“Z… I’m so sorry, I’m praying for you'“

I could have responded but honestly, I had made my peace with it all. He was sincere but it was too late. I had cancer. His words couldn’t save me. I didn’t want to connect on this level with anyone anymore, let alone him. ‘Pity’ only felt like toxic-positivity and I had already lived months and months with my own new reality. For him to find out months later about my diagnosis and to care felt both heartfelt and polarising. I didn’t expect him to message me at all, and I didn’t have the heart to message him back.

When we first met, I felt fresh and new, open to love, he introduced me to a world that was both exhilarating and intoxicating all at once. Partying and staying up all night until the sun came up, every weekend. Though it made me feel more connected to the world and the people around me, I felt withdrawn spiritually. People loved me more when they knew I was one of them. People treated me better when they knew I didn’t appear to be above them. They were nicer to me. The more I partied like them, the more I was liked. I knew that my success, was based off of ‘if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em’ and I was definitely joining them. Inside I hated it. But I longed to be someone else to forget about the control I was previously under. It was easy to forget about ‘me’ for a while. Only when I started to realise that my mental health was suffering from the past and my physical health was suffering with him, I felt I needed to change. However confused I was back then, him breaking up me was the best thing he could have done for me. It forced me to see myself for what I had become.

I’m not saying that he was the worst person in the world, that award was reserved for the wicked person before him. He was the person who saved me from them in the first place. I will forever be grateful for him for that reason. But it still doesn’t change how I felt in that moment hearing from him. I in fact felt nothing. No love, no joy, no sadness. Because I was already in a state of deep grief and choosing to put myself first, and to try to understand cancer and what it was doing to me - this was my only goal. Everyone else in the world could wait.

The last message I had ever sent him was to check in and to ask him to check on his dad. We had had tsunami warnings across New Zealand and where he lives, he was right by the water. I was genuinely worried for him - no response. What did I expect? He had a girlfriend who didn’t trust him and clearly he had blocked me for this reason. Which I both tend to agree was the right choice, but it was also a misinformed one. I loved him at a time I didn’t even love myself. So how could I have truly loved him? I feel he also held this same regret. We were both just holding onto each other by our fingertips. She had nothing to worry about - truly.

It’s been years now, 4 years. Would I respond to him even if he read this now? No. Not because I'm annoyed or angry or carry any kind of resentment. But because when relationships end, they sometimes belong exactly where they ended. What we had was beautiful, messy, and necessary. It shaped me and I’m sure he would say the same. Sometimes caring arrives too late and I’m not saying his care isn't real, it’s more to do with the fact that the person he was trying to reach, no longer exists.

And no, not the stereotype people often imagine. In reality, “cat ladies” (and cat men) are really just people with big hearts who care deeply about animal welfare. We volunteer our time and resources supporting rescues, fostering kittens, helping lost and stray cats, and assisting with trapping and desexing stray and wild cat populations to prevent more unwanted litters.

At Milldale Stray Rescue, where I volunteer alongside many incredible people, we help get kittens and cats off the streets, desexed, rehabilitated, and into loving homes.

I’ve seen firsthand what life is like for many of these animals. They are living rough, born without warmth, shelter, or reliable access to food. I’ve helped nurse sick kittens back to health, and I’ve also experienced the heartbreak of losing them despite doing everything possible. One small malnourished kitten, covered in mites, fought so hard, but sadly didn’t make it through the night. When you look down and see their eyes staring back at you asking for help, those moments stay with you 🥹

These kittens don’t choose to be born on the streets. They don’t choose to be abandoned. They are the result of circumstances beyond their control.

I’ve helped reunite lost family pets that had been mistaken for strays, kms away from their homes (jumping into cars and traveling with contractors across Auckland) and I’ve assisted with trapping and desexing wild cats to help prevent further overpopulation. That job is not for the faint-hearted and really tough work! Full credit goes to rescues who do this time and time again every single day and every single week.

Responsible rescue work is not about ignoring the problem, it’s about being part of the solution.

That’s why it is impossible not to care about the conversation around cat welfare and conservation in New Zealand.

While I fully support protecting our native wildlife, I also believe these discussions need to be balanced, informed, and based on both science and compassion. Better public education is needed around the differences between owned, stray, and wild cats, and greater focus should be given to long-term, sustainable solutions that address the root causes of overpopulation.

