Amberley lost her unborn baby, then her husband. It made her question her career choice

Many of us are deeply knowledgeable about mental health and the recommended strategies to cope with tough times, but as Kristy Ross, a clinical psychologist at Black Dog Institute, says, knowledge alone can often fall short in moments of crisis. “Distress isn’t just about what we know,” she explains.

The gap often lies between intellectual understanding and lived embodiment. Many women, for example, continue to work, care for others and manage responsibilities while quietly struggling beneath the surface.

When the nervous system is in survival mode – fight, flight or freeze – it becomes harder to access and use helpful coping strategies, even if those strategies have been effective in the past. This can lead to fatigue, irritability, avoidance and a sense of going through the motions rather than making progress.

“At that stage, the answer is not to try harder, but to shift direction,” says Ross. “The focus should return to foundational supports such as sleep, nutrition and gentle movement, while also prioritising nervous system regulation and connection with others.”

Here, three mental health professionals reflect on how their expertise alone was not enough during their own difficult periods. They share how new approaches gradually helped them restore their wellbeing.

Amberley Meredith, 48: “My professional knowledge didn’t remove the pain of grief”

“Throughout my career as a registered psychologist, I’ve supported people through complex trauma, grief and major life transitions. Yet it wasn’t until my own life changed overnight that everything I had learned came into sharp focus.

In 2012, just six weeks after my husband and I lost our first child to miscarriage, he was killed in a car crash.

For the first year, I lived in a state of traumatic shock, trying to rebuild a life that no longer resembled the one I had imagined. Grief affected everything: my memory, concentration, appetite. Even reading, once effortless, became impossible.

Overwhelmed, I questioned how I could continue holding space for others as a therapist. Over time, my 16 years in mental health returned not as fixed answers, but as a deeper understanding that healing is individual, that what once supported me no longer fully fit, and that support can take many forms.

I returned to familiar practices and small, steady acts: listening to my body, maintaining basic self-care, and gradually re-engaging with life through simple routines such as going to the supermarket and brief catch-ups with friends.

Gradually, a sense of calm and spontaneous laughter returned, alongside an ability to notice moments of beauty even while still carrying grief.

A friend’s advice to take ‘one breath at a time’ became an anchor. Over time, my focus and memory slowly returned, though I still carry gaps from that period, something I’ve come to accept as part of grief.

In the years after his death, I would speak to my husband, sometimes aloud, as if he were beside me. It brought comfort and allowed me to express myself freely, imagining his responses based on how well I knew him. Over time, this became a quieter, internal dialogue, but it remains a meaningful way of staying connected to his memory and presence.

Another supportive practice was automatic writing, a grounding process that blended psychological and spiritual exploration, offering a safe, unfiltered space for thoughts and feelings to flow onto the page beyond ego or external judgment.

Gradually, a sense of calm and spontaneous laughter returned, alongside an ability to notice moments of beauty even while still carrying grief, marking a quiet shift toward living alongside loss.

In the years that followed, I deepened my work in complex trauma, which strengthened my capacity to sit with pain in both my professional and personal life. It didn’t remove grief, but it eased the need for it to take any fixed form.

There are still moments that catch me off guard, such as what would have been our 20th wedding anniversary. Over time, I’ve come to understand that healing is not about moving on, but about learning to carry love and loss together while still allowing life to unfold.”

Alicia Visser, 45: “I was disconnected from the toll it was taking”

“On the surface, everything looked successful. I had spent more than 20 years working as a clinical psychologist, dedicated to supporting clients and making a meaningful difference in people’s lives.

My professional training had instilled in me the importance of practising what you teach – and I genuinely valued self-awareness and wellbeing. I did the therapy, exercised regularly, prioritised sleep, ate well, minimised alcohol, and actively monitored and challenged my unhelpful patterns. Self-care and reflection were built into my daily routine. By all outward measures, I was doing everything right.

Over time, the demands of my role – heavy caseloads, years in trauma environments, being on call around the clock, and also trying to meet my family’s needs – made it harder to maintain healthy boundaries. I was still functioning at a high level, still working, still showing up for everyone, so I didn’t fully recognise how dysregulated my nervous system had become. Being the ‘capable one’ slowly became part of my identity.

By 2020, my physical health had started to decline. What started as mild irritable bowel syndrome developed into chronic fatigue, daily headaches, back pain and a weakened immune system, all reflecting years of chronic stress. At the same time, I became less present with my children and partner and increasingly aware of a deep exhaustion that never really lifted.

Eventually, the self-care strategies I relied on were no longer enough. A colleague’s gentle comment, that ‘this isn’t actually normal’, became a turning point, prompting me to reassess how I was living. I began to realise that intellectually managing stress was not the same as my nervous system actually feeling safe.

I began to recognise the need for deeper, more sustainable support. The real shift came in 2021 when I was introduced to heart-brain coherence, a practice that helped me move out of constant activation into a calmer, more regulated state.

I began practising several times a day and found I could access a calmer state in everyday moments, not just during meditation. Within a few months, the simplicity and consistency of the practice created a noticeable improvement in my nervous system regulation and overall wellbeing.

Gradually, I shifted from living in urgency and pressure to regulating my nervous system first and making decisions from a more grounded place. As balance returned, I rediscovered a sense of joy and presence, and an appreciation for life that I hadn’t realised I’d lost.

To any woman running on empty: many don’t realise how much strain they’ve normalised until their body begins to speak for them. Change often starts with honest awareness of what your system has been carrying, followed by one small step toward support.”

Anjani Amriit, 55: “I thought I should somehow be immune to it”

“I teach resilience for a living, but last year I had to draw on it, just to get out of bed. In June, I travelled to Cyprus to visit family for the first time in 20 years. On the second day of my trip, I caught influenza A. It hit hard, and I spent most of my visit indoors, missing the time with family I had waited so long for.

That same day, my cat died suddenly from heart failure, following the earlier loss of my other cat to a suspected brain tumour. After 23 years with my two brother-and-sister rescue cats, their deaths left me experiencing profound pet grief and the quiet emptiness of home.

Conversely, I felt overwhelmed and chronically fatigued, barely able to function during the day, yet too wired to switch off at night. Alongside this, I experienced dizziness, constant headaches, and a marked decline in my ability to care for both clients and me.

Not long after, I broke my ankle. Then sleep difficulties arrived. Suddenly, I was waking in the night drenched in cold sweats. When I connected the dots, I knew it wasn’t just stress, it was anxiety, the very experience I’ve helped hundreds of others navigate.

The most confronting part, though, was the shame that came with it. Because I work in mental health, I believed I should be better at managing my own, and my thoughts spiralled: ‘Why is this happening to me?’ ‘Why can’t I fix this by myself?’ ‘What’s wrong with me?’

I tried to push through alone, but it only got worse. I began doubting my work, my decisions and my ability to be present for clients, and the mental loops grew louder.

I realised I couldn’t and shouldn’t try to get through my anxiety on my own. I needed talk therapy and a safe space to speak aloud what I had been carrying. That’s when I reached out to a psychotherapist, and it became a turning point in my recovery. She asked thoughtful questions and held space for important realisations about what was happening. In that trusted, supported space, I was also able to begin working through the shame.

Alongside therapy, I returned to familiar practices such as breath work, meditation and walks in nature, this time integrating them with what I was exploring in sessions. Gradually, they began to help as I slowed down and focused on regulating my nervous system.

Resilience, I learned, isn’t about pushing through. It’s about learning how to support ourselves when life asks more of us.”

Lifeline 13 11 14. For pregnancy loss and stillbirth support, contact 1300 998 698.

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