Truth #3: Mable's Hustle Trap: Put the To-Do List Down || What Are You Running From? When Productivity Becomes a Coping Mechanism

Monica is guiding you through a 10-week deep dive into these ten truths, peeling back the layers of chaos with practical tools, empowering insights, and her real-life experiences. Whether you’re feeling stuck in your fertility journey or wrestling with overwhelm and doubt in another area of life, these conversations offer a roadmap to healing and transformation. Tune in to the Finding Fertility Podcast and blog for more real talk, actionable steps, and the space to create the life you’ve been working so hard to build.

Why Grief Isn’t Failure: The Raw Truth About Infertility and Healing

3. A Frenzied Addiction to Busy-ness
   Mabel’s days are packed with fertility “to-dos,” but not all of them are moving the needle. She’s filling her time to avoid sitting with the deeper emotions she’s scared to face.

Mabel sat on her balcony, cradling a cup of tea as the city stirred to life below. The distant hum of traffic and the rhythmic clatter of a nearby café wove together like an urban lullaby, a soft nudge to be present, to breathe.

But her mind—oh, her mind—had other plans.

It had already bolted ahead, cataloging every responsibility stacked against her in the coming week. Meetings. Errands. A never-ending list of shoulds.

It had been a long week. Between work, personal commitments, and her ongoing battle with overthinking, she had barely had time to feelthe shifts happening inside her. And there were shifts—Monica and Monique had been hammering at them for weeks now.

Step out of the Land of What If.
Recognize when you’re spiraling.
Stop turning time into an enemy.

She was getting better. She could see the spirals now, catch herself before the runaway train of anxious thoughts derailed her completely. She wasn’t perfect, but she was evolving.

That had to count for something.

Her gaze drifted to her planner, lying open on the table beside her tea. The pages were brimming with meetings, appointments, and neatly color-coded reminders—each one a tiny weight pressing against her ribs.

Tuesday. Session with Monica.

Mabel chewed the inside of her cheek. Her schedule was alreadyoversaturated. She barely had time to eat lunch most days, let alone sit down and talk about her feelings.

She could reschedule. Monica would understand.

With a deep sigh, she picked up her phone and opened Telegram.

Hey Monica, I need to reschedule our session this week—too much going on. Can we move it?

She hit send and took another sip of tea, the warmth momentarily tricking her body into thinking she was relaxed.

But the tightness in her chest didn’t budge.

Monique’s voice slid into her mind, dripping with sarcasm. Too busy? Ummmm. WTF, girl.

Mabel ignored her. There was too much to do, too much at stake.

She had a mountain of tasks ahead, and she was going to climb it—one research paper, one supplement, one perfect decision at a time.

She could rest when she had a baby.

For now, there was work to do. And if there was one thing Mabel knew how to do, it was work. She had spent her entire life mastering the art of pushing forward, of over-preparing, of proving—to herself, to the world—that she was capable. That she was worthy.

Slowing down?

That was for people who didn’t want it badly enough.

She wasn’t one of those people.

She was an A+ student in fertility, just like she had been in school, in her career, in everything. The notes, the protocols, the spreadsheets—all in order.

Because if she did everything right—if she followed every diet, researched every study, optimized every supplement—then surely, surely, she’d get the outcome she was working so damn hard for.

…Right?

Her grip tightened around her tea mug, jaw clenched, stomach twisting into knots.

She didn’t have time for doubt.

Doubt was weakness. Doubt was failure. She just needed to keep going.

Monique’s voice slid back in, smug AF.

Or, you know… you could just sit down and breathe, Mabel.

Mabel rolled her eyes and picked up her phone instead.

Another study to read.
Another thing to learn.
Another task to check off.

Rest was for later.

Her phone buzzed. Monica’s reply popped up.

Totally fine, Mabel, but only if you promise me you look at your to-do list and take one thing off!!! Seriously, I mean it. Cross it out. Delete it. Burn it if you have to. Because here’s the thing—being addicted to busyness is real. It sneaks in, making you feel like productivity equals worth, like if you're not doing something every second, you're falling behind. But guess what? That constant hustle keeps you stuck in the same frantic energy that got you here in the first place. So, do yourself a favor—ditch one thing. Just one. And then sit with the discomfort of not doing. You might just realize the world doesn’t fall apart when you slow down.

Mabel rescheduled, but never kept her promise.

A week later, the Zoom screen flickered to life.

