Reclaimed: Real Recovery, Real Strength, Real Life

Introduction

Who else has been hearing it everywhere lately?

“Burnt out.” “Overwhelmed.” The weight of the world feels heavier than ever. Doom and gloom on the news. Tragedy after tragedy.  People dying. Communities suffering.

It’s hard work, emotionally, spiritually, mentally, just to stay afloat. And the demands keep coming. Work. Family. Screens. Commitments. Our energy is constantly consumed, and our capacity quietly drained.

There’s illness. There’s cancer. There’s stress that lodges itself so deeply into the body, it begins to feel like part of who you are.

And when we don’t listen to what our minds and bodies are trying to say, it can lead to consequences that are harder to undo, burnout, breakdown, chronic fatigue, emotional collapse.

Lately, the words burnout and overwhelm seem louder. They echo in the conversations we’re finally beginning to have, in workplaces, in friendships, in families. We are talking about it more.

But are we truly understanding it?

And here’s the part that doesn’t get enough airtime: those who come out the other side. Their message isn’t always loud, but it’s powerful. It’s in their presence. It’s in their quiet strength. It’s in the way they return, not as they were, but as someone changed.

If we choose to listen, their story offers us something precious: A chance to reflect. A chance to learn. A chance to be grateful that we still have this side of humanity, one rooted in resilience, in grace, in survival.

But too often, there’s an unspoken expectation that they’ll be the same as before, as if nothing ever happened. It comes from the ground we all walk on, one that's swamped in busyness, discomfort, and avoidance. That expectation doesn’t always come from cruelty. Sometimes it’s too painful to reflect. Sometimes we’re too scared, or simply too emotionally immature, to relate or understand to what it’s truly like to recover.

And so, the unconscious thought forms: "That’s their journey. Thank goodness it’s not mine."

But something inside them has shifted. Sometimes it’s physical, something removed, something repaired, a body that now moves or feels differently. Sometimes it’s neurological, a rewiring of the brain through trauma, therapy, or medication. And sometimes, it’s emotional, the invisible impact of having gone to a place most people fear to touch.

There are side effects. There is exhaustion not just physical, but emotional and mental. There are new ways of doing, of thinking, of being, ways that don’t always feel familiar. Sometimes, it’s starting from scratch. Relearning how to function. Rebuilding routines.

So no, they are not the same. But perhaps what’s even more powerful is this: Those who return after recovery often come back to the exact thing they were meant to do, but they do it more truthfully than ever before and with a newfound wisdom.

So, instead of turning away, lets pause long enough to learn from those who’ve returned? What if their journey was part of ours too?

When Recovery Goes Public - and What That Means for the Rest of Us

I often think about those on the ground people I work with, or those connected to someone I know quietly navigating their own recovery journeys. Some are still in it. Some are just beginning to pause and reflect. Others are slowly evaluating what needs to change: their routines, their relationships, their expectations of themselves.

For many, recovery starts not with a grand decision, but with a moment of stillness a breath. A quiet life - changing question: Can I keep doing this?

But what’s really caught my attention in recent weeks, are two very public figures: Lewis Capaldi and Catherine, Princess of Wales.

They come from vastly different worlds, and their stories are shared in the public domain not in intimate conversations but felt deeply through the words they speak on stage or in interviews. Their voices carry weight, even from a distance.

Both have shared their survival and recovery in ways that are uniquely powerful on entirely different stages, to entirely different audiences, and with entirely different purposes.

Lewis is raw, relatable, wrapped in humour and humility. His return to the stage resonates deeply with everyday people. He’s entertaining, yes but also disarmingly real. No costume. No distractions. Just his voice, his story, and his truth. In many ways, he captures what so many feel but struggle to express.

The Princess, by contrast, is polished, poised, and purposeful. Her return to public life carries the weight of global influence. As a symbol of grace under pressure, she champions health and wellbeing not just personally, but as an advocate for millions. Her message is steady, dignified, and resonant on a global scale.

And we seem to listen more now. We respond with likes, with shares, with kind comments.

But it also makes most of think and reflect. Have we quietly gone through our own struggles, our own recoveries? Or are we still in the struggle, longing to escape the weight of misery, but unsure where to begin?

Posts like Lewis Capaldi’s or the Princess of Wales garner hundreds, sometimes thousands of likes. Comments roll in, echoing a common thread: encouragement, compassion, love, support. Very few keyboard warriors. Very little cynicism. Just people witnessing others come back from the edge and cheering them on.

