by Marilize Jacobs
If you’d told me fresh after varsity that my greatest professional qualifications in my mid-30s would be earned not in an office, but on the floor of a paediatric therapist’s room and in divorce court, I’d have cried. In 2017, I was deep in the “triathlon of overwhelm”: navigating my son’s autism diagnosis, a marriage ending, and a body screaming with adrenal fatigue. I was a shell, crying over spilt milk because the spilt milk felt like the final, cruel joke.
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