talked to me about adult things when I was far too young to be hearing them. I knew things a child shouldn’t have needed to know and worried about things a child shouldn’t have needed to worry about.

I mothered my mother.

That’s uncomfortable and sad to write because I still want to protect her. I also loved being needed by her too and that’s complicated. It gave me a place - being needed by her. It made me both useful and important. As a kid, I had fuck all understanding that I might be forming a slightly dangerous link between love and self-sacrifice. You just live and you don’t know any different. Your normal is your normal.

Mine seems to have been: if I give enough of myself, I am worthy, loved and needed.

Love had a price and I learned that costly lesson at a very young age. At 49, it’s still there but I understand it better now. I have self-compassion for me and my mum.

Here’s the bit I’m wrestling with

27 belongs to her. It also belongs to me.

Understanding that matters, because it would be very easy to make this whole series about all the ways my mum fucked me up. Honestly, some days that version would be deeply satisfying to write. Blaming her sustained me for a good chunk of my life!

It wouldn’t be the whole truth, though. If I wrote about that. Made it all hers as though I have no agency in any of it.

Gene Key 27 was already part of my own design and my capacity to care isn’t something my Mum put into me. My love and kindness and giving nature doesn’t belong to her. I don’t need to dig it out of myself just because it reminds me of her. I don’t need to only associate it with shadows and darkness.

Initially, I thought I was going to look at Mum’s chart and find what she’d imprinted on me. The reality is quite different. I keep landing on a different question:

What was always mine and just got twisted by what I learned from her?

That’s a very different question.

What if care was never the problem?

I watched my mum care for people until she was used up and empty. Experienced the bitter resentment firsthand. Doing things nobody had asked her to do and feeling a deep sense of hurt when the gratitude didn’t match the size of the sacrifice. I saw her put herself last and somehow make everyone else responsible for the fact that she was last.

Then I learned my own version. Be useful, take on what isn’t yours and give at all cost, because that’s what makes you useful and important and loved. Oh how I loved the praise. Even though it came at a high price.

Oof. That one’s followed me around.

I’ve learned the hard way that capacity and responsibility aren’t the same thing. I can help someone without becoming solely responsible for them. Understanding why somebody behaves badly doesn’t mean I have to tolerate it. Loving someone doesn’t mean abandoning myself.

I know all of this in my head. Living it is another matter.

Resentment → Boundary

That’s why those two words have got under my skin. Not resentment as permission to stop caring, or an excuse to go live alone in a cave hating everyone. Honestly, there were times when I would’ve loved that! Boundary.

What if resentment isn’t proof I’m a bad person? What if it’s just information - a sign telling me that I’ve crossed a line somewhere, not making it mean that I’m the villain of it?

I’ve said yes more times than I can remember when I wanted to say no. I’ve taken responsibility for things that were never mine. I’m fairly certain that there’s been an invisible invoice tucked behind my own generosity somewhere.

After everything I’ve done for you...

Oh. There she is again.

That’s the uncomfortable and deeply triggering part about examining my mum’s shadows. I’m finding my own fingerprints all over them.

I want to be clear that I’m not attacking my-self when I share that. I’m at a point in my life where I have done so much work on mine and her patterns, that knowing the above doesn’t cause me to spiral. It’s illuminating and it gives me agency in this whole process.

The invisible invoice

This is the part I’m most interested in now. Self-sacrifice only works as currency if you expect it to buy something and I’ve spent a lifetime trying to buy love and approval. The right to have needs of your own, later.

Too often, if the other person doesn’t know a transaction is happening, they can’t honour it. So you give and give and give and one day you look at them and think.

After everything I’ve done for you...

I know that sentence, I grew up inside it and it became a part of my identity. The last thing I want is to spend my life rebuilding it. I’ll be honest, I have in some ways done just that. Knowledge is power and I get to decide. I get to experience my shadows and gifts on my own terms.

So where does that leave Mum?

