For most of my life, I lived with a quiet, constant fear of death. It wasn’t something I often spoke about. It wasn’t dramatic or loud more like a persistent shadow, lurking in the background of my thoughts. From the age of 13, I developed an intense awareness of mortality. Not just fear of dying, but fear of what comes after. Eternity. The void. The idea that everything, even me, would one day vanish.

This fear wasn’t always front and centre, but it coloured everything. At times, it led to overwhelming anxiety, insomnia, and feelings of disconnection from the world. I tried to rationalise it, ignore it, even spiritualise it, but nothing stuck. It was like a splinter in the mind: invisible to others, deeply embedded in me.

What I didn’t realise back then was that this wasn’t just death anxiety. It was something far larger.

Living with ADHD Before I Had the Language

I’ve always been fast-thinking, emotionally intense, deeply intuitive… and utterly scattered. My mind moved at a hundred miles an hour, but organising it into something usable felt like trying to herd fog.

I would hyperfocus for hours, then forget to eat, sleep, or respond to messages. I had ideas that lit me up, then fizzled out the next day. Conversations? Either I overshared or said nothing. Social situations were draining, confusing, and riddled with internal scripts.

At the time, I chalked it up to being “sensitive,” “moody,” or just “wired differently.” But behind it all was the deep frustration of knowing I was capable of more and constantly hitting a wall.

The Late Diagnosis That Changed Everything

It wasn’t until I was forty-seven that the pieces finally clicked into place: I was autistic and I had ADHD.

Not the “Rain Man” stereotype. Not the version we see in checklists built for 8-year-old boys. But real autism, masked for decades, balanced by ADHD, shaped by social expectations, and filtered through years of self-doubt.

That diagnosis didn’t label me. It freed me. Suddenly, I had language for the things I’d internalised as faults: my need for deep processing, my sensitivity to noise and light, my tendency to shut down when overstimulated. Focusing on my hobbies to the detriment of everything else. I realised that my mind wasn’t broken. It was simply different, and beautifully so.

And as I recovered from Chemotherapy in my late thirties, with Cancer in remission, the intensity of my death anxiety began to shift as well.

The Turning Point: Therapy, Hypnotherapy, and the Work I Do Now

The real turning point came in an EMDR therapy session (as part of my Cancer recovery). In just 30 minutes, in the last appointment of my therapy course, something changed. The iron grip of death anxiety eased, the chains snapping. I didn’t forget the fear, but I learned how to sit with it, unpick it, and see it not as an enemy, but as a misunderstood part of me.

That moment lit the path for everything I do now. I trained in NLP, hypnotherapy, studied trauma-informed approaches, social psychology and poured myself into understanding how the mind stores fear, especially a fear that has no easy fix. Trying to understand "how" those loose thirty minutes changed my life.

Today, I specialise in helping people just like me:
People with complex, quiet fears.
People who feel "too much" or "too different."
People who use substances to mask pain.
People navigating death anxiety, trauma, ADHD, and the beautiful mess of neurodivergence.

Why I Share This

I share my story not to be dramatic; I share my story because this is more than a profession to me. It’s my path. My purpose. The work I was meant to do. 
For most of my life, I felt like I was trying to survive in a world that didn’t quite understand me. I carried fears I couldn’t name, emotions I couldn’t switch off, and thoughts that looped endlessly while the world around me seemed to keep moving. When I finally found the language, autism, ADHD, death anxiety, it wasn’t a box. It was a map. And I followed it back to myself.

Now, I light the way for others.

I want to help the people who feel “too much,” “too sensitive,” or like they’re constantly masking who they really are just to get through the day. I want to sit with those fears that no one else talks about, the ones that show up at night, in still moments, or in thought spirals, cyclical thinking, no one else seems to understand.

This isn’t just work for me. It’s service. Every time someone feels seen, every time they take a deeper breath, every time they stop believing they’re broken, that’s why I do this.

My story is a doorway to understanding that WE are not broken, and WE don’t have to carry it all in silence. But therapy isn’t a fix-all. It is a space. A calm one. A curious one. A safe place to breathe, untangle, and work to begin again, with tools and methods to follow your own path and create purpose again. 

Will

If my story resonates with you, I invite you to explore a little more, through my blog, my sessions, or just a conversation.
The first step doesn’t have to be big. It just must be yours.