Coming Home to Myself

Ever since writing that first blog and officially putting it out there into the abyss, I’ve had mixed feelings about it. There were moments when I felt proud of myself and moments when I wanted to take it all back. Fear flushed through my entire body. Anxiety crept in. Then more fear, growing louder, heavier, taking over my mind, my body, crushing every bit of confidence I had mustered to get here. Poof. Just like that, it was gone. And there I was again, back with all my doubts and fears.

Just over a year ago, I wouldn’t have even understood what was happening to me. I would’ve just lived through it -hurting, like so many of us do. Just taking it. Because we think: Well, that’s just how I am. That’s who I am.

But… are you?

In doing something slightly terrifying and uncomfortable, like writing that blog post. I ended up triggering something much deeper. I poked the little child within me. The one who, many years ago, learned that sharing herself wasn’t safe.

Growing up, we weren't really open and expressive about our feelings. And I know I’m not alone in that. Most of us weren’t. Honestly, most of our society never learned how to do this right.

And it’s not just about talking about your feelings. It’s about how we were never taught what to do with them when they arise. How to process them when they boil up.

As kids, we don’t filter our emotions - they just move. That’s natural. That’s healthy.

It becomes unhealthy when emotions like anger, sadness, sensitivity, fear, or even joy are ignored or punished. When your young mind concludes: It’s not safe to express myself.

So somewhere along the way, my mind learned that being open didn’t always feel received or safe. Sometimes it was easier to stay quiet than to risk being misunderstood.

So now, as an adult, being open? It feels really f* vulnerable. And if “vulnerable” never felt safe in your body, why would it feel safe now?

I often find myself unsettled by statements like: “Everything new feels uncomfortable. You just have to make yourself do it.” The idea of constantly pushing, constantly pulling, of going over your own body until it can't do it anymore until you’re left wondering how you ended up here in the first place. It’s such a self-destructive way of living, but at the same time highly praised by society.

While it’s true that discomfort is part of growth, change is never easy. Being bold, unapologetic, and speaking your truth will always probably feel slightly terrifying—and not necessarily like a delicious cup of coffee. You may have to be more courageous than afraid in such moments. But when you carry deep wounds or childhood trauma around vulnerability, it’s not butterflies. It’s not cold feet. It’s full-body alarm bells. Your brain and body are screaming: This isn’t safe. It’s not a mindset block. It’s a survival response. 

So what do we do? We self-sabotage… into safety. We self-sabotage into what our nervous systems learned safety was.

If “safety” meant staying quiet, expressing your needs will feel terrifying.
If “safety” meant chaos or instability, you may find yourself in relationships that mirror that.
If “safety” meant staying invisible, you’ll likely shrink from being seen whether that’s a job promotion, a camera lens, or simply using your voice.

I had plenty of alarm bells ringing in my body for years. They didn’t quiet as I grew older, they only got louder. Each time they went off, I could feel myself tighten, brace, shrink. At some point, I just got tired of it. Tired of holding my breath. Of shrinking. Of walking on eggshells.

I refused to keep living in survival mode. So I started seeking support. While horses were my true mirror and witness, therapy (yes I know therapy, how original ha, but not the kind you imagine) gave me language for things I had only ever felt. Slowly, I began to recognize the self-destructive beliefs for what they were: distorted stories my mind created to help me survive.

But even before I had the words for healing, there had been something that anchored me. A place where my body did feel safe, long before my mind understood why. That place was with horses.

Their presence didn’t just calm my nervous system, it reminded me of who I was beneath the layers of fear. They didn’t ask me to explain myself or perform. They simply stood with me, in stillness, offering a quiet kind of love that made it safe to soften.

Looking back, I see it wasn’t just about feeling better around them. It was about remembering what it feels like to be fully accepted. To be held by something so present, so honest, so unwavering. Horses taught me what safety felt like in my body—long before I had the words to understand why I needed it so badly.

But horses, powerful creatures as they are, didn’t just show me safety. Later, they began to reflect back all the tension and fear I still carried as an adult. They were my first teachers. My first mirror. And if I was to be their true partner, I had to change.

They didn’t just ask me to be still, they asked me to be honest.
And the more I listened, the more I realized that I couldn’t keep showing up for them while abandoning myself.
They led me back to my own truth. And once I started listening there, I couldn’t stop. I no longer needed to carry those old stories.

And knowing that? That gives me hope.

Hope that by healing those parts of myself, I can peel back the layers and reach to the core.
The truth.
The real me.
The authentic me.

And maybe hitting “publish” on that first blog post wasn’t a mistake. Maybe it was the opening. The unraveling. The moment I chose presence over fear.

Maybe it wasn’t just about putting myself out there. It was about coming home.

To the version of me that no longer hides.
To the voice, I was told to silence.
To the light, I was taught to dim.

And every time I choose truth over fear, expression over silence, healing over perfection - I get one step closer. To me.

With Love, Klara