And what happens when recovery or struggle doesn’t just play out online, but right in front of you - we’ve recently spoken with someone, a friend, a colleague, a family member who shared their pain, their suffering, their truth.

And it leaves us with a quiet question: How do we best help them? How do we help ourselves? What does support look like when the struggle is raw, and the way forward isn’t clear? How we respond to this is different for everyone.

If you're returning to work after recovery, there’s often a quiet uncertainty that follows you through the door.

Will HR and Health & Safety protocols be activated? Yes, and while they’re designed to protect, they can also unintentionally create distance.

How will colleagues respond? Will they treat you with compassion, or with caution?

Do relationships become more clinical than caring, especially among those who don’t have the emotional maturity to sit with someone else’s suffering, or even understand it?

Will your job role change? Will your hours start reduced, with the expectation to gradually increase? Will every conversation with HR or a manager be carefully documented, tracked, formalised?

The list goes on.

And the truth is, it’s different for everyone. Every workplace. Every circumstance. Every recovery journey.

But it’s important we name these questions, because they shape how supported or isolated a person feels when they return, and how well they’re able to truly rebuild. It’s also about how the world receives you after. And too often, that part is still uncomfortable. Misunderstood. Sanitised.

But it matters. Recovery doesn’t just happen in you - it happens around you too.

Trauma Comes in Many Forms

Before recovery, there is something else. A shift. A rupture. A moment where life stops making sense in the way it used to.

Call it what it is: trauma, physical or psychological. Sometimes both. It can enter slowly, like a leak you didn’t notice. Or it can arrive like a storm, flattening everything.

Trauma shows up in many forms. It can come from personal heartbreak, a split in the family, a death, a slow, aching grief that has no obvious end.  Trauma in the workplace, and ever so common people emerging from deeply toxic environments with symptoms that mirror PTSD. The stories I’ve heard are confronting relentless gaslighting, public humiliation, emotional depletion that leaves you hollow.

Coming from a military family, this question hits even closer to home. My husband, a naval surgeon and now a veteran, carried a different kind of trauma. It’s quieter. More complex. It’s shaped by high-stakes decisions, long exposure to deep suffering, and the unspoken discipline of service. PTSD in this world is real but often hidden. The recovery here is slower. Often silent. But no less vital.

Whatever the origin, it’s real. It’s painful. It reshapes us. It lingers in the nervous system. It changes how we see ourselves, how we trust others, and whether we feel safe in the world. And it often brings with it a deep, isolating question: Will I ever come out of this misery?

Be it burnout, workplace trauma, military service, or serious illness all recovery matters deserve to be seen, honoured, and understood. It isn’t linear. It isn’t neat. But it is possible.

The Stories That Anchor Us

So why do I share this with you? Because I’ve been through recovery myself. I’ve made it to the other side. Saying that still feels vulnerable, but it’s important.

Coming through burnout didn’t just give me space to heal. It gave me something more: The ability to articulate what the struggle actually feels like. To name it. To hold space for it.

Now I support others through it. I’ve become stronger, not just in resilience, but in empathy. It’s allowed me to guide those still finding their way, to provide care, not from theory, but from lived experience. And most of all, to offer hope, that even in the darkest seasons, there is a way forward. That recovery isn’t just possible; it can lead to something deeper and more meaningful than what came before.

I’ve been fortunate not to know cancer survivors personally, at least not intimately. But there is one woman whose story has stayed with me over the years. Liz O’Riordan, a breast surgeon, a survivor of breast cancer, and a remarkable advocate. I met her in the UK through my husband’s involvement in the world of surgery. We lost contact when I moved to Australia, but her story has deeply resonated with me, even from a distance.

Her voice, her writing, and her advocacy offer an unfiltered window into what it truly means to live through, and beyond, cancer. Though we haven’t spoken in years, and our connection was never deeply personal, her journey impacted me profoundly.

Her story, like so many others, is a reminder: You don’t have to know someone intimately to be changed by their truth.

Lewis Capaldi, someone I look up to and continue to be inspired by. And I love listening to his music!  There he was, standing on the Glastonbury stage. No dancers. No special effects. Just a plain pair of clothes and an extraordinary voice. Raw and Real. Watching him sing his way through “Survive” with joy, gratitude, and power - it wasn’t just a performance. It was testimony. Proof that vulnerability doesn’t dull the light; it magnifies it.

His voice carried a story, a lived one, and you could feel it in the lyrics. If you haven’t heard “Survive”, I encourage you to listen. Slowly. Read the lyrics. Let them sit with you.