Monica sat calmly, notebook in hand, her presence steady and unshaken. In stark contrast, Mabel’s frazzled face appeared on the screen—dark circles beneath her eyes, her hair hastily pulled back as always. The past week had been a blur of running, doing, fixing—everything—and she was exhausted.

Monica had seen this before. This wasn’t just about managing time. It never was. Today was about peeling back the layers, about uncovering the deeper reasons behind Mabel’s addiction to busyness.

In their last session, they had unearthed and rewritten a core belief:

“I am worthy because I am me.” Stay with it. Hold that space. Let the shift happen, let the energy settle into truth.

But Monica knew from personal experience—this work wasn’t one and done. It never was. Worthiness had layers. Many layers. And each time you peeled one back, another waited beneath, whispering the same old lie in a slightly different way.

At first, it felt exhausting—like just when you thought you had arrived, another version of the same wound surfaced, dressed in a new outfit, ready to challenge you all over again. But Monica had also learned something else: it didn’t mean you were failing. It meant you were growing. Each layer wasn’t a setback—it was an invitation. An opportunity to meet yourself with more kindness, more compassion, and a little more trust than the last time.

Monica also knew it was okay not to have it all figured out. It was okay to think you’d healed something, only to have it resurface. This work wasn’t about perfection—it was about presence. About peeling back those layers when they were ready, not when you thought they should be. And with each one, you got lighter. Freer. Until one day, you realized you didn’t need to prove anything at all—you just were.

So today, like always, Monica wasn’t here to dictate the conversation. She was here to follow Mabel’s lead—to let her uncover her own truth.

Monica had always been good at seeing the holes in people’s journeys. But lately? She was getting even better at spotting the patterns they were running so damn hard that they were creatingthose holes.

LOL. Okay, not a joke, but sometimes you just have to laugh at your own BS.

She leaned forward, voice gentle but firm. “So, tell me… why do you think you’re so busy? What’s driving it? And more importantly… how does it feel?”

Mabel exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair. “Honestly? I don’t even know anymore.” She let out a short, breathy laugh, but there was no humor in it. “It’s like… if I stop moving, everything will fall apart.”

She hadn’t meant to say it like that. So raw, so exposed.

The moment the words left her mouth, a familiar heat crept up her neck. She felt ridiculous. Dramatic. But also… true.

Monica didn’t say anything right away.
She didn’t need to.

The silence stretched, thick but not heavy. An invitation for Mabel to hear herself.

To really hear herself.

Because here’s the thing—Monica didn’t need to hear Mabel’s life story.

Mabel did.

Monica had seen it before, this moment of realization. The slow unraveling of a belief that had been gripping someone for years. She could almost see the gears turning behind Mabel’s eyes, the weight of her own words settling into place.

Mabel blinked. Swallowed.

And then, like a dam breaking, it all came rushing in.

The version of herself that had been running on fumes for years.
The girl who had hustled for validation in school, in work, in relationships—who had built her identity around proving she was good enough. The girl who had lived for the gold stars—the good grades, the promotions, the praise from others. All proof that she was doing life right.

And now?

Now, she was running the same damn program.

Except this time, Mabel felt like the stakes were higher.

Instead of trusting her body, she was treating fertility like a project—something to research, optimize, and control.

More information. More protocols. More supplements. More appointments.

More, more, more.

Because if she was busy, she must be making progress.

Right?

And if she was making progress—even though she wasn’t seeing actual results—then at least she still felt worthy.

Her throat tightened.

Monica was still watching her, waiting.
Not rushing.
Not telling her what to do next.
Just holding space.

Letting Mabel catch up to herself & then sit with it.

No fixing, no softening the edges. Just the raw, undeniable truth hanging between them.

Mabel swallowed hard, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. She had spent so long convincing herself that action equaled success, that effort meant worthiness.

But what if she had it backwards?

Her stomach churned at the thought.

Because if busyness wasn’t the answer… then what the hell was?

Monica’s voice cut through Mabel’s spiraling thoughts, steady and measured. “Mabel, you’re doing everything ‘right’—all of it locked in like a tightly wound clock, ticking away. But none of that matters if you’re running on empty. So I’m asking you… how are you really feeling?”

Mabel let out a sharp, humorless laugh, throwing up her hands. “Exhausted. But what am I supposed to do, Monica? I can’t just stop. People are counting on me, and if I let something slip, it all falls apart.”