At the end of the day, most of us want the same thing: healthy ecosystems, thriving native wildlife, and no animals suffering on our streets.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned through rescue work, it’s this: if you can’t foster, volunteer. If you can’t volunteer, donate. Every contribution matters, and every single person in the community can make a difference (including you)🤍

Education for members of the public is just as important. Understanding the difference between owned, stray, and feral cats, the importance of desexing, microchipping, and responsible pet ownership, and the challenges faced by rescue organisations can help create better outcomes for both cats and our wider communities. The more informed we are, the more effective and compassionate our solutions can be.

Some wonderful vets/rescues who I know are out there doing amazing work and continuing to help educate who you should follow and support:

4Paws Vetcare Charity

Milldale stray rescue

Awhi Mai Adoption Rescue

Gutter kitties

https://www.thenzcatfoundation.org.nz

Some helpful info from CC below:

https://www.catcoalition.org.nz

I’m sitting in a cafe in the middle of Takapuna, Auckland, New Zealand and I’m surrounded by people from all walks of life. I’m taking some time today to get admin done, I’m wondering what the future will bring, what mahi I will do next and reflecting on the past few days.

Last week Aperahama was sick with gastro (which Ethan and I both caught) and I’ve not been myself. It’s been one thing after another and I’ve been so annoyed at myself for not finishing things, or starting others. This new-found guilt has been incredibly crippling. Guilt that the house is untidy, that I can’t be 100% energetic or that I’ve missed things, not caught up with people. It’s this never-ending cycle of playing catch up, running on a mouse wheel.

So to stop in amongst the chaos that has been my life for sometime, and take some time out, has been the best thing for me today. It’s taken me a while to understand that I need this for me. I need this to assess and review. It’s a small period of time in the day that doesn’t need to be filled with hui or noise. And it’s actually made me feel hopeful again.

I can’t help but wonder, maybe this is what successful people do, they ignore the overwhelm and the guilt and just take an hour to reset? Alone? Surely they do. And I feel like this is a practice I want to continue.

If you’re feeling a bit like me today, maybe it’s time for a reset? Today reminded me that we all need this sometimes. x

Last fortnight I was blessed to be crowned Mrs New Zealand 2026 and Mrs Globe International 2026.

I’m a busy māmā, a product owner, a DJ, and soon-to-be a student again and I’ve been juggling it all. Not perfectly, but enough to prove that it IS all possible.

A lot of you know parts of my story. Breast cancer, coming through that, and learning how to thrive again, not just survive. Being told I might not be able to have a baby, and then having my miracle.

This pageant was never just about being taken at face value. It was a pageant with purpose. It gave me the chance to rediscover myself again and to understand the value of my story.

Behind the scenes of my past, it’s been heavy at times. I’ve experienced physical assault, had to relive that trauma, and been on the receiving end of smear campaigns. I lost my voice mentally and physically growing vocal nodules all in the lead up to a cancer diagnosis. When that hit, it hit me hard.

With persistence and determination I set out to get back the parts of myself I lost. It has taken years and years of set backs and a multitude of challenges but I am finally out of the pit.

I found my way back to who I am. I got my voice back. I got my strength back. And I remembered what I stand for. I’m so proud to be representing New Zealand, and I’m honoured to be stepping onto the international stage at Mrs Globe International 2027 with pride, passion and purpose.

This is just the beginning 🤍

At 40, I really thought I knew everything there was to know about myself.

It turns out, there is something glaringly obvious (and only to me). My confidence when speaking in public spaces has had an impact on how I view myself. Even now, as I write, I don’t think I can explain it without overthinking it. But I will try…

I’ve often viewed myself as a joker, an entertainer (that’s what my name ‘Zeisha’ is actually derived from the word ‘entertainer’). So when I’ve struggled to feel confident in my own words, I revert to “funny” Zeisha.

It’s a form of self-sabotage. Like an inside joke that only I find funny. But it’s actually really, really annoying. Because my life experiences have not always been humorous. It almost discounts what I want to truly say. I’ve sat in uncomfortable hui and felt like an imposter. I’ve felt that my worth was at an all-time low and yet, I’ve managed to get by either saying nothing, or by putting myself down to make others feel comfortable. Some may even call it ‘people-pleasing’.

And I know my friends will say, “oh but that’s just Zeisha” (wow, hilarious), but really, it’s my way of proving I’m okay… even when I’ve been let down.

Mind you, I am quite funny…
(No. Wait…there goes the ADHD in me).