I don’t know yet. I think it’s important to be clear about that.

This series isn’t about putting her on trial and I’m not doing it to pardon her either. There are things she did that hurt me deeply, things I needed from her that I never got. Knowing she was a hurt child herself doesn’t make those things okay.

Also, I don’t want to flatten her into the worst of it either. Mum was funny, fiercely loyal. Shockingly inappropriate and swore like a docker! She could be extraordinarily generous. She tried. She did better than what had been done to her.

That matters to me. It just doesn’t erase what came after. Maybe both get to be true.

Where does that leave me?

This is the question I actually care about.

If caring is genuinely part of me, what does it look like with no invisible invoice attached? What does helping look like when I don’t automatically assume someone else’s problem is mine to solve?

What happens if I can care deeply and still belong to myself?

I don’t know yet. I’m learning.

My mum showed me one way that Gene Key 27 can be lived. I don’t have to make her wrong to choose differently and I don’t have to reject the parts of myself that remind me of her, just to become myself.

That might be what this whole series is actually for. Not working out who’s to blame. Not using a chart to explain away a hard childhood. Just separating the threads.

This was hers. This is mine.

I started with the number 27. I thought I was investigating my mother.

It’s already brought me straight back to me.

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The 95% pattern.

I don’t think I’m the only one who has lived this and once I saw it in myself, I started seeing it everywhere.

Here’s what it looked like for me.

I’d find something - a course, a program, a coach. I’d feel the pull of it. The hope of it. I’d invest money, time, energy and I’d start.

I’d show up. I’d do the work. I’d get close, and then somewhere around the 95% mark…

I’d stop.

Not dramatically. Not with a big decision. Gradually. The momentum would slow and then I would disappear. These days, you’d probably call it quiet quitting!

Then the meaning making would begin.

You didn’t finish. You never finish. This is proof.

Proof of what exactly?

• That I wasn’t good enough.

• That I couldn’t follow through.

• That I was someone who started things but never completed them.

Each incomplete thing added another brick to the wall, another reason to stay where I was and another reason not to try.

What I didn’t realise at the time was that the pattern wasn’t failure.

It was protection, because finishing was terrifying, because if I finished, if I completed the thing, got the qualification, did everything right and it still didn’t work…

Then what?

Then I’d have no excuse left. Then I’d have to face the real fear underneath all of it.

That maybe I just wasn’t capable of more.

Stopping at 95% protected me from that.

If I didn’t finish, I could always tell myself - well, I didn’t really give it a proper go.

Incompletion became a hiding place. Not a conscious one.

I didn’t know I was doing it, but the pattern was there, running underneath everything and it kept me stuck far longer than any external circumstance ever could have.

The prison wasn’t the job. The prison was the belief that finishing and still failing would be unsurvivable.

So I stayed in the in-between. Almost but not quite. Close but not there. Trying but not finishing.

Until I couldn’t anymore.

I’m curious - Where does this live for you?

• Is there something you’ve started and quietly abandoned just before the finish line?

• More than once?

• And if you’re honest - what were you afraid would happen if you actually completed it?

Not the practical answer. The real one.

Before you do anything with that question, just pause for a moment.

If a woman you loved came to you and said:

“I keep starting things and never finishing them. I’ve done it my whole life. I think it means I’m just not capable.”

What would you say to her?

• Would you use it as evidence against her?

• Or would you get curious about what she’s been carrying?

The answer you’d give her - that’s the one you deserve too.

A gentle place to start:

This week, think of one thing you started and stopped, whether it’s 10% or 95%.

Just one.

And instead of using it as evidence against yourself, ask a different question:

• What was I protecting myself from by not finishing?

You don’t have to have the answer immediately. Just sit with the question.

The pattern only has power when it stays invisible. Seeing it is enough to begin loosening its grip.

There’s a particular kind of self-imposed prison which can actually look like this: successful, well paid, well-respected, sensible, patient, responsible…

Blehhhh (pokes tongue out whilst blowing raspberry, almost the middle finger, not quite!)

