When the Private Goes Public: Boundaries, Power, and the Weight of Being Seen
Support isn’t always loud. Often, the most powerful expressions of care arrive without commentary, performance, or pressure: just presence.
The Disruption That Brings Clarity
Over the weekend, I read Sylvia Jeffreys’ latest Stellar interview, a thoughtful reflection on the emotional toll of being misrepresented, and the quiet strength it takes to stay steady under public scrutiny. She spoke to the pressure women face to have it all, and the quiet rebellion in setting our own standards instead.
She reminded us:
Support between women isn’t performative. It’s powerful.
It’s what sustains us when things get hard.
It’s not the first time Sylvia has explored these themes. But this time, something in her words landed differently.
Because lately, I’ve been navigating that same layered terrain: the space between what’s visible and what’s understood.
On Sunday, I experienced a medical incident.
This isn’t a story about that moment: but I’ll say this: I’m okay. Still in it. Still listening for what it’s teaching me.
It was one of those moments that interrupts everything. That shifts your tempo.
And even in the discomfort, there’s a kind of quiet clarity.
The kind disruption brings, when we let it.
So this week, I’m softening the pace. Turning the volume down.
Letting the noise recede so I can think, write, and feel, without interruption.
Because when I create space, clarity returns.
The words come. The insight forms.
That’s when I speak, not in the rawness of the moment, but in the quiet that follows.
That’s my way.
Not a Tell-All: But a Line in the Sand
Recently, parts of my personal life became a matter of public commentary.
No heads-up. No context. Just exposure.
It was destabilising: and it impacted me on many levels.
I wondered, often, whether I should say something.
I deliberated. Rewrote responses in my head.
But in the end, I chose space. I stepped back. I returned to what was real and grounding: my son. My people. My work. Myself.
And in that extended pause, I have been reminded of this:
Silence doesn’t always protect us.
Sometimes, voice matters more than comfort.
This is the first time I’ve spoken publicly about it.
And I don’t do so lightly.
Not for drama. Not for detail.
But because it speaks to something bigger:
something many experience, but few feel they can name.
When Silence Feels Safer Than Truth
It lives in the overlap, between motherhood, leadership, heartbreak, and reinvention. It’s the question we all ask quietly:
How much of myself can I show?
Will this be used against me later?
Do I trust this space enough to be real here?
In many environments, credibility still feels conditional.
Something that can be revoked the moment you reveal too much.
Not because you’re incapable
but because you diverge from someone else’s idea of composure.
Or professionalism. Or leadership.
Or all of them.
So we self-edit.
We soften.
We shrink.
Because when people feel unsafe, they don’t share.
Even when the truth matters, especially when it matters.
The Subtle Ways Power Shows Up
What happened to me isn’t unique.
It’s part of a broader pattern.
You try to draw a line: to protect your energy.
To step back from something that’s become harmful.
And somehow, that makes you the problem.
Recently, I asked for a short pause in post-separation communication.
The dynamic had become toxic. It wasn’t grounded in parenting anymore: it felt like it had become about power.
Every message I sent was written with care.
I’d spend hours crafting them: trying to strike that impossible balance between honesty and diplomacy and clarity.
But nothing seemed to land.
My reality wasn’t just dismissed: it was erased.
Every concern rebutted. Every boundary challenged.
I stated clearly: the communication was affecting my mental health. I needed space.
The response?
A demand to re-engage during the exact window I’d asked for pause, followed by the insinuation that by naming the impact on my mental health, I lacked the capacity to parent.
It was jarring.
And it cut to the heart of something I’ve seen again and again:
When a woman says this is hurting me, she’s labelled unstable.
When she draws a boundary, she’s framed as incapable.
When she asks for space, she’s accused of neglect.
And the hardest part?
It’s not just that your truth or request for care is dismissed.
It’s that it’s made invisible.
When Care Isn’t Convenient, But Still Offered
It’s in these moments that support matters most.
Not the kind that performs care when it’s convenient.
But the kind that recognises how costly it can be to speak up, and stands beside you anyway.
Amongst the murk, that kind of support showed up.
Messages arrived. From women I know. From women I don’t.
Some knew the context. Others didn’t.
Women in media, who knew what it felt like to have their private world commentated on, without consent, were among the first to reach out.
They didn’t ask for an explanation.
They didn’t need the full story.
They simply offered care.
Quiet Gestures. Loud Impact.
This is what I’ve come to call:
Discreet care - Intentional. Quiet. Without demand.
The kind of support that offers presence without intrusion.
That doesn’t need proof to extend compassion.
That says I see you, without needing to be seen in return.
It’s personal. It’s direct. It never oversteps.
And it matters more than it lets on.
Because when care is offered without demand,
it creates space.
The kind of space where healing begins.
And dignity remains intact.
The Risk of Naming What Hurts
For someone who’s approached life a little unconventionally,
I’ve also had to explain my process more than most.
And while I’m capable of holding a lot:
as a mother, an athlete, a speaker, a leader
that same capacity can turn inward.
When criticism arrives
or worse, when silence meets vulnerability
it lands hard.
I replay it. Try to fix it. Scan for what I missed.
It’s part neurodivergence, part survival.
But here’s what I’ve come to understand:
The negative will always exist.
But when we let it take centre stage
we flatten the gestures that tried to lift us.
We miss the medicine in them.
And in doing so, we rob ourselves of the very thing we needed most.
Holding More Than We Show
That realisation brought me back to two values I now hold above all else:
Kindness: the decision to offer care when there’s nothing to gain.
Reliability: when actions and words align, even when it’s inconvenient.
To the women who reached out: you know who you are.
Your messages didn’t crowd my space. They held it.
That’s a difference I won’t forget.
And while I believe deeply in the power of private care,
I also understand the impact of public solidarity.
Not for optics. But for what it signals.
In a world where it’s easier to be quietly kind behind the scenes,
but publicly neutral, or even boldly critical
public support is a statement.
And truthfully, it’s rare.
When someone stands beside you, both quietly and visibly:
It shifts more than the moment.
It can shift the culture.
This Isn’t Just a Women’s Story
Some conversations: about transition, identity, mental load, and personal reckoning
often stay within women’s circles.
Maybe because the emotional language already exists there.
Maybe because it feels safer.
These experiences: while often shaped by gender
aren’t just gendered.
They’re human.
And they ask something from all of us: awareness, care, and the courage to listen differently.
And to the men who reached out with empathy: not silence or solution
thank you.
You didn’t need to understand it all.
You just had to care enough to witness it.
And that made a difference.
A Thank You, and an Invitation
This piece isn’t a tell-all. It’s a thank you.
And a reflection on what it means to truly show up for one another
not just when it’s easy, but when it’s uncomfortable.
Not just when it’s convenient, but when it matters most.
Because being a modern woman: navigating the messy middle of motherhood, leadership, change, and growth
requires a deeper fluency in the language of quiet support.
And a greater willingness to speak it out loud.
If this resonated:
Share it with someone who might need to hear it.
Reach out to someone who may be holding more than they show.
Quiet support echoes.
Public solidarity signals.
And when offered with intention: both have the power to hold, and to heal.
Beyond Limits: The Human Side of Performance
Speaking & Collaborations
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speaking@healthyhumanco.com.au
I resonate that with space and quietness clarity comes- beautiful share