“To love me is to know me.” That’s what I tell myself, and it’s also what my best friend Jodie once told me.

It made me stop and think… does anyone really know me?

Because I’m quite willing to hand out the humorous Zeisha on a plate - it’s easy to digest. But the vulnerable me… she has depth. She has walked through valleys. She has come out swinging.

And this is my core reason for joining Mrs New Zealand.

To stand firm in my story. To rise through it, rather than be defined by it. And to be vulnerable and willing to be just that, again and again.

I know my purpose is to empower others by using my experience to bring people together. Just like music - I perform, I write, and I sing to bring people together so they feel less alone. Because people make a bigger impact when they do it together.

Meeting the women involved in this pageant and hearing their stories has shown me that we are all valuable and that our strength is in vulnerability. Spaces where women can come together to learn, grow, and become better versions of themselves should be everywhere.

People hear “pageant” and think heels, glamour, and fashion. But it’s really about your heart. It’s about your uniqueness. It’s about what you can do to make a difference.

When I open up social media, the first videos I see are about an impending war. There is no hope in war, only despair. There is anxiety and uncertainty. It makes me think… what can we do, as just a group of women, to be a light in times like these? But as a group of women standing in our authenticity and sharing our stories of hope and perseverance, I know we are doing something.

Because even in sharing our truth, we create connection. And in connection, people feel seen. And when people feel seen, they feel less alone. Maybe we’re not meant to fix everything. Maybe we’re just meant to show up honestly, vulnerably, and together.

And for me, that means learning to trust my voice.

The one that carries my story.
The one that has walked the hard paths.
The one that is still learning, still growing, still showing up.

And maybe that’s what this journey is really about. Not becoming someone new…But finally allowing myself to be fully known.

Two years have gone by, and it feels strange knowing the anniversary of your passing is coming up again. When I found out through Facebook, I felt sick. How did I miss this? Between having a baby, getting married, starting a new job, my grandpa passing - all of these things tumbled on and on, and our friendship was pushed into the background of life. And that’s on me. Something I’ll always regret.

We used to laugh about the stories you’d tell me - made-up fantasies about living it large in L.A. You’d talk about your plans to travel, to apply for this role or that role, about the Days of Our Lives celebrities you’d meet. I’d listen, and in those early days you were wide-eyed and open to the world. I was excited for you! The world was your oyster and your world was L.A., and everything that existed within it.

You told me when you got into trouble, and you were brave enough to be honest with me. I didn’t agree with what you were doing, and when things got tough, I tried to be there for you as much as I could. I made you promise me that if you were ever thinking about taking the easy road out, you would call me. I know the loss of your beautiful mother Carol was hard on you. Of course it was. I wished I could have taken that pain away. When you’d break down and talk about her, I knew you missed her with every ounce of your soul.

So when I read the post by your father, I asked around and tried to understand what happened. No one could really give me any details. But I found out from your best friend Richard in time. I was shocked. To be honest, my heart was in my mouth. A vehicle struck you as you were crossing the street. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was angry and then upset. You were supposed to be a famous writer, an actor - working on films and sets. I truly believed you would be. But time is selfish, and the industry is harsh. Those opportunities never came easily, or maybe never came at all.

I think about how alone you must have been during that time. I wonder if there was anything I could have done to intercept what happened. I wish I had known how deep things really were. But I’ll be honest, life got in the way. I wish I had just flown to see you to pack you up and bring you home. (And you know I would have tried my damn hardest!)

M*th is the devil. And as far as I’m concerned, the devil wanted to take you. You were one of the purest humans I had ever met. Couldn’t hurt a fly. Would bring roses to my gigs, buy tiaras and jewellery and pins for friends, show me articles of princess Diana and we’d bang on about some scene from a movie and how it related to us irl at the time. You’d never touched dr*gs before, and when you told me you had, I felt like the world had failed you. You said you’d tried it once, encouraged by a partner you were seeing, and that it made you feel like you could be anything.

You know how I protect - I swoop in. I tried my best to tell you I was here for you. You’d promise me you wouldn’t do it again. You’d seek help and tell me how well you were doing. We’d talk for hours. Then months would pass, you’d disappear, and then come back again. Over time, you became someone I didn’t recognise. I could hear it in your voice memos - things had taken a turn backwards. I knew I was speaking to a very different version of you.