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I know all of the above because that was me, that was my life. I stayed in the wrong job for twenty years.

Twenty years.

I was more in love with the responses I got from people when I told them I was an Engineering Geologist, than the actual job it-self. So many of oooo’s and ahhhh’s. The best imagery for that - is of a puppy furiously wagging her tail under the gaze of appreciation and external validation! Those sounds were like liquid gold to me because those responses = I am worthy, clever, interesting and good enough.

The thing is I knew. I knew within the first year that something wasn’t right. That this wasn’t it. That there was something else out there that was more me.

I just couldn’t move. Not because I didn’t want to. Not because I was lazy or ungrateful or didn’t care.

I couldn’t move without having all the answers first. I needed to know exactly where I was going before I left where I was. I needed a plan that was 100% watertight. I needed certainty that I wasn’t going to get it wrong.

Of course that certainty never came, how could it? So I stayed and while I was staying, I was also trying.

In my quest to find a way out, I spent money on programs and courses. I started things. I got close and then I stopped. Just disappeared from them and stopped talking about them to those closest to me and hoped they wouldn’t ask any questions.

However, I didn’t stop at the beginning of the program, that would have been too obvious.

I stopped at about 95%, every single time. It took me a while, but I’m okay admitting that now. Honestly, that wasn’t the case for a very long time. I felt deep shame and guilt.

Each time I stopped just short of finishing, I used it as evidence.

• See. You can’t follow through.

• See. You’re not good enough.

• See. This is why you shouldn’t try.

These well worn patterns helped my prison get a little more solid. Thicker walls. Staying became a little more justified. If I couldn’t even finish the things I started in private how could I possibly make a move in public?

The thing that eventually forced my hand wasn’t a decision. It was my body.

When I got sick and couldn’t do anything, couldn’t work, couldn’t perform, couldn’t hold it all together. I finally had the stillness to see what was actually happening.

What I can see so clearly now is this:

• I wasn’t waiting for the right moment.

• I was hiding from the risk of finding out I wasn’t enough.

This is exactly what I mean when I talk about slowing down.

Not stopping for the sake of it, but slowing down enough to actually see what’s been running underneath. Staying felt safer than trying and failing. Not finishing, felt safer than finishing and still feeling like a failure.

The prison wasn’t keeping me in. It was keeping that fear out.

This isn’t about forcing yourself to move. It’s about seeing clearly enough that staying no longer feels true.

I wonder how many women are living inside a version of this right now. Not dramatically stuck. Just… waiting.

• Waiting for certainty that isn’t coming.

• Waiting for the moment it feels safe enough to move.

• Waiting to have all the answers before they take the first step.

The hard truth is that certainty doesn’t come before the move.

Sometimes, it comes after. But you have to move first.

So this week, just notice.

• Is there something you’ve been waiting to feel certain about before you act?

• How long have you been waiting?

• And is the waiting a choice, or is it fear wearing the costume of patience?

You don’t have to do anything with that yet.

Just let yourself hear it.

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It was a little girl who still needed someone to hold her hand and a woman who’d never learned that she was allowed to ask.

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A few years ago my body stopped me completely. I couldn’t get out of bed. I couldn’t function. At the time I called it burnout and it was. But it was also something else. Something that would come to define a good chunk of my life and show up for years to come.

When I look back at that time, I don’t think about the diagnosis first. I think about the silence, the strange, uncomfortable silence of a life that had suddenly gone very still. Who was I without meetings, school drop off’s or pick ups, not sitting at the dinner table, not being able to play with the kids?

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I couldn’t get out of bed. I wasn’t present with my husband or my kids. It was frightening in a way I hadn’t experienced before.

At the time, I called it burnout and it was, but looking back now, I can see it was also the first time something much older surfaced.

It was the first time I really grieved my mum.