Monica leaned in slightly, her tone steady but gentle. “What if it didall fall apart? Let’s say you got so sick you couldn’t get out of bed. Everything you’re worried about—your job, your family, your mortgage—what would happen?”

She let the question linger, then pressed deeper.

“Tell me, Mabel—what’s the first emotion that hits if your body finallygave out? Because here’s the raw, undeniable truth… all these holistic practices, all these things you’re doing to ‘support’ yourself? They’re not pulling you out of burnout. They’re just barely keeping you functional in extreme exhaustion mode. And bodies don’t run on fumes forever.”

Mabel opened her mouth, ready to argue, ready to prove that she was holding the universe together by sheer willpower, but something about Monica’s question made her pause. Her eyes darted downward.

And before she could shove the answer back down, it surfaced.

“…Relief.”

The word slipped out, quiet but undeniable.

Monique, who had been uncharacteristically silent, let out a slow exhale. Her mouth tightened, her nostrils flaring slightly.

Monica tilted her head. “Relief,” she repeated, softer this time. “Do you hear yourself? That relief you're imagining is your body screamingfor you to stop—before it makes you stop.”

Mabel’s shoulders tensed, her jaw tightening like a vice. “It’s not that simple, Monica.” Her voice was sharp, defensive—because if she let this crack open any further, she wasn’t sure she could hold it together.

“I’m the breadwinner. I can’t just drop the ball. My clients need me. My family counts on me. If I stop—if I let anything slip—who’s going to pick up the pieces?”

Her breath came quicker now, her fingers gripping the edge of her sweater. “I’m the one holding it all together.”

And that was the moment Monique lost it.

With an exaggerated groan, she slammed her hand on the desk. “ENOUGH, Mabel! You’re full of excuses. You have all the knowledge in the world about slowing down, but you refuse to apply it. You’re choosing this chaos. CHOOSING IT. So don’t sit there acting like the victim.”

Mabel’s head snapped up, her glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Excuse me?! I’m not choosing this! I don’t have a choice!”

Monique leaned in, voice dripping with challenge. “Oh, you don’t? Because last I checked, no one’s forcing you to juggle fifteen balls while walking a tightrope. You’re so terrified of slowing down, you’re literally burning yourself out just to avoid feeling your own emotions. Let me guess—if you stop being busy, you’ll have to face… what? Fear? Grief? Anger? Sound familiar?”

Mabel’s lip trembled.

Monique hid her smirk. For once. She lived for calling out the BS, but even she knew when to hold back. No need to rub salt in an already raw wound.

Monica, unfazed by the tension thickening the air, stepped in smoothly. Her voice was calm, steady—grounding.

“Mabel, look, Monique is a B.I.T.C.H.—no denying that. And yeah, her delivery can be… a little brutal. But here’s the thing—she’s notwrong.” Monica’s gaze held Mabel’s, unwavering. “And we’re not here to sugarcoat things. We’re here for the truth—because at this point, Mabel, that’s the one thing missing from your journey.”

She exhaled, softening. Her voice dipped into something gentler, threaded with deep understanding.

“I know how much it hurts to be called out like this. To hear the hard things. But, Mabel—remember something. I have been you. Every frantic thought, every desperate grasp for control, every sleepless night spent Googling one more ‘solution’—I lived that. And some days? I still do.”

A beat of silence stretched between them. Not heavy. Just real.

“Which is why I know you’re strong enough to face this.”

Mabel’s throat tightened. She blinked back tears. “I know.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “But it’s just… hard. I feel like I’m letting people down if I let go.”

Monica nodded, her expression full of understanding. “You will let people down. And that’s more than okay.”

Mabel’s eyes widened slightly, as if waiting for a but that never came.

Monica continued, steady and sure. “They’ll get over it. They’ll adjust. Life will go on. But if you don’t put yourself first—if you don’t start choosing yourself—you’re the one who won’t recover. It’s time to be selfish, Mabel. Not in the reckless, screw-everyone-else way. In the way that finally allows you to heal.”

Mabel swallowed hard.

“It is hard,” Monica acknowledged. “But here’s the truth: you don’t have to let everything go at once. Let’s start small—one thing you can cut back on. Maybe fewer commitments with friends, maybe delegating some of your work. This isn’t about abandoning responsibility. It’s about creating space—for your body to heal, for your mind to process, for you to breathe.”