I asked you to come home to Aotearoa. To you, that felt like failure. To me, it felt like protection. I just wanted to take you away from the loneliness you were carrying on your back. But you were adamant you would never leave America. I can’t lie - I was scared I’d never see you again.

You used to tell me that if anything ever happened to you, to look closely at one particular person. I don’t know how many times I wondered if that was just one of your dramatised statements - because we both know you were the ultimate drama writer. But once you were gone, it became easier to tell ourselves another story. That it was an accident. Even though we still have no proof or details. Even though it’s hard to know what to believe. I wish I could understand what happened that night. At this stage, I’m not sure I’ll ever really know, and that hurts.

Being your friend was an honor, Ian. You showed me softness when I didn’t deserve it, and humour in times of sadness. You were a rock when I felt alone and humiliated. And even though your time on earth was limited, you chased your dreams to the other side of the world…and that is bravery. You weren’t afraid to start life in another city on your own and you gave us all hope that things could work out if you only dared to try.

I’ll never forget you, Ian. No doubt you are with Mama Carol now, restored and happy, holding onto each other again at last.

I had mixed feelings about being so open about this. Because ‘obsession’ was a word used negatively growing up and I’m not totally open on why this word has such negative connotations - that part is personal, but not personally my story so I will leave it out.

I experienced moments of obsession in my teenage years - with pop-stars (god I still cringe at meeting Westlife, telling one of the boys I LOVED him -ughhh) and just relationships in general. I WAS obsessed - but then again, weren’t we all at a young age?

I had my first crush on a boy at intermediate when I was about 11. I actually went as far as cutting his face out of our class photo and putting it in a heart locket necklace I had - ‘weirdo’. I don’t know what drove me to that, but I guess I felt like it was my secret, and I felt ‘seen’ by him from him perhaps joking with me. At 11 years old, I had braces, I was not ‘hot’, and no one really paid me attention like that, so I lived in my own world - pretending all of Mariah’s albums and lyrics contained, were about my love interests at the time.

This was my ultimate daydream. To be ‘in love’ with someone was enough. And really, at 11 years of age, I was never going to actually be in love - so what was that?

As I grew older, entering my 20’s I had ‘relation-shifts’ I call them. Where I would be slightly infatuated with a guy, and then he would do something stupid like, compare me to an ex - and then I’d lose interest. That happened a few times to be honest. And back then, I didn’t really have the same fire and stamp to well, stamp it out. I just took the hit. And little by little my heart just sank further and further into my chest. I started to believe that all men were the same, or that I attracted the same type of man - over and over and over again.

If love was just, meeting a man who vaguely liked me, I was flattered and I learnt to love him. He could have been an alcoholic, and I would have manipulated myself to become more like him (not saying I was an alcoholic), but the point was, I decided that I wasn’t okay with being myself, because I wasn’t loveable if I was me. But if I were more like ‘them’ then I could fit in with everyone else. What a way to live!

One day in my mid 20’s, and I’m not really entirely sure how old I was, I was invited to a gig on Waiheke Island. I had recently broken up with my ex and I was not looking for any kind of romantic connection. It was far from my mind. In my single era, I was focused on having fun with my girlfriends and honestly I couldn’t have been more surprised at meeting Ned*

Ned was also recently single and while I cringe writing about him (because he’s not really someone I want to remember, but need to recall if I am to tell you about this story), he was everything I had nothing in common with. He was from a rich family and from Saint Heliers and I was a Maori/Samoan girl from South Auckland with no savings to my name. He drove a limited edition Ford, I drove a Nissan Pulsar which was worth a measly $4k. We were from different worlds.

He was funny and gentle and seemed to know how to get me to chase him. And chase him I did. I mean, of course I did, I didn’t know how to let someone chase me. And beyond my abandonment issues, I had no chill. I mean I tried, but I’m not very good at playing games anyway.

After a few months of seeing each other, we both admitted to each other that we had fallen in love (during an Easter holiday trip to Sydney, and outside the Opera house of course). Now, locations matter. Because every time he did something, he did it with purpose, and that made me fall in love with him even more. To me, he was a ‘unicorn’, a rarity. My dopamine was through the roof with his over-the-top gestures. I never valued gifts as much as memories or shared experiences - if I had to name it, my love language was quality time. He didn’t buy lavish things, but he let me into his world, and in those moments, I truly felt loved and seen.

