Earthquakes, Chronic Illness, Burnout, and a Heart That Won't Stop Racing

You will often hear me talking about how I built my newsletter.

How I reached 10,000 subscribers (wild), or about the free trainings I run, my mentorship program as well as my Substack Sanctuary group training cohort.

These are core to my business.

But I don’t talk enough about what I have had to navigate during this process.

What I have been carrying while building it.

So today I’m going to open up in a way I haven’t before (cue the vulnerability hangover).

Here we go…

I was 29. I had quit my job, flown to Bali, and was attempting - with enormous optimism and very little plan - to launch myself as a coach.

Then the earthquakes started.

I was in the middle of a series of them. And when it was over, the ground didn’t stop moving. Not for me, at least.

What I didn’t know then was that I had developed Mal de Débarquement Syndrome - a neurological condition where your brain gets stuck in a constant sensation of motion. Like being permanently on a boat that won’t dock. The exhaustion it causes on a neurological level is hard to describe. If I got less than eight hours of sleep I couldn’t function. Simple tasks became enormous. My brain was working overtime just to process standing still.

I came home to South Africa with the ground still moving in my head. I got a proper diagnosis and had to start vestibular rehabilitation (something I did not know even existed). The clinic was known to support people with brain injuries, and strokes, and I wondered how the hell I had ended up here.

Over time had to find work, and was lucky enough to find a job that seemed manageable. A remote role working as a Creative. Project management. Something I could do from home while I tried to figure out what was happening to my body.

It wasn’t manageable for long.

The job ramped up quickly. Tight deadlines. Toxic management. The particular exhaustion of climbing a corporate ladder while my nervous system was put on the backburner.

I stayed for years. Because that’s what you do. Because the salary was good. Because it was remote and I kept thinking it would get better or I would get stronger or both.

At that time I discovered that I was suffering from PMDD - a severe form of PMS, that was causing havoc on my life every month.

And then eventually at 36, burnout hit in a way I couldn’t push past anymore.

But looking back now - with the clarity of an AuDHD diagnosis I received during this period - I understand it wasn’t just work burnout. It was autistic burnout. Years of masking. Years of performing neurotypicality in environments that weren’t built for how my brain works. Years of splitting myself into acceptable pieces and keeping the rest carefully hidden.

I gradually stopped speaking much. Stopped cooking - something I used to love. Wore the same outfit for days. My world got very small and very grey and I couldn’t explain it to anyone in a way that made sense.

I moved to a slightly less brutal company. Hung on for a few more months.

Then I couldn’t do it anymore, and quit.

I had started a Substack a few months earlier. Nothing serious. Just somewhere to put words.

But in the middle of everything falling apart, it became my lifeline.

Maybe a hyperfixation - my ADHD brain latching onto something that felt safe and generative. Maybe just the relief of a space that was entirely mine, where nobody could fire me on the spot and de-activated my Slack profile or keep moving the goalposts to impossible limits.

I kept writing. Through the blur of burnout recovery. Through the slow, strange process of learning what AuDHD meant and how it had shaped my entire life since I was a highly sensitive little girl who felt everything too much and couldn’t understand why.

And the Substack kept quietly growing.

Comments started arriving. Messages that said I feel seen for the first time. Then a “Buy Me a Coffee” donation from a stranger in another country who just wanted to say thank you.

I asked the universe for signs. They kept showing up.

I kept following.

Because apparently my body wasn’t done.

I was diagnosed with POTS - Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome - which had likely been present for years but had worsened significantly. Heart palpitations. Dizziness. A profound, unpredictable weakness that meant I never quite knew what I’d wake up capable of.

I became nervous about walks with friends. Avoided anything strenuous because the aftermath - days of complete inability to function - wasn’t worth it.

I didn’t write much about this publicly. Partly because I’d watched my dad build his identity around chronic illness and I understood, viscerally, how that story can swallow you. I believe our words shape our reality. I didn’t want to give it more space than it was already taking.

But it was there. It is there. Every day.

Then the cherry on top. My relationship of 6 years ended. Everything that felt so strong and solid in my life suddenly vanished.

I’m not telling you all of this for sympathy. I have a full, beautiful, genuinely good life. Cape Town is extraordinary. My work brings me real joy. I work with the most amazing women. And I found new love (I might write about this one day).

I’m telling you because so many of the women I work with are carrying something invisible.

Chronic illness. Burnout. Neurodivergence that was never named until midlife. The particular exhaustion of living in a world that was not designed for how you’re wired - and then being expected to just keep going anyway.

We push past the discomfort. We override our nervous systems. We show up when we shouldn’t and apologize for the days we can’t.

And we’re told - explicitly or implicitly - that building something of our own requires more energy than we currently have.

I feel compelled to push back on that.

Not overnight success. Not passive income while I slept. Not a brand deal or a viral moment.

A slow, sustainable stream of something mine.

Something that could grow with me on the good days and wait for me on the bad ones. Something that didn’t require me to be well all the time - just honest. Something that, over 2.5 years of small inconsistent imperfect steps, became a full time income and a body of work I’m genuinely proud of.

I took a whole month off Substack not long ago and the wheels didn’t fall off. This, for me, is a good sign.

That’s what I was building towards without fully knowing it - not an empire, but a simple life with more spaciousness in it. More walks to the waterfall near my house. More mornings in the garden. More capacity to actually be present in the life I’m living rather than exhausted by the life I’m performing.

It didn’t have to be hustle. It didn’t have to be harsh. It could grow and shift slowly with me.

And that’s exactly why I teach it the way I do.

If any of this landed somewhere real for you - if you’re building something while carrying something heavy and you’re tired of advice that assumes you have endless energy and a nervous system made of Teflon - come and join me this Tuesday.

It’s called How to Substack Without the Spiral

It’s free. It’s 90 minutes. And it’s built for exactly the kind of woman you are.

Not the hustle version. The human version.

📅 Tuesday 19 May ⏰ 10am PT / 1pm ET / 6pm UK / 7pm SA

RSVP for Free Masterclass

Small energy devoted to your dreams over a long period of time compounds in ways that will genuinely surprise you.

You just have to be brave enough to begin.

That’s what we’re doing on Tuesday. 🌿

Andy x

P.S. Do you live with a chronic condition? Does your work actually account for your recovery and rest? I’m curious how others navigate this — hit reply or leave a comment. I read everything. 🌿

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