Rewired: The Fierce Power of Educating Yourself About You

This Paper Isn’t About Selling You a Dream. It’s About Waking You Up.

This isn’t a course requirement. No one asked me to write this. But something stirred during The Science of Wellbeing—something old and unresolved, something that needed to speak.

This paper is personal.

It took me back to my university days when I first studied psychology—not just as a subject, but as a lifeline. Back then, I was struggling with depression. Quietly, deeply. Like so many others, I did what we’re conditioned to do: I went to my doctor for help. And the help came, not in the form of understanding or support, but in prescription form. Pills. Then more pills. Then different pills. Until eventually, I felt like a walking pharmacy. If you’d shaken me, I would’ve rattled.

The medication didn’t bring me peace. It brought silence. A numb, heavy stillness that crept into every part of me. My motivation vanished. I stopped eating. I stopped caring. I stopped being. I wasn’t just thin—I was wasting away. My hair fell out in clumps. I caught glimpses of myself in the mirror and felt like a ghost. And it wasn’t just me who noticed.

A friend once joked, “You could play the xylophone on your ribs.”

Another told me, “You’ve become bitter. Twisted.”

And my own mother—brutally honest as ever—looked at me and said, “You’re a bitch. And your body makes your head look like a lollipop.”

They weren’t being cruel. They were telling the truth.

And that truth cracked something open in me.

Something primal. Something fierce.

I’d had enough.

I wanted me back.

So, against medical advice, I stopped. Actually—let me be honest—I didn’t wean myself off.
I went cold turkey.

Don’t do that. It can be dangerous. It can kill you.

For me, it was hell. The withdrawal was brutal—shaking, sweating, spiralling. But it was also the beginning of something far bigger.

It was the moment I took my power back.

A quiet rebellion.

The first bold act of reclaiming not just my wellbeing—but my life.

Years later, during the course, I encountered a study that jolted those memories back to the surface. It was by Babyak et al. (2000), and it found that exercise alone was just as effective as antidepressant medication in treating major depression after four months. Even more striking, the participants in the exercise-only group had significantly lower relapse rates after ten months compared to those on medication or a mix of both. Exercise didn’t just help—it healed in ways that lasted.

That finding didn’t just resonate with me—it affirmed the choice I had once made.

Fast forward to recent years. The depression had faded, but something else took its place: burnout.

Deep, destabilising, soul-fracturing burnout.

I was unravelled—slowly, quietly—until there was almost nothing left to hold.

I went to my doctor in Luxembourg, dragging myself into the room like a ghost of the person I used to be. He looked at me the way doctors do—expecting me to ask for the easy fix. A prescription. A magic pill to take the pain away.

But I didn’t.

I told him I never wanted to walk that path again. That I’d rather claw my way through the dark with my bare hands than be sedated through it. I wanted to heal for real—through movement, food, rest, and reflection.

Through work. Hard, patient, human work.

To his credit, he didn’t dismiss me. He listened. He saw me. And he stood beside me. That support? It changed everything. It gave me space to begin.

But the system?

That was a different story entirely.

Part of the recovery process meant facing the CNS. And instead of asking how they could help, they told me what I had to do: stop seeing my psychologist and switch to a psychiatrist. For those who don’t know—psychologists talk. They listen. They help you rebuild. Psychiatrists? They prescribe. Often thoughtfully, yes—but always with a hand reaching for the medicine cabinet.

And I said no.

I knew what was helping me. I had proof—written, detailed progress tracked with my psychologist. I wasn’t drifting. I was healing. But they didn’t want to hear it. They threatened to cut off support. Threatened to send me back to work. Back into the fire that had burned me to ash in the first place.

I fought back. Hard. I put everything I had left into that battle. Not just for myself—but for my right to heal on my own terms.

Eventually, they relented. They allowed me to continue. But the experience left a scar.

It made one thing heartbreakingly clear:

the system still doesn’t understand mental health.

It doesn’t know how to hold us when we’re breaking. It would rather numb us, silence us, sedate us—than truly see us.

And that realisation? That was its own kind of grief.

I realised just how misunderstood mental health still is—how institutions, even well-meaning ones, often prioritise quick fixes over sustainable healing. It felt like they’d rather sedate us than listen to us.

Let me be clear: this paper is not about bashing the CNS.

There are people within the system who care deeply. But the system itself is still catching up. And in the meantime, people are slipping through the cracks.