To me, it’s beautiful, something new has been born there. A message of hope, of validation, of authenticity.

And then there’s Catherine, Princess of Wales another person I admire deeply. Someone who has navigated significant personal health challenges under the harsh scrutiny of the public eye. Her return, defined by poise, professionalism, and purpose, reminds us that thriving after recovery doesn’t need spectacle. It needs consistency. Quiet strength. The discipline to rise, even when the world is still watching. But there’s another truth we don’t often talk about, one that the Princess herself has begun to speak about openly in recent interviews. After a period of intense care and constant support, there comes a moment when you must begin to venture out on your own. And in that transition, you need gentleness. You need compassion. You need patience, especially with yourself, as you settle back into a sense of “normal.” Not the normal, but your normal. The one that fits who you are now, after everything you’ve been through.

These aren’t just stories of comeback. They’re stories of people who did the work. Who faced the shame, the stillness, the fear and courage to choose to move anyway.

And in doing so, they became stronger and carried with them a deeper wisdom. A wisdom not learned in books or classrooms, but earned through pain, stillness, and the decision to keep going.

 Recovery Is More Than Strength - It’s Empathy in Motion, Grit in Action

These voices now resonate through humanity, not just as personal stories, but as reflections of two powerful human qualities: empathy and grit.

They show us what it means to care. To feel deeply. To express unbearable truths with a kind of emotional maturity that few are ever taught, but all can learn.

And we can only imagine the moments they asked themselves: What is the way out?

But they stayed. They spoke. They reached for help.

And in doing so, they showed us what it truly means to endure. To have grit, not as bravado, but as quiet persistence. To keep moving forward, even when it hurts.

They gave others permission to do the same. Because here's the deeper truth: We are all accountable for our own recovery.

We are accountable for taking that first, often terrifying step. Booking the appointment. Calling the therapist. Speaking up. Saying, “I need help.”

When your body tells you to stop, it’s not weakness, it’s wisdom. And listening to that call stepping away from a toxic workplace, walking away from a painful breakup, responding to a sudden sharp pain in your body, or, in more extreme cases, even leaving your own home to receive professional care, may be the most courageous thing you ever do.

That kind of pause is daunting. It’s frightening. It’s often filled with guilt, the fear of letting people down. And beneath that guilt, perhaps the most crushing emotion of all: shame. What will people think of me?

But without those pauses, some brief, some lasting months or even years, clarity rarely comes. And in that stillness, you may finally hear the deeper truth: Why you are here.

This isn’t about self-pity. It’s not about projecting suffering to seek sympathy.

It’s about sharing the path back, teaching others what you’ve learned along the way, offering care, and passing on this hard-earned wisdom, so that someone else doesn’t feel so alone in their pain.

It’s about saying: “I’ve been there. And here’s what helped me find my way out.”

Because when we share the truth of our healing, we give others a language for theirs.

And it’s also about taking ownership. Ownership of a new toolkit, one built not just for recovery, but for life after it.

A life where you can show up again, consistently and sustainably. To keep working. To keep parenting. To keep being a partner, a colleague, a friend. Not perfectly, but presently.

And for those who are around someone in recovery, the friend, the partner, the colleague, someone who walks back into the office for the first time after treatment, don’t underestimate their strength. Don’t minimise their presence.

They are not the same person who left. They’ve walked through something that has changed them, physically, emotionally, spiritually. Their return is not a reset to “before” and not just a resumption of work. It’s a brave continuation, one that deserves respect, not assumptions. It’s an act of resilience. Of courage. Of showing up in a world that often doesn’t know how to hold space for healing.

What they’ve been through is a deep, dark pain that many are too afraid to confront - let alone survive.

Offer grace. Offer presence. And above all - don’t look away.  Learn from them. Listen to their stories. Hear their wisdom, because you never know when their words might become the map for your own journey or someone close to you. 

Further Reading & Resources

Liz O’Riordan Breast cancer surgeon, author, and advocate for patient empowerment and recovery. Explore her work, books, and blog at: www.liz.oriordan.co.uk

Narratives of Burnout and Recovery from an Agency Perspective A two-year longitudinal study examining the personal agency and emotional shifts during recovery from burnout. Read on ScienceDirect

Burnout and Health Outcomes: A Narrative Review Published in the Cureus Journal of Medical Science, this article explores the psychological and physiological dimensions of burnout and its long-term effects. Read on PubMed Central (PMC)