She paused, then leaned in slightly. “And sometimes? That space doesn’t come from shaving off a task here and there. Sometimes, it takes a bigger shift. A terrifying, uncomfortable, life-altering shift.”

Mabel blinked, her throat tight.

Monica exhaled, her voice softer now, but laced with something heavier—experience.

“I don’t know if you’ve heard me talk about this on the podcast, but after my first miscarriage… I quit my job.” She let the words settle before continuing. “We sold our house, moved into military housing, and lived off my husband’s salary. And you know what? We made it work. Because working 40+ hours a week and doing IVF wasn’t working for me.”

Monica met Mabel’s gaze, unflinching.

“We took steps that looked crazy from the outside—but I knew I had to make a shift. I had no idea if it would ‘work.’ But what I did know was that I refused to get to the end of my journey and wonder… What if I had just—” She let the question hang, unfinished, letting Mabel fill in the blank herself.

The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken thoughts.

Mabel’s hands clenched in her lap.

She had spent years avoiding that question, too afraid of what the answer might be.

But now?

Now, she wasn’t so sure.

She sniffled, swiping at her eyes. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Monica’s voice softened, steady but unwavering. “Start with what feels the least impossible. What’s one thing—just one—that you can let go of, even temporarily? Also for the the next few weeks, every time you feel the urge to fill your time just to stay busy, pause. Sit with the discomfort instead. Notice what comes up.”

Monique snorted, crossing her arms. “You’re being way too nice, Monica.” She shot Mabel a look, one brow arched. “Mabel, stop overthinking it. You’re trying to climb Everest in flip-flops while carrying a boulder. Drop the damn boulder already.”

A shaky exhale left Mabel’s lips, a half-smile tugging at the corners despite herself.

She wasn’t sure if she could drop the boulder.

But for the first time, she was willing to look at it.

And just when she thought the session was wrapping up, Monica leaned in slightly, her eyes sharp with curiosity.

“Mabel, tell me about a time you didn’t get that gold star—at school, at work—when you didn’t achieve what you thought you should.”

Mabel’s stomach dropped.

Her fingers curled against her lap.

Of all the things Monica could have asked her to face…

Why did it have to be that?

The Gold Star That Never Came

The room seemed to shrink. Mabel shifted in her chair, suddenly hyperaware of the weight in her chest, the invisible pressure that had lived there for as long as she could remember.

Her mind flitted through years of striving—of always being the best, of working harder, pushing further. But then, like a stone dropping into still water, one memory surfaced. She didn’t speak she just remembered.

Senior year.

She could still feel the sterile air of the classroom, the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. The smell of freshly printed test papers. She had studied for weeks for the final exam in her AP calculus class. Hours spent highlighting, reworking problems, memorizing formulas until they blurred together.

She had been so sure she’d aced it.

But when the teacher placed the test face down on her desk, her stomach clenched. Something was off.

She flipped it over.

B-

The grade glared back at her in sharp, red ink. It felt like a punch to the gut.

Her throat went tight. She blinked hard, willing away the sting behind her eyes.

This wasn’t just a grade. This was her thing. She was the smart one. The one who always got it right. The one teachers used as an example. The one her parents bragged about.

And now?

Now she wasn’t special. She wasn’t the best. She wasn’t enough.

Her fingers curled around the edges of the paper, her mind racing. She could fix this. She’d ask for extra credit. She’d rework the problems. She’d stay up later next time. Work harder. Prove to herself—to everyone—that this was just a fluke.

But when she brought it up to her teacher after class, his response nearly knocked the air out of her.

“Mabel, your grade is still great. You’ve done amazing all year and you don’t need to be perfect to get to where you’re going.”

She had stared at him, heart pounding in her ears.

Of course she had to be perfect. That’s what made her valuable. That’s how she earned respect, love, security.

Didn’t he understand?

That night, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying every question she got wrong, every point she lost. She never told her parents about the grade. She couldn’t stand to see their faces tighten just the slightest bit in disappointment, to hear the casual, What happened?

Because she had already asked herself that a hundred times.

What happened?

She wasn’t good enough.

And that belief had followed her ever since.

Through college. Through work. Through every almost-perfectmoment that left her feeling like she was just one step behind where she should be.

And now?

Now it had followed her into this. Into trying to conceive. Into spreadsheets and protocols and the relentless pursuit of doing everything right.

Because if she just worked hard enough… then maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t have to face the terrifying truth that had lived in her subconscious for years.