The course made me think about how many people walk into their doctor’s office every day, looking for hope… and walk out with a prescription instead of a plan. And let me be very clear: this isn’t just about treating depression. You don’t have to be in crisis to need this knowledge. This is about prevention. It’s about protection. It’s about possibility.

And this—this is why this paper matters.

It’s not short. It’s not neat. It’s not a quote to repost or a five-step hack to fix your life.
It’s something deeper. Something real.

A roadmap—messy, human, raw—to a happier, healthier you.

And it’s free.

No subscriptions. No gimmicks. Just curiosity, commitment, and the willingness to stop outsourcing your wellbeing—and start owning it.

In a country like Luxembourg, where the skies can stay grey for weeks, this is your invitation to be the light. Not just for yourself, but for your people. For your friends. For your colleagues. For the stranger behind you in the queue who’s one kind gesture away from feeling seen.

This paper won’t give you perfection. But it will give you truth.

And every truth I share is backed by evidence.

No fluff.

No fantasy.

No talking out of my arse.

So, take a deep breath.

And let’s begin, and let’s start with the one that most people avoid.

Exercise

Now, those of you who know me might be tempted to laugh at this next part.

You may have caught me in the gym once or twice before the pandemic… but not since. I’m not a gym rat. I’ve never been one of those people who lives for workouts or finds joy in sweating buckets in Lycra. And honestly? I often tell myself I don’t have the time.

But here’s what I’ve come to understand: exercise isn’t about performance. It’s about presence. It’s not about fancy memberships, or sleek activewear, or intense 90-minute sessions. It’s about movement. Regular, intentional movement. And it’s simpler than we think.

It can be as small as taking the stairs instead of the lift. Doubling the length of your dog walk. Stretching in the kitchen while your coffee brews. These aren’t monumental shifts—they’re micro-decisions. But they add up. And they matter (1).

In fact, research shows that even light activity makes a measurable difference. A 2024 study published in JAMA Network Open followed over 96,000 adults and found that those who walked at least 7,000 steps a day had a 42% lower risk of depression compared to those who moved less (2). That’s not from hitting the gym—that’s just from walking.

The Mayo Clinic also affirms this: even short bouts of movement—like a brisk stroll or a few stretches—can significantly boost your mood (3). So, if you’re telling yourself, you don’t have time to work out, know this: you don’t need to overhaul your life. You just need to start moving.

And if you ask me, the best place to do that? Nature.

You don’t have to run to the pills—instead run to the hills. Or walk to the woods. Or stand barefoot in your garden for five minutes. Whatever reconnects you with something real.

Personally, I love losing myself in nature. With headphones. Without. Alone or with my dog. It doesn’t really matter. Just being out there does something that no treadmill ever could.

And there’s science behind that too. A meta-analysis found that even short-term exposure to natural environments significantly reduces depressive moods (4). Another study explored shinrin-yoku, or “forest bathing,” and confirmed its preventative and therapeutic impact on mental health (5). The American Psychological Association also notes that time in nature improves attention, reduces stress, and lowers the risk of psychiatric disorders (6).

This isn’t about escapism—it’s about re-grounding. Reconnecting. Reclaiming parts of ourselves that get buried under artificial light and digital noise.

Which brings us to another often-overlooked, always-undervalued pillar of wellbeing:

Sleep

Sleep. Let’s be honest—we’re collectively terrible at it.

We tell ourselves we’ll catch up later, as if sleep is a flexible savings account. It’s not. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. You can’t reclaim it. You can’t refill the tank by sheer will. And when that sleep deficit compounds, so do the consequences.

We’ve been sold a dangerous lie: that waking early and working late is a badge of honour.

That burnout is ambition.

That exhaustion means you’re doing something right.

Let’s put that myth to bed, literally, right now!

Would you drive 400km with only 200km of fuel? Of course not. You’d stall—or ruin your engine entirely. And yet, so many of us do that to our bodies. We operate half-full, expecting full-capacity output.

Newsflash: we only get one engine.

I learned this the hard way.

There was a time in my life when sleep was an afterthought. I was juggling a demanding job, studying for an MBA, taking Luxembourgish classes, dealing with the slow unravelling of a marriage—and running on three hours of sleep a night.

Eighteen-hour workdays.

Seven days a week.

I was always “on.” Even when I wasn’t working, I was pretending to rest while secretly emailing under the covers, slipping out of social events to take calls in bathrooms, trying to stay in control while falling apart inside.

