I was at a friend's house during university when her mom looked at me and said, "Laura, what are you sorry for? Why do you keep saying you're sorry?" And my first reaction — before I could even think — was "I'm sorry."

That was the first time anyone had ever called me out on it. In my home growing up, everyone said sorry all the time. It was like breathing. I didn't know I was doing it until someone who didn't know me actually pointed out that it wasn't normal.

But knowing something is wrong and knowing how to fix it are two different things. Years went by and nothing changed. I kept saying yes. I kept saying I'm sorry. I kept giving myself away. I built a whole life around it without even realizing — coming home from work every day, cooking dinner, cleaning the house, taking care of everything. I'd done it so long it just became normal. One day I caught myself and thought, "I'm becoming someone I watched be unhappy my whole life." And for the first time I had to ask myself — am I actually happy? But I didn't know how to stop. So I did what I knew how to do — I numbed it. Drinking, going through the motions, doing it all again the next day. I didn't know who I was anymore — just this person I'd created to keep everyone around me happy.

Then a car accident took what little I had left. The pain was constant — my lower back, mostly, but it was everywhere. And the more miserable I felt, the more my body hurt, and the more my body hurt, the more miserable I got. I shut everyone out. I chased people away because that's what I did back then. There was no light at the end of the tunnel. I couldn't even imagine one.

One night I was lying on my back in the dark — the only position that hurt a little less — alone in the house, tears running down my face, and I realized I had hit a crossroads. I could stay like this forever — just give up. Or I could fight for my life. And the truth is, I've always loved life. Even in the darkness, something in me loved life. So I decided — I'm going to live. And I'm going to figure this out.

It didn't happen overnight. But I am stubborn, and thank goodness for that, because that stubbornness is what kept me going. I read every self-help book I could find until one day, wandering around a bookstore, I found a book on kundalini yoga. It pulled me back to a spiritual path I'd always known but had buried under everyone else's needs. I followed it all the way to an ashram, where for the first time I learned to just be with myself — no noise, no one to fix, just me.

And that's where I finally heard my own voice — the one I'd been apologizing over my whole life. The noise went quiet, and what I found underneath wasn't just silence. It was a peace that felt like it had always been there, just waiting for me to stop long enough to notice it.

When I came home, I wanted to help other people find that same feeling. I could teach the yoga. I could teach the meditation. But the quiet mind — the thing that actually mattered — I couldn't explain it. I'd felt it, but I couldn't put it into words. Something was still missing.

Then I stumbled on an understanding that made everything click. It was like finally finding the language for something I'd always known but could never express. And for the first time, it wasn't just a feeling — it made sense to my logical mind. I could understand it, and that meant I could actually share it.

These days, I say no without apologizing for it. I spend time and money on myself without guilt. And I know I don't need to earn my worth by being everything to everyone.

And now my mission is to help women who can't say no, who give until they're empty, who've lost themselves. I guide them to this understanding so they can find that spark within themselves.