That she was only worthy if she was winning.

That rest was for people who didn’t care enough.

That failure—even just falling short—wasn’t an option.

Mabel blinked, snapping back to the present. Her fingers were clenched into fists in her lap.

Monica was watching her, patient but unwavering.

Monique, for once, was silent.

Mabel let out a slow breath.

“…That test,” she finally murmured. “That stupid test.” She let out a humorless laugh. “It was just a B-. But I felt like my whole identity shattered.”

Monica nodded, leaning forward slightly. “And what if I told you that moment wasn’t about the grade at all?”

Mabel swallowed. “Then what was it about?”

Monica’s voice was steady. “The moment you reinforced that if you weren’t perfect, you weren’t enough.”

Mabel’s stomach twisted. She looked down, her nails pressing into her palm, she knew Monica was right.

Mabel’s breath hitched.

She hadn’t thought about that calculus test in years, but now it felt like a freshly opened wound.

Monica waited, giving her space to sit in the discomfort. “Go deeper now Mable.”

And without a word, Mable went deeper in her mind …

Not senior year.

Not high school.

Before that.

She was eight.

Sitting at the kitchen table, legs swinging against the chair. A math workbook open in front of her, the thick smell of pencil shavings filling her nose.

She had just finished her times tables quiz at school and felt so proud—she had only gotten one wrong.

One.

It was almost perfect.

Her dad walked in, setting down his coffee, and she beamed up at him, holding out the paper. “Look, Daddy! I got a 9 out of 10!”

He took it, scanning the page. His face didn’t light up. His mouth didn’t curve into a smile.

Instead, he pointed to the problem she got wrong.

“What happened here?”

Mabel blinked. “I—um. I just… I guess I wrote the wrong number.”

His lips pressed together. “You knew this. We practiced this one.” He shook his head, setting the paper down on the table. “You’re smart, Mabel. But you have to pay attention. Little mistakes add up.”

Her chest tightened. The pride she’d felt only moments ago shriveled up like a balloon with a slow leak.

She had known that problem. She just got distracted.

She just… messed up.

And messing up wasn’t okay.

“Next time,” her dad continued, his voice calm but firm, “let’s make sure you get them all right, okay? You’re smart enough to do better.” He ruffled her hair absentmindedly, already shifting his focus elsewhere, unaware of the way her chest tightened, how her small hands curled around the paper, suddenly feeling not good enough.

This wasn’t the first time he’d said something like this, and it wouldn’t be the last. Each time it chipped away at her, carving out a space where doubt and perfectionism would settle in, thick and unyielding.

She spent the rest of the evening redoing every problem from the test, triple-checking her answers.

When her mom walked in and saw her at the table, she chuckled. “Mabel, honey, you already took the test.”

“I just want to make sure I know it for next time,” Mabel chirped, keeping her head down.

Her mom didn’t argue. She just kissed the top of her head.

And that was the moment it started.

The quiet, subconscious equation she carried with her for the rest of her life:

A+ = Love.
Mistakes = Disappointment.
Almost-perfect = Not enough.

And so, she became the girl who never got a 9 out of 10 again.

The girl who checked her answers three times.
The girl who stayed up late studying while everyone else relaxed.
The girl who clutched at perfection like a life raft.

Because being the best wasn’t just about grades.

It was about being worthy.

It was about making sure no one ever looked at her with that faceagain.

The face that said, Why didn’t you try harder?

Mabel’s throat felt tight, her fingers numb. She was no longer eight, but in some ways, she still was.

Still chasing that gold star.
Still terrified of the red ink.
Still waiting for someone to say, “You did enough. You are enough.”

She let out a shaky breath.

Monica was watching her, calm and steady.

Monique, arms crossed, let out a low whistle. “Whew. Damn, Mabel. That’s where it started, huh?”

Mabel swallowed. Her voice came out small. “…Yeah.”

Monica didn’t need to know the details. The story wasn’t important—the emotions attached to it were.

She simply leaned forward and said, “Okay, Mabel. Let’s drop into it.”

Mabel’s breath was still shaky, her mind teetering on the edge of that old wound.

“Whole-brain position,” Monica instructed, her voice calm but firm.

Mabel obeyed automatically, shifting into the posture she’d done before, hands crossing over her chest, ankles tucked. The logical part of her brain wanted to analyze, to pick apart the why of it all. But that wasn’t the assignment.