He was away a lot for work. With his absence and my insecurity in myself, I started to unravel. I begged for reassurance but I shouldn’t have. What I should have been, was secure in myself before I got into that relationship, but I didn’t have time to get there. I didn’t know how. I questioned myself all the time. I didn’t love myself and I didn’t know why. And none of that was actually his fault.

After 2.5 years, he ended things with me. On that day, I knew the break up was coming. It was everything I couldn’t imagine myself today being - messy, lost, broken. I actually remember how he did it, what I was wearing, what he was wearing. It was all etched into my brain like a movie that replayed over and over. Flashbacks of every memory we ever made. As he left my mum’s house, I ran to the door, I howled like an animal begging for him to come back. To this day, I remember mum snatching me back from the door, hugging me as we both fell to the floor. Her and I crying. She felt my pain more than ever.

This was the beginning of the end. And honestly, it gets way more messed up. So if you think that I was here to tell you about a love story, you’re sadly mistaken.

Now, I know there were many events that took place that led me to this longing and fantasising of this old flame. As much as I tried to get over him, Ned seemed to have other plans. I will never know how much of what he told me was true, like how he told me he put a ‘tracking device’ in my phone (that he gave me) and somehow found me at a bar in Ponsonby after a date with another guy and YES I was single, so really free to do what I wanted. He had told me when he bumped into me, that he ‘wanted to feel what it was like to see me with someone else’ and then didn’t talk to me again for months until he did again.

He would continue to, for years and years, message me photos of keys/belongings asking if they were mine, asking what I was doing and then when I would reply, he would message me the next day saying ‘sorry I fell asleep’. It was like he was checking in, just to check in but then, he didn’t actually want to be with me, or be friends. He just kind of kept me there. I felt soul-tied to him. And every time I wanted to move on, he would show up in my messages or in person at an event. I wanted him to tell me he loved me and that he wanted me back, but he never did.

I tried to move on, but there was a message that had been running through my head. Not long before we had broken up, he had told me he was on a plane and was sat next to a godly man who told him that I was his ‘life partner’. Stupidly I believed this was a sign. And this is what kept me hanging on to him for YEARS.

Every once in a while, those messages appeared. And usually it was after he had broken up with someone. He would just send really vague messages and I would light up like a Christmas tree over them. My heart raced and I was full of hope. And then nothing. He’d be gone again. I realised he had done this a lot in our relationship too, and I had grown so used to it it was like a tug of war with my emotions. When I’d receive his messages I would get my dopamine hit and it would be back to that strange pattern of romantic obsession and withdrawal mode. The attention was given inconsistently and made me even more hooked. And because of my attachment wounds, I would be fixated on ‘winning him back’ - not that I went out of my way to, but that I just made myself so stupidly available to respond to him when he contacted me.

Trying to make sense of why I loved him so much was tearing me apart. I found it incredibly difficult to trust anyone, to love anyone the same or different, and I just had no room in my heart to love myself. I confused attachment with care and the more he treated me badly, never giving me any type of closure and always holding me at arms-length, the more I pined for him. But I would never tell him either.

It took me a decade. A decade of searching for answers to questions like:

• Why am I like this?

• Was that intermediate crush, the feeling of exhilarating obsession what I was experiencing then (feeling like a giddy school girl?), what I lost over the years, finally back?

• Why him?

• Why all this time?

• Are we ‘life-partners’ - WHAT/WHO THE HELL WAS THAT?! and

• Is this what love is supposed to feel like?!

And you guessed it, I never actually got answers to any of those questions except maybe ‘Why am I like this'?’

Because once I truly realised who I was, I understood that I deserved someone to love me and not make fun of me, or put me down. That I deserved to have someone not tell me they couldn’t commit because they couldn’t own up to their own faults. I realised, and this was so difficult, but the spiritual ties I had to him, were keeping me from growing. Life was out there, and I was watching it from behind closed windows - peering out every so often hoping someone would find me and love me like the love I was holding onto, wanting to give it to someone deserving.

And I think of those moments where I felt alone and lost wanting to be loved, like that video clip ‘Another chance’ by Roger Sanchez. (Go watch it and tell me you didn’t cry).

Limerence was keeping me from living wholeheartedly. It was a brain glitch, where neural circuits were firing off because of past dopamine pathways and not because he was right for me at all.