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We had a complicated relationship growing up. There were a lot of things that weren’t easy between us. Many of which we never got to discuss before she died.

I will make it clear before I explain, that my mum wasn’t a demon. As an adult I can really appreciate that she tried her best after having been dealt her own shitty hand as a kid. After a ton of work, I am finally at a place where I can both love her dearly and also accept that she fell far short of what I needed as a child.

That said, when I was sick, everything changed. She would sit with me and she wouldn’t leave and being unwell was the time when I could most feel her presence. That kind of care.

Lying there, years later, unable to move, something in me remembered. Not consciously at first. Just a feeling, a familiarity in being stopped and a sense of being allowed to not hold everything together.

It made me realise something I hadn’t seen before. There was a part of me that only knew how to receive that kind of care when I was unwell. It was a gut punch like no other and so much began to make sense.

I wonder how many of us are living with something similar? Not necessarily in the same way?

Where slowing down isn’t something we allow ourselves, unless something forces us. Where being held, supported, or fully seen only feels available when something is wrong.

So we keep going, we stay capable, hold everything together and we don’t realise what it takes for us to finally stop.

I’m not downplaying illness. That’s real, but I am beginning to wonder whether sometimes our bodies are asking for something we haven’t known how to give ourselves. Something we only allow when we have no other choice, because we live in a world that rewards us for holding it together.

No one tells us what it costs.

No one tells us that the stopping, the frightening, unwanted, forced stopping, might also be the first honest thing our body has done in a long time.

So this week, just notice.

• When do you allow yourself to truly stop?

• What has to happen for that to feel allowed?

You don’t have to change anything. Just begin by seeing it.

There’s a layer underneath this that I’ve only shared in the paid piece this week. About my mum. About what our complicated relationship taught me about what I believed I was allowed to need. If you want to go a little deeper it’s there.

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I’ve learned (the hard way) that there’s a particular kind of insecurity that doesn’t look like insecurity. It looks like competence. Even typing that makes me wince because I know the cost.

I wonder if this sounds familiar? You’re capable, you’re reliable and you’re the one that people trust.

• You get shit done

• You hold it together

• You don’t make a fuss

From the outside, nothing seems wrong, you smile and get on with it. You don’t speak up and yet the voice in your head is getting louder and louder. There’s a constant hum that has become the soundtrack to your day.

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A sense that you’re just about keeping up, that you’ve managed it so far. Today wasn’t the day anyone noticed.

It’s not dramatic and it doesn’t stop you functioning. Sometimes it doesn’t even have words.

It’s just there.

I remember these feelings so clearly. Having spent 20 years in a male dominated industry, the role I returned to after I had my second child seemed alien and I didn’t know where I fit any longer. I tried to power through.

I remember this most clearly in meetings. I’d walk in already slightly braced. No one had questioned me. No one had said anything, but I felt like I needed to prove I deserved to be there.

So I prepared more than necessary, I checked things twice and I chose my words carefully. Looking back, from the outside I probably looked confident. But inside, I was quietly scanning for the moment someone realised I didn’t know enough. That I’d finally been found out.

At the time, I thought if I just worked harder, smiled, gave my-self pep-talks that it would be okay. But it wasn’t okay, I wasn’t okay. Looking back, I can see how much effort went into holding it together. Crying in the toilets and pretending to be okay took a huge toll on me.

Do you recognise any of this in yourself?

In the moments before you speak.
When someone asks your opinion.
When you press send on an email.
When someone compliments you and you brush it away.

You keep going, you keep performing and you keep delivering, but no one sees the effort it takes to maintain that, because from the outside, you look completely fine.

Some days you are fine, but there’s something about that quiet hum of not feeling good enough that slowly becomes exhausting to carry.

Nothing is exactly falling apart, but the quiet cost of the holding, the bracing, the performing is something most women never say out loud.

I’ve created this space so we can do just that, recognise it, say it out loud and sit with it. If this feels like you, welcome, I’m so glad you’re here.