I remember one day vividly. I’d just come back from class on a Saturday morning, buzzing with energy, talking non-stop. My then-husband poured us a glass of wine. He slipped out of the room to fetch a refill and upon his return, I blacked out.

Sat upright on the sofa, legs crossed, wine glass on the table.

He found me exactly where he’d left me—except I was asleep.

Completely still.

Gone.

He didn’t wake me, let me rest.

I awoke angry “why didn’t you wake me up, I was telling you about my day. I have work to do”.

He said, “You don’t realise how tired you are.”

And for once, he was right.

Since then, I’ve learned to listen. I often sleep in cycles now biphasic. A few hours here, a few there. I do what works for me. That’s the point: find your rhythm and protect it like your life depends on it. Because it does.

We need sleep—not as a luxury, but as a foundation. It’s not the reward for a long day. It’s the prerequisite for having one.

If personal stories don’t convince you, let the science speak.

In a landmark study by Dinges et al. (19), people restricted to five hours of sleep experienced significant drops in mood, a surge in emotional and physical complaints, and required time to emotionally bounce back—even after normal sleep resumed. Sleep deprivation doesn’t just make you tired. It chips away at your mental resilience.

Walker et al. (20) showed that people who slept between learning and testing performed significantly better than those who stayed awake. Sleep consolidates memory. It’s not downtime—it’s brainpower.

Wagner et al. (21) found something even more profound: people who slept were three times more likely to solve a complex problem involving a hidden shortcut. Rest didn’t just restore their energy—it expanded their insight.

And then there’s the physical toll: less than five hours of sleep a night is linked to heart disease, obesity, diabetes, cancer, reduced immunity, emotional instability, and even lower sperm counts. These aren’t rare side effects—they’re real consequences of living in constant depletion.

In sum, sleep is not time lost—its time invested. It is the bedrock of everything else: our focus, our mood, our memory, our immunity. Without rest, nothing thrives. Prioritising sleep isn’t lazy—it’s revolutionary. It’s one of the most radical, self-respecting acts we can commit to in a world that glorifies burnout.

So now that we’ve laid that foundation, let’s talk about what we build on top of it.

Let’s talk about.

Food

Because let’s be honest—what’s the first thing most of us think about when we wake up?

Not emails.
Not the meetings.

That first hunger isn’t just for fuel—it’s for comfort, for grounding, for something that tells us we’re alive and cared for. Food holds memory. It carries culture. It signals safety. It anchors us to our bodies.

And yet, so many of us move through life feeding ourselves like we’re an afterthought. Grabbing what’s fast. What’s cheap. What’s easy. Or skipping it altogether. Not because we don’t know better—but because somewhere along the line, we forgot that what we eat is an act of self-respect.

So, let’s not talk about food in terms of guilt or grams or macros. Let’s talk about it as care.

It’s not about how much you eat.
It’s about what you give yourself.
It’s about how you give it.
It’s about intention.

Because the way we feed ourselves—especially when no one’s watching—is one of the clearest reflections of how we value ourselves.

So, let’s dig into that. Not with shame. Not with rules.

But with presence, with honesty, and with love.

I’ve been working closely with my friend and client, Irene Masiku, on her upcoming book Juicing Yourself to Happiness. Irene has an extraordinary gift. Since childhood, she’s been drawn to helping others heal—not through shortcuts, but through a deeper awareness of what we put into our bodies. Her work takes a holistic and functional nutrition approach, grounded in evidence and focused on mental and physical wellbeing. It’s about juice, yes—but also about joy. The book is coming soon, and if you’re curious, I’ll happily add you to the waitlist, email me.

But more than being part of her project, this is something I’ve lived myself.

I’ve always been conscious of food. Maybe it’s my heritage. With an Italian mother and an Indian father, food in our home was never just fuel—it was life. We cooked. We shared. We lingered around tables filled with colour, stories, and second servings. Food wasn’t something to be rushed or feared. It was to be enjoyed. And it never left us feeling heavy or guilty. Just nourished.

But during my darkest periods—particularly in the grip of depression—I forgot all of that. I wasn’t eating with care. I wasn’t fuelling my body, I was just feeding the emptiness. Quick fixes. Empty calories. Enough to keep me from fainting, but never enough to actually make me feel alive.

So no, I’m not here to tell you to cut out all the “bad food” or live like a monk. I’m not saying you need to switch to an all-organic, chef-prepared, superfood-only lifestyle. What I am saying is: start noticing what you’re putting in your body.

