Kerri BridgmanFor years, I thought I could outwork the exhaustion. And for a while I did.
Push through. Power ahead. Stay creative, stay inspired, stay useful—especially to others. But eventually, my body said no.
It wasn’t sudden. It was slow, quiet, and inconvenient. My body had been screaming for rest for years. My skin started breaking out in my 20s the way it never had as a teenager. I began blacking out at work, making strange movements with my hands, sending texts I didn’t remember writing, and showing signs of what I thought were panic attacks.
You’d think that would’ve been the wake-up call.
But instead, I kept going like that for another two years.
The version of me I’ve always known is curious, energized, always moving. I was running around to different suppliers, fabric swatches in one hand and a triple-shot espresso in the other. I love flipping through old magazines for new inspiration. I light up when I’m walking a factory floor or stumbling across a boutique with beautiful craftsmanship. It’s not just my work, it’s who I am and who I have always been proud of.
Then came the second car accident—the one I couldn’t remember. Sitting in the ambulance I realized I had lost about 30 minutes of time. I could not answer more than half of their questions, I was so lost in my To-Do list I saw it as more of an inconvenience to be there than anything else.
A neurologist finally told me what no one else had: what I was experiencing was most likely epilepsy. My only prior experience was family and friends who experience Grand Mal seizures, I did not understand at the time these small movements and moments of confusion would be the key to my diagnosis.
By then, I was barely getting through the workday, constantly wondering where my spark had gone. I kept trying to keep up, months turned into years. But the truth is: my body had been whispering for a long time before it finally screamed.
I had to ask myself the question I’d been avoiding: What if I’m not just tired? What if I’m unwell?
And then the even harder one: If I slow down, will I still be me? If I give into what I am being told how much of my freedom is taken? How do I reverse course?
When I was officially diagnosed, I thought I’d found the solution. Finally, an answer. But what I’ve learned is that healing isn’t linear. It doesn’t begin or end with a diagnosis. And it definitely doesn’t mean abandoning the parts of myself I love.
It means creating more space for them to breathe.
So I started small.
- Yoga classes, even when I couldn’t sit still through a three-minute savasana.
- Meditation, even when my mind raced.
- Walks with no destination.
- Reading the same books over and over because new endings made my anxiety spike.
- Letting music fill my apartment.
- Eating in a way that felt like care, not control (which meant trying new things with an open mind).
- Traveling with softness, not urgency. (I’ve finally learned not to panic about buying plane tickets a week before leaving for a trip)
And slowly, something shifted.
I didn’t get back to myself—I met a deeper version of myself.
The one who still loves the thrill of a factory visit, the inspiration of a city street, the beauty in someone else’s vision…but also knows when to pause.
Now, when I show up creatively, I’m not forcing it.
I have more clarity. More intuition. More peace.
And while I still have healing to do (don’t we all?), I trust that I can create from this place too.
Not in spite of the pause—but because of it.
Retail was just the beginning — follow along as the path expands to production and tech. 🪡