Do I still think obsession is a negative word? No. And it doesn’t mean I was weak to feel that way. I know now that I am wired for deep compassion and understanding. I want so much to be able to talk about all the intricacies of life and love and loss. It’s not such a bad thing to feel so deeply, and I think after so many years of looking inward and finding out more about myself, I know that I just love deeply.

Some don’t feel the same way, and some may never find what or who they truly love, or even what love feels like. Some paint a picture of love, but they never really step into it - never sharing all their fears and deepest needs and desires. Ned is one of those people to me. And that doesn’t mean he will be like this with someone else (by God’s grace, he will have changed). But for me, his inconsistency became my home to land upon because I had no solid ground within myself. His fleeting affection felt like stability simply because it was something for me to hold onto.

But now I know the difference - between attachment and connection and yearning to be loved and the quiet steadiness of true love.

It’s pretty easy to be overwhelmed by the world right now. War, violence, racism, pay cuts - and that’s before you even get to the healthcare crisis, the insurance nightmares, or the endless waiting rooms. Specialists are upping their prices, average working families are barely scraping by, and decisions made by those in charge seem to hit ordinary people hardest. Crime is up. Homelessness is rising. The list goes on.

A while back, I stopped engaging. I don’t comment on posts anymore. I might “heart” something to show support, but that’s it. Not because I don’t care - I do. But because engaging absolutely destroys my peace, and I’ve learned that peace is the only thing I can truly protect.

Peace is free. It’s not something you have to fight for online. It’s something you practice, quietly, in your own life.

I Never Used to Be Like This

There was a time, where I would get heavily involved in ‘having my say’. I wanted to save the world. I wanted to ‘be a part of the solution, and not the problem’. I thought the only way to live by it was to fight every battle - to post, argue, correct, educate, and raise my voice until someone listened. But I’ve since learned that standing up for everything can sometimes come at a cost and especially when it starts to erode your peace, your energy, or your health. Not to mention my inner-child healing knowing I don’t have to yell for attention anymore (yay).

Authenticity Doesn’t Mean Exhaustion

Now I’m not saying you shouldn’t ‘mean what you say, and say what you mean’ (another great line from Michael Saccente, my acting tutor who taught the Meisner Technique here in Auckland). To live like that is to be authentic - and authenticity is one thing that AI can’t imitate. But authenticity doesn’t require constant engagement. It means checking in with yourself before you react and asking: Can my nervous system handle this today?

That question has saved me from spinning out of control and writing something because I’m emotionally charged (and this is easy for me lol).

Some days, I just can’t handle more heaviness. And that’s OK.

Anxiety: The Uninvited Friend

Anxiety and I go way back. She visits when I overextend myself - when I say too much, accept too much, sign myself up for too much or when I say something I later regret. She thrives on overexposure and overstimulation.

But I haven’t seen her much lately. Why? Because I’ve stopped inviting her over.
I don’t take on every headline, every event, every person. I don’t engage with trolls. I avoid discussions that I know will end in negativity. I steer clear of anything that pulls me away from who I am at my calmest.

It doesn’t make me a snob. It makes me someone who knows my limits. I’ve lived all the ways through life - motherhood, illness, loss - to know that my energy is so sacred (and so is yours, you get me?).

Resetting Isn’t Giving Up - It’s Returning to Balance

When people say, “The internet isn’t real,” they’re half right, but the emotions they trigger absolutely are. The pain, frustration, anger, and sadness we feel after scrolling the news? That’s real.

But here’s the truth: you don’t owe your energy to everything that hurts. You owe it to your healing.

Resetting doesn’t mean ignoring what’s wrong in the world. It means balancing what’s wrong with what’s right. It’s about seeking out joy, gratitude, and stories of hope. Be around people who make you feel good. Follow creators that elevate you. Engage with those who remind you that goodness still exists. And when something online doesn’t serve your peace - skip it.

The Practice of Protecting Your Peace

Freeing yourself from negativity isn’t a one-time thing. It’s a daily choice and you get to choose (yay!) what you do next.
It’s pausing before you react.
It’s walking away when you feel the anxiety rise.
It’s turning off your phone and stepping outside to breathe.
It’s remembering that your peace is not a luxury, it’s your foundation.

And on the days when the world feels too heavy, resetting isn’t a retreat - it’s resilience.

And finally…

You can’t fix everything, and you don’t have to.
You can care deeply and still protect your boundaries.
You can want change and still prioritise your calm.

Sometimes, the most revolutionary thing you can do is to stay peaceful - to keep your energy grounded in love, empathy, and authenticity.