Food sets the tone. It impacts mood, energy, focus, and resilience. When you listen to your body—not your cravings, not your boredom, but your actual needs—you start to hear what it’s really asking for. And that’s when everything begins to shift.

The data supports this, too. Numerous studies show a strong connection between diet quality and mental health, particularly around depression. Diets rich in fruits, vegetables, whole grains, and lean proteins are linked to lower rates of depression. Diets high in processed foods and sugar? Higher risk (7).

One of the most compelling studies in nutritional psychiatry is the SMILES trial, led by Felice Jacka. It was a randomised controlled trial—gold-standard research—and it showed that participants who adopted a modified Mediterranean diet experienced significant reductions in depressive symptoms, compared to those who received social support alone (8). That’s food as therapy. Food as medicine.

But let’s not forget the emotional side of eating. You don’t have to give up your chocolate.

In fact, sharing that chocolate might actually be good for you.

A beautiful study by Erika Boothby and colleagues found that simply sharing an experience—like tasting chocolate—with another person made the experience more pleasurable. Even in silence. Even without conversation. Just knowing someone else was doing the same thing elevated the moment (9). It’s not just about what we eat—it’s how, where, and with whom.

So yes, indulge now and then. But do it with joy. Do it with presence. Do it with someone beside you, if you can.

Because food, like everything else in this journey, is a mirror. It reflects how we’re treating ourselves. How we’re showing up. And when you eat with awareness, you start to live with awareness, too.

Which brings us to something else that nourishes us—just as much as food does, if not more:

Social Interaction

I’ll be the first to admit—there are days when all I want to do is retreat. Shut the door. Ignore the world. Sink into a series or lose myself in a book. And sometimes? That’s absolutely necessary.

But during the depths of my depression and burnout, that desire became something else. It wasn’t just solitude—it was isolation. I wasn’t just avoiding people, I was avoiding life. I found myself trapped—not just inside my home, but inside my own head. Some days, even getting out of bed felt impossible.

That’s when I learned the value of pushy friends.

The kind who don’t take silence as an answer. The ones who coax you back into the world, even when you swear, you’re not ready. They pulled me out—into new places, around new people, into noisy cafés and quiet parks. I was terrified. Social anxiety clung to me like static. But somewhere in those moments, something started to shift.

These days, when the darkness creeps in again, I do something simple: I put the lead on my dog and head to a local bar. Not always to meet friends. Sometimes just to chat with the bar staff. Sometimes just to be near other people. And every time—it helps. It reminds me that I’m not alone. That I belong somewhere.

We often tell ourselves we don’t have time for people. But research tells a different story.

Nicholas Epley and colleagues conducted a series of elegant experiments involving commuters. Participants were randomly assigned to one of three groups: engage in conversation with a stranger, stay alone, or act as usual. Most people assumed talking to a stranger would feel awkward. But the result? Those who connected with someone—even briefly—reported higher happiness than those in solitude or their usual routine (10).

And productivity? It didn’t suffer. In fact, many of us think we’ll be wildly efficient on our commute—answer emails, finish that report—but let’s be honest. Most of the time we’re doom scrolling or zoning out. Why not use that moment to do something small and human—and let it lift your mood and someone else’s?

The science goes even deeper.

David Myers, Ed Diener, and Martin Seligman have all demonstrated that happier people consistently report more frequent and meaningful social connections. Whether it’s with family, friends, or romantic partners, those with stronger ties also report fewer health issues and greater overall satisfaction (11, 12).

But this isn’t just about feelings. Connection heals the body too. It increases life expectancy, enhances recovery from illness, and reduces stress. It’s one of the most accessible—and most underrated—forms of preventative medicine.

So, if connection is this powerful, how do we take it even further? How do we not just feel better, but simultaneously make others feel better too? Killing tow birds with one stone.

Believe it or not, the answer isn’t found in turning inward. It’s found in turning outward.

Random Acts of Kindness

Raise your hand if you’ve ever had a rubbish day and “treated yourself.”

Now take that same hand… and give yourself a loving, yet powerful slap.

I just did too.

Because we’ve all done it—chased a quick fix when what we needed was something deeper. Bought the bag. Booked the Botox. Swiped right on someone we knew wouldn’t fill the void. We make these decisions not from fullness, but from famine. And then what are we left with? A little dopamine hit, sure—but also the reminder that we were hurting, and didn’t know what else to do.