Monica watched as Mabel settled into the whole-brain position, her breath uneven but steady.

“Close your eyes,” Monica instructed gently. “Go back to the moment. Feel where you were, what was around you. Let it play out exactly as it happened. Don’t change it, don’t reason with it—just let it be.”

Mabel’s face twitched. A shallow inhale. Her hands tightened slightly where they rested on her lap.

And just like before, the emotions came fast and sharp—tightness in her chest, heat in her throat, that old, familiar ache that whispered, Not enough. Never enough.

She sat with it.

Let it choke her, squeeze her lungs, press against her ribs. Let it exist.

For a moment, she thought she might break under the weight of it.

But then, like a wave that had reached its peak, it began to recede.

The grip on her chest loosened. The heat cooled. The ache softened.

The scenes—the kitchen table, the red ink, the weight of almost-perfect—they were still there. But they weren’t strangling her anymore.

She saw them now with different eyes.

The little girl who just wanted to make her dad proud.
The teenager who wanted to prove she was still worthy.
The woman who had carried those beliefs into every corner of her life.

And for the first time, she didn’t judge them.

Didn’t try to fix them.

Didn’t need to push them away.

She just let them be.

And in that space, something else crept in.

A sense of acceptance.
A flicker of peace.
A quiet, unexpected compassion for herself—the girl who had tried so hard for so long.

Her breath steadied. Her shoulders dropped.

She wasn’t sure how long she stayed there, but eventually, her body knew.

The absence of peace was gone.

Mabel opened her eyes.

Monica let the silence settle, giving the shift time to anchor. Even across the miles, she felt the change in Mabel. But she also knew something else—just because energy shifts on the inside doesn’t mean you automatically start moving differently in the physical world.

Monica leaned in slightly. “Here’s the part most people miss, Mabel. Changing the emotion and energy around this is huge—it’s the first step. But it’s not the only step. Because once we shift what’s happening inside, we have to show up differently in the physicalworld.”

Mabel’s eyes flickered, just slightly. She already knew where this was going.

“We have to move differently. Make different choices. Create new habits—ones that support rest, stillness, and actual trust in the process.” Monica gave her a knowing look. “And when we do that? That’s when we start rewiring the brain, literally building new neural pathways that don’t rely on stress and overwork to feel safe.”

Mabel swallowed hard, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve.

“This isn’t just about mindset shifts,” Monica pressed. “This is about action. About teaching your body, through real choices, that slowing down isn’t a threat. That your worth isn’t tied to how much you do. That you don’t have to run yourself into the ground to deserve what you want.”

She tilted her head slightly. “So tell me, Mabel—what’s one thing you can do differently this week? One small shift that tells your nervous system, ‘Hey, we’re safe now’?”

Mabel let out a slow breath. She wasn’t sure what the answer was yet.

Monica watched Mabel carefully, letting the silence settle before speaking.

“Mabel, here’s the thing—staying this busy comes at a cost. And I’m not just talking about exhaustion. It steals your health, your peace, and the life you’re working so hard to create.”

Mabel’s fingers twitched in her lap. Monica leaned in slightly, her voice steady but firm.

“You’re not the only one who does this. So many of us pack our days to the brim, convincing ourselves we have to, that there’s no other way. But most of the time? We’re not just busy—we’re avoiding. We’re avoiding sitting with emotions we don’t want to face.”

Mabel’s breath hitched.

“And if you don’t change this pattern now, it’s not going to stop on its own. The cycle won’t magically break once you get pregnant, or when you hit the next big milestone. If anything, it’ll follow you right into motherhood, right into the next version of your life—because that’s what these patterns do. They grow with you.”

She paused, letting the weight of the words settle between them.

Then Monique, never one to sugarcoat, cut straight to the point. “So the real question is… how much longer do you want to keep paying that price?”

Mabel swallowed, her fingers tightening in her lap.

Monica’s voice was softer but no less direct. “Mabel,” she said, steady and sure, “I know this is a lot. And you don’t have to have all the answers or make any massive life changes right here, right now.” She paused, giving Mabel the space to breathe. “But I do hope you can answer this—just for yourself.”

Monica held her gaze. “Are you willing to take radical responsibilityand admit that running yourself ragged isn’t going to work this time? That pushing, striving, and overdoing hasn’t brought you the peace or the results you thought it would?”

Mabel exhaled, staring down at the desk.