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I’m going to be honest.

Right now, I’m a coach who doesn’t have many clients at all and I’m completely fine with that. I never thought I would write that sentence!

I don’t have many clients and I’m definitely not going to put myself on some god awful social media posting plan or start frantically buying $27, $47, $97 offers that promise 10,000 clients in 10 days.

*enjoy my AI recreation below!!

None of that. It’s just not a priority right now. Which might sound a bit mad. However, it’s also freeing. It removes the urgency and pressure I feel when I see those ads, which is really just the pressure I put on my-self.

I love the women I work with.

So this isn’t because I don’t care. Or because I’ve lost faith in what’s possible for women.

It’s me. (Not the dreaded “it’s not you, it’s me” line…) Something in me has shifted.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been the helper. The listener. The one who sees clearly.

The one people come to for answers. That’s just who I’ve been. People will often open up to me very deep, very quickly. My husband will often quip - “people tell you everything”. I didn’t realise that was a thing for the longest time. But it most definitely became a part of my identity.

And for a long time, I thought that was my role. To see what was going on,
to make sense of it and help people move forward. I’ll be honest, the people pleaser in me thrived on it for a long time.

But lately, I’ve felt tired in a way that’s hard to ignore. Deeply weary. Not burnt out exactly. I know burnout and this isn’t that.

I’m exasperated with what I’m seeing in the coaching space. Honestly, it pisses me off.

Because the more I’ve paid attention, the more I’ve realised:

Women don’t need more coaching in the way it’s currently being done.

Not more pressure.
Not more timelines.
Not more quiet expectations about how quickly things should change.

And definitely not more promises about “transforming your life” in a matter of weeks. This one is my utmost pet peeve!

That pace might sound good. Honestly, I’ve bought that sh*t before, so I know how tempting it is. When we’re in pain, we want it gone - FAST, so we go for a quick fix.

But it sets us up to fail.

Because it doesn’t match what actually happens when you’re trying to change something real.

Something that’s been there for years. Often decades.

Something tied up in who you’ve been, what you’ve carried and what you’ve learned to believe about yourself.

That stuff is often very old and most definitely not your fault and nor should the fact that you haven’t managed to “fix” your-self by now, be a reason to beat your-self up about.

That kind of change doesn’t happen quickly, nor should it and we need to normalise that being okay.

Often, when change doesn’t happen fast, women assume something is wrong with them. They internalise it. It becomes part of how they see themselves:

That they’ve failed.
That they’re not trying hard enough.
That they’re somehow behind.

I don’t believe that’s true. I think we’ve been given a version of change that doesn’t match reality. And I’m not willing to participate in that anymore.

In fact, I believe it’s detrimentally unhelpful and damaging.

I know firsthand what changes when we slow down.

And I can already hear the response: “I don’t have time.”

I get it.

When it already feels like there aren’t enough hours in the day, taking time for yourself to think, to feel, to just be, can feel like too much of an ask.

Just to be clear, slowing down in the way which is necessary to do the deep work, isn’t the same as the “me time” narrative that’s been pushed over the years!

We say we don’t have time to slow down and rarely question what it’s costing us not to.

If you never slow down, you never have to fully see what isn’t working. That’s really the crux of it. Slowing down allows you to reckon with the very deep underlying beliefs that have been in play for years. Some of the well worn patterns that once kept us safe are the very same that are now holding us hostage.

Those ones need deep love, self-compassion and time. And that’s okay.

That was me. To date, it’s also been the majority of the women I’ve coached.

Note - if that’s not you, that’s wonderful and I’m so glad this isn’t the case for all women.

What I can see now is that I wasn’t just busy, I was moving. Constantly. I now know that a lot of that movement was coming from fear.

I kept moving, kept talking, kept distracting my-self…

Slowing down showed me what was actually there.

And once I could see it, I couldn’t unsee it.

So no, I’m not stepping away from the work. But I am stepping into it differently.