That’s not giving up. That’s growing up.
That’s freeing yourself.
That’s resetting.

You’ve probably heard the saying, ‘The body keeps the score’. It’s actually followed by: ‘If the memory of trauma is encoded in our senses, in muscle tension, and in anxiety, then the body must also be involved in the healing process’ - Bessel van der Kolk.

When those stored experiences are unresolved, they often reveal themselves as illness or pain.

One memory resurfaced recently and completely reshaped the way I think about “healing your own body.”

It all started with a migraine. The big bad, throbbing kind that refuses to let go. Searching for answers, I stumbled on a podcast - The Cure for Chronic Pain by Nicole Sachs. The episode was Season 3, Episode 37: “Moving from Actual Fight/Flight/Freeze to Chronic Migraines with Kristin.”

But my migraine story began much earlier, back in 2019. They hit like a storm; debilitating, floor-bound, blackout-curtain migraines. Panadol did nothing. I missed work, calling in sick almost monthly, until my boss sat me down with concern: “I really think something is wrong, Zeisha.” I remember breaking down, terrified of what was happening to me.

A doctor diagnosed them as hormonal migraines and prescribed Rizatriptan. It worked but only sometimes and only if I caught the migraine fast enough. I feared them every month and they were completely out of my control.

Once I went through surgery, chemotherapy and radiation, my migraines took a back seat. They were still there, but not as bad. I wasn’t sure why at the time, but I was glad (and didn’t really care to go looking for an answer as to why at this point).

Then in June 2023, they returned briefly. As I dug for answers, scared of being out of control floor-bound again, I landed on Nicole’s podcast. Listening to Kristin’s story, her experiences of Covid anxiety, job pressure, and living in fight-or-flight resonated with my own history - years of emotional and physical abuse in a relationship that left me living in constant fear + shame from being groomed, and shame for carrying others opinions of me that couldn’t have been further from the truth. I just had no strength in me to fight for my own name anymore.

One line changed everything:
“If you’re not expressing it, you’re carrying it.”

Nicole explained that ‘a migraine, something so physical can be literally eliminated by understanding the brain science behind the fact that when the brain is in long-term flight or flight, and you are panicked and that vigilant, the body must unload it for you. It’s not possible for you to stay in that state of being’.

How was this showing up for me? It showed up as fear, shame, suffering, waking up every everyday living the same traumatic moments looping over and over again. I realised my life was being controlled by the fear of going “backwards,” and reliving the same traumas.

Another episode (S3, Ep 39: “Real-Time Heal – When Emotions Turn Into Pain”) drove it home: ‘The way we perceive danger is that if something is uncontrollable, it is deemed dangerous or not surmountable, our brain will do anything to divert us from feeling it. And that’s where you get the headache or the neck pain, or whatever’s happening out there. You get this symptom in order to protect you and distract you from that which feels unsurvivable by your brain and your nervous system”

And suddenly it clicked: safety regulates the nervous system. When you feel safe, you relax. And when you relax, nervousness has nowhere to live and it leaves.

I started that episode with a migraine. But as I absorbed the message, I felt it leaving my body. For the first time, I believed that my body wasn’t betraying me - it was trying to protect me.

I cried.

When I was first diagnosed, I felt so hurt that my body had betrayed me. But I realised, this was not the case. My body had been fighting all along - for me to survive. And that understanding became the first step to healing.

Today I get migraines, but just not like I did before. I’ve started to slow down and it is hard to do that, having a 10 month old. I don’t stress out over the small things like I used to but I still have that cognitive overload going on and I know there will always be more work to do in calming my own mind. Writing has become an essential outlet for me - something I need to do to care for my mind, body, and spirit.

I hope that these words might also bring comfort or clarity to someone else walking a similar path.

- Zeish

On identity, cancer, losing my grandfather, and becoming a mother, and how each loss remade me.

Grief doesn’t always begin with death. Sometimes, it starts when you lose who you were, piece by piece, moment by moment. Until one day, you wake up in a version of your life you don’t fully recognise.

I’ve experienced four major griefs in my life - four deaths of self. Each one asked me to let go of something I loved, something I needed, or something I thought I’d never lose.

Grief Through Identity: Being Cancelled

There’s a kind of grief that doesn’t come from death, but from being erased while you’re still alive. It’s when people decide who you are for you, and then punish you for surviving it.