When I look back at the worst of my depression, I can see it clearly now—in my habits, in my impulses. I overconsumed. I obsessed. I spiralled. And those choices became artefacts of that pain. Things I didn’t need. Decisions I regret. Moments I can’t get back.

No, I’m not happier for having chased those “treats.” What does make me happier? Shared moments. Honest conversations. Quiet presence. Small, selfless gestures.

These are the things that shift the needle—not just for us, but for others, too.

A study presented in The Science of Wellbeing explored this through the lens of spending. Liz Dunn and Michael Norton gave participants a small amount of money—either $5 or $20—and asked them to spend it either on themselves or on someone else. Despite what participants predicted, those who spent the money on others felt significantly happier than those who spent it on themselves—even when the purchase was simple, like a coffee (13).

The kicker? The amount didn’t matter. What mattered was where the energy was directed—towards the self, or toward someone else.

They ran the study again, this time in rural Uganda, where $20 isn’t just a treat—it’s potentially lifesaving. Even there, the results held. People who gave—who shared what little they had—were happier than those who kept the money. This isn’t a fluke. It’s a universal truth (14, 15).

But kindness doesn’t need a price tag.

For me, kindness lives in the practice of gratitude. In seeing people—not just for what they do, but for who they are. In taking the time to reflect someone’s light back to them. In choosing love, encouragement, and presence, even when the world feels heavy.

Gratitude is something I live, not just feel. Whether it’s a kind word, a thoughtful message, a warm glance, or simply showing up—this is how I say thank you. And in doing that, something shifts in me, too.

Science backs this up. Emmons and McCullough (2003) found that people who regularly wrote down what they were grateful for experienced higher levels of optimism, satisfaction, and even physical health (16). Seligman et al. (2005) showed that writing and delivering a gratitude letter boosted happiness for weeks after (17).

And gratitude does more than uplift the person receiving it. Research by Algoe et al. (2008) shows that it strengthens relationships, builds trust, and encourages more kindness in return (18). It’s a ripple effect—one kind act, one honest thank you, can change someone’s whole day. Including your own.

So, if you take one thing from this entire paper, let it be this: there is immense power in the small things. One kind act. One genuine connection. One meal made with intention. One deep breath. One night of real rest.

To conclude, YOU ARE THE CATALYST – Because without growing, there’s no way to keep going—and certainly no chance in hell of glowing.

Here’s the truth: I’ve always believed that transformation begins from within. It’s not in a quick fix. It’s not in a pill bottle. And it sure as hell isn’t waiting for someone else to come save us.

It begins when we choose—quietly, imperfectly, bravely—to live differently.

The things we’ve explored together—movement, rest, food, kindness, connection, gratitude—they’re not new. They’re not radical. They’re ancient. Instinctive. And yet, we’ve learned to ignore them. To chase ease over depth. Distraction over presence. Pills over patience.

This paper isn’t a rejection of science or support systems. It’s a reclamation of personal agency.

So let me say it plainly: you are the agent of your own change. No institution, no medication, no mentor—not even JNB—can do the work for you. They can walk with you. They can guide you. But only you can choose the path.

That’s both terrifying and liberating.

You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to overhaul your life overnight. You just have to start. With one small, intentional act. One moment of truth. One commitment to do something different—today.

The practices I’ve shared—gratitude journaling, nourishing food, regular movement, real rest, human connection—are just the tip of the iceberg. There’s so much more out there. But you don’t need to master it all at once.

The invitation is to begin. To stay curious. To keep going.

I hope this has been more than a paper. I hope it’s a leap pad. A gentle but firm nudge back to your own power. Because no matter how lost or stuck you feel, the truth is this:

You already have everything you need.

Within you is the strength to shift your habits.
Within you is the wisdom to choose what matters.
Within you is the spark that can light not just your path—but someone else’s, too.

So, if you’ve been waiting for a sign—this is it.

Step into the role of your own healer.
Become the author of your own wellbeing.
Take your power back. Not tomorrow. Not when it’s convenient.

Now.

Because the world doesn’t need more people numbing their pain.
It needs more people living awake.

Be one of them.

References

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2. Loprinzi, P. D., & Sng, E. (2024). Association of step counts with depression and well-being among adults in the United States. JAMA Network Open, 7(2), e2828073. Read here
3. Mayo Clinic Staff. (n.d.). Depression and anxiety: Exercise eases symptoms. Mayo Clinic. Retrieved April 2, 2025, from Read here
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