I’m starting to realise it’s not answers people actually need.

Not more advice.
Not more direction.

Just the space to see what’s already there, without being rushed past it.

I’ve called this space Notes from the Slow Path.

Not because I have all the answers. But because I’m still in it.

Still noticing.
Still questioning.
Still seeing things I didn’t see before.

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I don’t want this to be another place where I tell you what to do. It feels more honest to let this be something quieter than that.

Something we shape as we go. A place for connection, community and co-creation. A place where you can speak the unspeakable and show up exactly as you are.

I don’t think we’re meant to do this in isolation.

So if something lands, you’re welcome to reply.

Not because I’m here to fix anything, but because sometimes just putting something into words changes how it sits.

That’s the part that changed everything for me.

Not a decision.
Not a dramatic moment.

Just seeing clearly for the first time in a long time what was actually there.

And once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

If something in this landed, you’re welcome to reply.

Not because I have all the answers, but because sometimes putting something into words is enough to shift how it sits.

That’s what this space is for.

There’s a bit more I want to say about that, especially what that actually felt like for me, before anything changed on the outside.

So I recorded a short audio for paid subscribers.

If you’re in that space too, you’re very welcome to come a little closer.

This Substack is reader-supported. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

In this episode of Stepping Off The Path, I speak with Phyllis Leon about what happens when the way we’ve been taught to approach health stops working and what becomes possible when we begin to listen more deeply.

Phyllis Leon is a Woman-Centered Transformational Coach who helps high-functioning women align their health with the level of success they already embody in other areas of their lives. After a 36-year career as a senior technology executive, she experienced firsthand the quiet frustration many capable women carry - knowing what supports their wellbeing, yet struggling to live it consistently. That realisation became her turning point.

Today, Phyllis helps women navigate what she calls the knowing–doing gap. The invisible middle where informed, accomplished women often feel stuck. Through coach-supported partnerships, she supports clients to move beyond self-blame, understand the hidden barriers shaping their choices and reconnect with their bodies, self-trust, and agency.

In this conversation, Phyllis introduces the concept of Pill-itics - not as a judgement of personal medical choices, but as a way of naming the wider cultural and systemic narratives that can keep women focused on symptom management rather than deeper understanding.

Together, we explore how self-trust gets eroded, why real change isn’t about willpower, and how Phyllis’s Plate–Power–Potential framework helps women move from insight into sustainable action.

If you’ve ever felt like you’re coping, pushing through, and quietly overriding yourself, this conversation will meet you with compassion, clarity and hope.

🎧 Chapters

00:00 — Introduction
Stepping Off The Path theme and episode framing

01:50 — When the old way stops working
Phyllis’s story and recognising survival mode

10:15 — The knowing–doing gap and the invisible middle
Why insight doesn’t always lead to change

13:24 — Naming pill-itics
Understanding the system shaping women’s health experiences

22:04 — Plate, Power, Potential
Phyllis’s framework for closing the gap

28:07 — What becomes possible beyond survival mode
Energy, clarity, purpose, and possibility

34:31 — A message of hope for women feeling stuck
What Phyllis wants listeners to hear

39:18 — Closing reflections
Wholeness and outro

Find Phyllis

Phyllis Leon - Website
Phyllis Leon - LinkedIn

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It’s relentless.

And I get why it sells.

When you’re in pain, you want relief.
When you feel behind, you want acceleration.
When you’re heading toward 50 and think you’ve already wasted too much time, you want proof you’re not a failure.

That was me.

I carried this quiet panic:

I’ve already wasted years.
I stayed too long.
I should have known sooner.
I’m getting too old.
I know what the problem is - it’s me.

And underneath all of it was this belief:

If I don’t move quickly now, it will confirm the worst thing I think about myself.

That I failed.

So of course the promise of fast transformation was seductive.
If I could fix it quickly, maybe I could erase the years.

But here’s what I now know to be true.

