Why Can’t I Stop? The Truth About Emotional Dumping and the Power of Consistent Support

Jilly is 45 years old, a mother, a professional, and someone you’d probably call a high achiever. She’s sharp, capable, and hardworking — maybe too hardworking. Because behind all that productivity was something quietly brewing: an entire childhood worth of pain and pressure that had never been given space to breathe.

When Jilly first came to me, she was in rough shape. Worn down. Exhausted. And completely stuck. She couldn’t exactly pinpoint how she got there — but she knew something had snapped inside her. Years of pushing through nonstop work, juggling heavy family obligations, and managing financial pressures had been building up like a pressure cooker. She was constantly trying to keep it all together — being the dependable mom, the hard worker, the support for everyone else. But one day, she simply couldn’t anymore. Her system crashed, leaving her feeling overwhelmed and broken in ways she hadn’t allowed herself to fully recognize before.

And then came the question that changed everything:

“Why can’t I stop?”

Why can’t I stop doing? Why can’t I stop fixing? Why can’t I stop thinking, planning, pushing, controlling?

It wasn’t just burnout. It was a lifetime of being in motion — emotionally, mentally, physically — without ever giving herself permission to just be.

Work Hard, Push Harder, Break

Jilly had one way of coping: staying busy. If something felt heavy, she pushed through it. If life felt overwhelming, she got more done. Rest didn’t come naturally to her — not because she didn’t want it, but because she didn’t know what to do with herself when things got quiet.

Slowing down felt unfamiliar, even unsettling. So she filled her time with tasks, projects, responsibilities — anything to stay in motion. Taking a break felt like losing control.

At that point, she wouldn’t have said she was avoiding emotions. She didn’t even know what was buried under all the doing. She only knew that stopping made her feel uneasy. So she didn’t stop.

Until she crashed.

Our First Sessions

The first 10 weeks, we met every week. These sessions were deep. The kind of deep where the room feels quieter afterward because something big has shifted. Sometimes it was two steps forward, one step back. But she was showing up. She listened to the recordings. Reflected between sessions. She even came to sessions with a little list — things she wanted clarity on, things that still felt hard.

More than anything, she came in honest and open. She just needed a safe space to pause. To feel. To ask the questions she never dared ask before — and to finally let herself cry when the answers came.

We did grounding work. Learned how to trust emotions instead of run from them. We worked with the body, with breath, with nervous system tools. There were a lot of tears. A lot of “wait... I never saw it that way.” A lot of breaking apart old beliefs and building something softer in their place.

And progress was happening. So we shifted to every two weeks. That still felt safe. Steady. Manageable.

Then Life Got Busy

End of school year. A wedding. A million little things. Jilly felt good, strong. She told me she thought she could handle a three-week gap. And honestly? I thought so too. She was on a roll.

Then yesterday happened.

When Everything Pours Out at Once

After three weeks without a session, Jilly sat down — and within moments, it was clear: she had been holding too much for too long.

Her thoughts came out in a rush, like they had been piling up inside her. There was no order, no direction — just pressure. Words tumbled out faster than she could catch them. She jumped from one memory to another, one feeling to the next, and nothing made sense — not even to her.

Halfway through, her voice broke. “I don’t even know what I’m saying,” she whispered. “I feel like I’m falling apart.”

She wasn’t dramatic. She wasn’t exaggerating. She was deeply tired. And she was scared.

Because underneath the overwhelm was something more painful: doubt.

Was all this work even helping? Had anything really changed? If she was still breaking like this, had she made any progress at all?

On the outside, everything looked fine. Her family thought she was doing better. She had been functioning, smiling, managing. But inside, it felt like everything was unraveling again.

And that loneliness — that confusion of looking okay but feeling completely lost — was almost harder than the pain itself.

This is what can happen when too much builds up with nowhere to go. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t failure. It was a human being who had carried too much, for too long, without the steady relief of being seen and supported.

The Power of Consistency

What Jilly learned yesterday — and what so many people realize in moments like this — is that you can’t cram healing. You can’t wait until the container is full. You can’t fast-track emotional growth by skipping steps and catching up later.

Healing is steady work. Not always dramatic, but always meaningful. When you show up regularly — ideally no more than every two weeks — you get to:

• Catch things before they spiral

• Stay in tune with what’s actually happening now

• Feel safe enough to go deeper without being overwhelmed

• Build trust with yourself, your coach, your emotions

And most importantly, you avoid turning every session into a mop-up operation.

Showing Up Is the Work

I want to say this loud for anyone doing deep work on themselves:

Progress isn’t just about aha moments or big breakthroughs. It’s about showing up — consistently. Even when you feel fine. Especially when you feel fine.

Because often, the moment we feel better is the moment we think we don’t need support anymore. But healing isn’t just about feeling good — it’s about building the muscle to stay grounded, clear, and steady when life throws its next curveball.

What Jilly Did Right

Yes, she took a longer break than was ideal. Yes, yesterday’s session was messy. But here’s what matters:

She came back. She was honest. She let it all out. And then she said, “Okay. I don’t want to wait that long again.”

That’s what growth looks like.

It’s not perfect. It’s not linear. It’s human.

Final Thoughts

Healing doesn’t always look like progress on paper. Sometimes it’s just being honest enough to show up messy. So here’s my question for you:

What would it look like to give yourself steady, safe support — not just when things fall apart, but before they do?

If this resonates, you might also like this post on why healing isn’t a race.