“And more importantly,” Monica continued, leaning in slightly, “do you finally feel worthy enough to be less busy? To stop proving, stop earning, and start trusting that you are enough—even in stillness?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with truth.

Mabel wasn’t lost for words—she had plenty of words. She just couldn’t believe she had been carrying all this BS around for years. That this—this deeply ingrained need to do it all, to stay busy, to prove her worth—was at the core of why she felt she had to push herself to exhaustion.

She had spent so much time convinced she was just wired this way. That it was just who she was—a doer, a perfectionist, someone who thrived in the chaos.

But now? Now she saw it for what it really was.

An old, inherited belief.

And the wildest part? She loved her dad. They had a great relationship. He had never meant to pass down this weight, this expectation of perfection.

Yet, here she was—decades later—still carrying it like a damn badge of honor.

Her chest tightened. Then released.

FUCK.

This was not what she thought she’d be uncovering when she started working with a fertility mentor.

But damn if it didn’t make perfect sense.

Mabel finally caught up to herself, the realization settling in like a deep exhale.

She lifted her gaze, met Monica’s steady, knowing eyes, and for the first time in forever, she answered without hesitation.

“Yes.” Her voice was clear. Grounded. Certain. “One hundred percent.”

And Monica knew she meant it.

Subject: Your Homework, Tough Love, and a Gentle Nudge Forward

Hey Mabel,

I know today’s session was a lot. Unpacking old patterns, seeing the truth behind the busyness, and realizing just how much you’ve been carrying—it’s not light work. But you did it. And now, it’s time to move differently.

Because shifting your energy is huge, but it’s not the step. Aligned action is the only way forward.

So here’s your Tough Love Homework:

✅ Pick One Thing to Let Go – Identify one responsibility or commitment you can drop this week. It doesn’t have to be big—just something that creates space.

✅ Sit with the Discomfort – When you catch yourself reaching for busyness, pause. Really pause. Notice what emotions or thoughts come up. Write them down. No judgment, just awareness.

✅ Set Boundaries with Love – Let your friends, family, or colleagues know you’re stepping back—not because you don’t care, but because you’re prioritizing your health. (And spoiler: prioritizing you is not selfish.)

✅ Track Your Energy – Pay attention to how your body feels when you create space versus when you stay stuck in overdrive. Your body is always talking to you—start listening.

Because Knowing Isn’t Enough—You Have to Do

Mabel, your story is a reminder that insight alone doesn’t change your life. Action does.

So, what’s one hard decision you’ve been avoiding? Quitting the job that’s burning you out? Saying no to commitments that drain you? Finally slowing down long enough to feel what’s really beneath the surface?

It’s time. No more waiting, no more what ifs.

Because your health, your joy, and your future baby are worth more than staying stuck in a pattern that no longer serves you.

I’d love to hear how it feels as you start sitting with yourself more and being less busy.

Remember, small shifts lead to big changes. Keep in contact with me on Telegram, explore the online course DREAMS and make sure you book your next session here!

We’re Doing This Together,
💚 Monica

Finding Fertility

Listen to the Finding Fertility Podcast: The Hidden Impact of Overworking & Stress on Your Fertility During Infertility & IVF

Truth # 2: Overthinking, Worry & Fear: How Mabel Found Peace in Her Thoughts

Truth # 1: The Illusion of Control

Grieving Together: 10 Things Monica Sees in Mabel’s Journey That Are Causing Unnecessary Chaos

🎙 Subscribe on your favourite podcast platform:⁣⁠⁣⁣⁣
Apple || Stitcher || Spotify || Google

Listen up, lovelies: Everything I share about health, diet, or fertility magic is my opinion. Yep, it’s all based on years of trial and error, study, reading, listening, and side-eyeing the nonsense out there. What worked for me might be a jackpot for you—or it might be a total flop. Bodies are weird like that. 🤷‍♀️

Let’s get one thing straight: I’m not a doctor, nutritionist, dietitian, or any other kind of licensed health wizard. If you need medical advice, run—don’t walk—to an actual qualified professional. Don’t come back here saying Monique told you to eat kale for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, okay?

As for the products I mention, they’re either what I used during my own infertility rollercoaster or what I wish I’d known about back then. No guarantees, no promises, and absolutely no refunds on your hope budget if it doesn’t work out.

Now that we’ve cleared that up, proceed with curiosity and, above all, discernment. You’ve got this. 💪✨