I couldn’t rush what took decades to form.
Identity is layered. Patterns are contextual. They don’t dissolve on demand.

You cannot override deep conditioning with urgency.
And you don’t need to fix yourself.

On my podcast - Stepping Off the Path, I’ve spoken to women who left careers, marriages, identities, dealt with severe illness, overcome addiction and none of them did it in 30 days.

It took years.
Years of questioning.
Years of sitting in discomfort.
Years of slowly trusting themselves again.

And they’re still evolving.

Heading toward 50 now, I feel something I never felt in my 30s or early 40s.

Excitement.

Not because everything is resolved.
Not because I’ve “arrived.”

But because I’ve stopped trying to outrun myself.

Real transformation happens in real time.

Real allowing.
Real grace.
Real integration.

Yes, there are boom moments. There will be many.

But the beauty of slow is this:

You get to sit with them.
Absorb them.
Let them become part of you.

Instead of chasing the next hit.
Instead of performing growth.
Instead of treating yourself like a project.

I’m not interested in speed anymore.

I’m interested in depth.

So I’ll leave you with this:

Can you wait?

Can you allow your life to unfold at the pace it actually requires?

And if you can’t,

I’m curious - what are you afraid it will mean about you?

I’m going to admit something…
I’ve spent thousands on self-help books and self-paced courses.

Some I loved.
Many I never finished.
For a long time, I thought that said something about me.

That I lacked discipline. Commitment. Follow-through.
That if I really wanted change, I’d have done the work.

To this day, unread self-help books glare at me from the bookcase!
Untouched courses still sit in forgotten portals.
I believed that this was quiet evidence that I was failing at something everyone else seemed to manage.

But information was never the problem.

I knew what needed to change.
More sleep. Self-care (fuck off with your self-care!) Speak up. Leave the job. Set boundaries. Stop people-pleasing. Trust my-self.

Knowing wasn’t the blocker.
Feeling safe enough to act was. For me, that meant wanting 100% clarity before I took action.

And if I’m really honest, I wasn’t just buying information.

I wanted someone else to make the decisions for me.
To tell me what to do and in what order.
To promise that if I followed the steps, I could undo the damage.

I felt like I’d fucked my life so badly that I didn’t trust myself anymore,
so I kept looking for an instruction manual instead of my own voice.
I loved printing out sheets and putting them in folders, putting the folders on the shelf and then they got to glare at me too, never to be touched again!

Self-paced courses assume a level of internal resourcing many of us simply don’t have, especially if you’re high-functioning, capable and quietly falling apart.

They assume we won’t:

• avoid the hard parts

• shut down when fear shows up

• get overwhelmed and disappear

• hit an emotional edge and retreat

But what I now know, is that change doesn’t happen in a vacuum.

It happens in relationship.
In reflection.
In connection.
In being seen while you’re up shit creek without a wooden paddle.
Not after you’ve figured it out.

Most self-help is designed for the part of us that wants to change.
Very little is designed for the part of us that’s scared.

And that part?
That’s usually the one in charge.
It’s usually very old.

I didn’t stop because I wasn’t interested.
I stopped because it started to matter.

The moment a book or course brushed up against the thing I’d been avoiding for years, I closed it. Not because I didn’t care, but because I did.

And every unfinished program quietly reinforced the belief that I was the problem.

But the truth is this:

I wasn’t lazy.
I wasn’t uncommitted.
I wasn’t broken.

I was trying to do deep inner work alone, from an unresourced place, while holding a whole life together.

Of course it didn’t stick.

I’m not anti books. I’m not anti learning.
I still read. I still study.

But I no longer confuse consumption with transformation.

Real change didn’t come from knowing more.
It came from being witnessed where I froze.
From having my patterns reflected back to me.
From moving at the pace my nervous system could actually tolerate.

So if your shelves are full and your courses untouched, hear this:

You didn’t fail the work.
You weren’t meant to do this alone.