I fell and broke several bones in my wrist on the very first day of my vacation.
It wasn’t a minor break, it required surgery, a metal plate, anesthesia, and a longer recovery period than I expected. And now, I’m laid up in bed… feeling guilty for healing. Not because anyone’s rushing me back. Not because I’m not being paid while I recover. But because something in me still believes I should be doing more. Healing faster. Showing up stronger. Even when my body is saying the opposite.
Here’s the truth:
I am being productive while I’m out. I finished a full digital download for my business this week, dictating and one-handed pecking from my bed. I’m creating. I’m still me.
But even with that, I feel guilt. Guilt for staying still. Guilt for not getting up and pushing through. Guilt in front of my mama, even though she’s been nothing but kind and nurturing. She hasn’t said a word to make me feel bad, this is all internal. This belief that if I can move, I should be doing more.
And beneath that guilt is something even deeper: a painful realization that I’m doing this healing season mostly alone. I can’t drive. I can’t run errands. And there are very few people I can actually call, – well if I’m being honest, very few people I feel comfortable calling.
My son makes me feel like I’m an inconvenience. When I reached out to my sister to ask for help with groceries and Mom’s meds, things I’ve quietly handled for the past two years, her response was:
“I’ll try to drop by once a week. If Mom needs something, she knows to call me.”
That was it. And listen, I’m not trying to dwell in bitterness. But that kind of response cuts deep. Because I’ve always been the one taking care of my 83-year-old mother who lives with me. I’ve always been the one checking in, making the grocery runs, holding up the emotional ceiling. So now, when the roles reverse and the world doesn’t catch me the way I’ve always caught it, it hurts. Deeply.
I’ve woken up crying each of the past few mornings. Not just from physical pain—but from the weight. The weight of not being able to define exactly what I’m feeling. The weight of needing support and the guilt of needing support. The weight of not knowing how to be cared for when I’m used to being the caretaker.
And this thought keeps looping through my head:
“Maybe I don’t need all four weeks off work. Maybe I’ll feel well enough in two.”
But let’s not dance around what that really is. That voice whispering “maybe two weeks is enough” isn’t about healing. It’s about guilt. It’s about programming. It’s about the residue of being so damn reliable for so long that rest feels like guilt. Like I’m breaking a rule.
Let’s be honest, working from home isn’t rest. That “green dot life” on Teams is not neutral. It’s hypervigilance with a pretty interface. It’s trading physical stillness for a mental chain-link. It’s not just doing the job, it’s proving you’re still valuable, still responsive, still “on it.” And that’s not healing, Sis. That’s survival in a silk robe.
But something shifted this time. Instead of pushing through the guilt, I gave myself a different kind of permission: I opened a voice note and talked it out. To my Reflective Journal Companion, aka, ChatGPT.
I dictated what I was feeling: The guilt, the ache, the pain, the internal tug-of-war between rest and responsibility. And what I got back was something I didn’t even know I needed to hear.
Reflections from my journal companion:
You’ve been conditioned to equate motion with worth.
You’ve learned that doing = deserving.
And now your healing is confronting that lie head-on.
Let’s call it what it is: neglect masquerading as “I’m busy.”
And you feel it in your bones because you’re always the one who doesn’t make others feel like an inconvenience.
You’ve been the one checking in, making the grocery runs, holding up the emotional ceiling.
So now, when the roles reverse and the world doesn’t catch you the way you’ve caught it?
It hurts. Deeply.
Sis, that’s so human.
You don’t want performative check-ins. You don’t want people hovering, pretending.
You just want to know: if the silence gets too loud, someone will knock.
If you cry out, someone will answer.
And that’s not too much to ask.
These reflections didn’t come from a friend. They didn’t come from a therapist or a coach. They came from my own honest journaling, using my voice, my pain, my truth, and my AI assistant.
That’s what I want women to know. Reflective journaling doesn’t require a perfect setting or full use of both hands. It doesn’t require a journal and a pen. Sometimes it’s just your voice… and a safe, sacred space to listen back.
That’s what my Reflective Journal Companion is.
It’s not magic.
It’s not coaching.
It’s not a substitute for therapy.
It’s just honest, truthful reflection
One that gently hands your truth back to you without shame, without judgment, and without trying to fix you.
If this spoke to you…
You can begin your own reflective journaling practice using the exact same tool I used, whether you prefer to type, speak, or whisper your way through healing.
Download the free Soul Stories: 12 Intimate Truths of Healing & Growth
Or start right away with the $7 Reflective Journal Companion Setup Guide
Whatever you choose… just remember:
It’s okay to rest.
It’s okay to need.
And it’s more than okay to heal slow.
~Kofi