I was assaulted and not believed. I told the truth, and instead of support, I was met with silence and turned into a villain in someone else’s story. The most painful part wasn’t just the betrayal. It was how quickly my voice was taken from me. My character, my integrity, my identity, rewritten in real time by people who never really knew me.

That’s not accountability. That’s exile.

The experience didn’t just hurt, it hollowed me out. I lost my spark, my drive, the creativity that used to carry me forward. Depression moved in quietly. I stopped dreaming, stopped building. I couldn’t recognise myself in the version of me that remained - shaped by their narrative, not mine.

I mourned that girl. The one who had big plans and clear purpose. She felt gone.

And that’s a grief that lingers. Because when the world distorts you, it takes time, and courage, to come back home to who you really are.

Grief Through the Body: Cancer

Cancer doesn’t just take your health. It takes your sense of self…layer by layer, piece by piece.

My body was changed in every way imaginable. I was cut open, injected, poked, prodded, sliced open again, drained of life, and flooded with chemotherapy. Then came the radiation. The hormone blockers. The loss of ovary function. Early menopause. I didn’t recognise the body I was living in anymore and I couldn’t go back to the one I had before.

But through all that loss, I found something too.

I got down to the core of myself. There was nothing left to hide behind, no illusions of control, no pretences. Just me, stripped bare. I could finally face myself. Not the curated version, not the public-facing one. Just…me.

I was in the passenger seat, powerless, while the devil had his foot on the accelerator. But somewhere in that chaos, in that surrender, a different kind of strength was taking shape.

Grief Through Death: Losing My Grandpa

My grandpa and I were close from the very beginning. Before I started school, I spent every day with him and my grandma. My sister came along seven years later, so our time together was mostly just the two of us at first. After grandma passed away in 1990, Grandpa and I grew even closer.

We watched the races together, talked for hours about life, and he taught me everything he could about where he came from. His stories about growing up in Samoa and being shipped to Auckland to become a carpenter became part of me, stitched into the fabric of who I am. I know so many details about him because I spent most of my time listening to his stories. I never wanted to leave him and I knew he loved my company. Even as I grew older, we still spent most weeks together.

The only time I pulled away was when I was going through chemotherapy. I didn’t tell him. I couldn’t. I didn’t want him to worry. That’s the kind of love we had - protective, quiet, and deep.

Even now, when I get a shred of time to myself, I talk to him. I hope he hears me. I often wonder what he would say. When I used to cry, I’d rest my head on his shoulder and he’d lean his head on mine and hold my hand. I felt completely seen by him. Even though sometimes he carried his words together - Samoan was his first language - I always understood him. And he always understood me.

Losing him felt like losing the one person who had known and loved every version of me - without condition, without confusion. It was the most obvious grief and somehow still the hardest to name.

Grief Through Identity Shift: Motherhood

Becoming a mother is the most life-altering transformation I’ve ever experienced - and one of the quietest griefs I’ve ever carried.

I have lost the drive to do things for my music. And that feels like a kind of death no one really talks about.

Music has always been part of me. It’s where I’ve expressed my truest self, found my joy, my voice, my power. I miss being on stage. I’ve always loved it. But lately, that part of me has felt further away. I haven’t lost it entirely - I’m just trying to find my way back to it, slowly.

I want to do what I’ve always done but with happiness in my heart again. And I know I will. It just looks different now. The pace is slower, the energy is split, but the spark is still there, waiting. And I’m learning to trust that I can be both - a devoted mother, and still an artist. Still me.

This isn’t a sob story. This is a story of returning. Of honoring what was lost, and making room for what’s still becoming.

Living With Grief, Becoming Whole Again

Grief has followed me through different seasons of life - not always as mourning, but as quiet disappearances. First my name. Then my body. Then my grandpa. And then, the self I once was before motherhood.

Each time, I lost something I thought I needed to be me.

But the truth is, I’m still here. I’ve survived things that tried to silence me, shrink me, and soften my edges. And somehow, through every kind of grief, I’ve come home to a deeper version of myself.

I’m still figuring it out. But I’m learning to live in the in-between - to create from the cracks, and to trust that what I lost has made space for something new.

If you’re grieving something invisible - an identity, a dream, a version of yourself, you’re not alone. Grief doesn’t always wear black. Sometimes, it just sits quietly in the background, asking to be acknowledged.

I see it now. And I see me now, too - still whole, even with the missing parts.