'I tried to be perfect at everything. Then one conversation unravelled my entire life.'

Content warning: This post includes discussion of suicide and pregnancy loss that may be distressing to some readers.

The irony wasn't lost on me: I was fielding business calls about franchises while sitting in a psychiatric ward during the early days of COVID.

On paper, I looked like I had it all figured out. I was running businesses, raising two young boys and holding it all together — a life that ticked every box of success. But in reality, I'd been admitted to hospital with PTSD, major depression, and suicidal ideation.

I grew up the eldest of six. At school, I was the perfect student, desperate for recognition. As an adult, nothing changed. I ran the family business, paid the bills, kept everyone happy.

Then I had two boys, 20 months apart. And I tried to keep performing at the same pace.

"On paper, I looked like I had it all figured out," writes Corrina Rawlinson

Most afternoons ended the same way: house quiet, me curled up on the bedroom floor, panicked and overstimulated. My husband would walk into not just a physical mess, but an emotional wreck begging him to come home.

Because I felt like a failure at home, I went searching for worth elsewhere. I joined the P&C, volunteered for fundraising, said yes to every request. On the outside I looked like I was doing it all. Inside, I was disappearing.

My brain never switched off.

"How can I fix this? How can I do it better?"

Meanwhile, the self-talk was brutal: You're a failure. You f*** everything up. Everyone would be better off without you.

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I started a million projects and finished none. My dad called me "half-arse." Now I understand that's executive dysfunction — knowing the "right things" (take your meds, brush your teeth, answer the email) yet being physically unable to do any of them.

The breaking point came when my eldest was six. He was anxious, melting down after school, struggling to regulate his emotions. Watching him was like looking in a mirror.

We took him to a psychologist. After a few sessions, she turned to me and said: "Corrina, I think your son is actually in a good place. But I think you could benefit from some sessions with me."

That was the unravelling.

At the same time, our business was collapsing. I lied to everyone and lived in a constant state of anxiety, knowing I had responsibilities but unable to act on them.

Before my 30th birthday, I wrote my suicide note.

Eventually, I sat with my GP on telehealth and told the truth. The psychiatrist listened to my story — sexual assault, my parents' marriage breaking down, postnatal depression — and diagnosed me with complex PTSD. Five days later I was admitted to hospital.

I felt both relief and humiliation — relief that someone named it, humiliation that I couldn't keep performing without cracking.

Over the following years, I was admitted multiple times — after miscarriages, during COVID, when my brain shut down. Each time was both relief and shame.

The only way I could process any of it was to speak out loud. I shared on social media and was flooded with"me too" messages. It didn't fix anything, but it stopped the silence from swallowing me.

"That one sentence flipped everything," writes Corrina Rawlinson. Image: Supplied.

In 2022, we lost two more pregnancies. By then I had scaffolding — a psychiatrist who knew me, a family who rallied.

In 2023, we finally held our miracle baby boy.

His first year included multiple hospital stays for a kidney condition. At the same time, my husband and I went through a brutal business breakdown. We walked away, took the hit, and rebuilt.

By Easter 2024, I cracked again. I tried to contact my psychiatrist and was told she'd changed direction: find someone else, start again, re-explain everything. That's the thing about our system — the moment you're most unwell is the moment you're asked to audition for care.

I drove 800km to see a new psychiatrist. We went through everything. He looked at me and said: "I think the underlying issue is ADHD."

That one sentence flipped everything.

He read my school reports: "Intelligent but distracted… talks too much… late with assignments." I even submitted the same history project four years in a row and no one noticed.

The first time I took medication, it felt like floating on a cloud. My brain — usually 400 tabs open at once, music playing somewhere — went quiet. For the first time, I wasn't at war with myself.

"My life is still messy… but it finally feels possible." Image: Supplied.

Medication hasn't saved my life, but it has completely changed it. It's given me quality of life and the belief that I'm not broken — just wired differently.

Ten months on, my life is still messy… but it finally feels possible. I say no. I don't over-commit. I choose things that bring value and joy to our family instead of chasing worthiness. Our business is thriving because my husband and I stay in our lanes. He goes out with his mates; I can solo-parent without melting down. I can take time away without drowning in guilt.

Most importantly, for the first time in my life, I believe I'm a good person. Not perfect. Just me.

That's why I started She's Honestly Mental — a podcast and community built from the messy middle, not a polished "after." I launched by reading my suicide note out loud. Because silence nearly killed me, and I refuse to let it win.

If you're reading this at 3am wondering why you can't cope like everyone else, hear me: you're not broken. We are living in a world that hasn't been built to support us. Survival doesn't need to look polished to matter. And honesty, not perfection, is what saves us.

Corrina Rawlinson is a mum of three and a small business owner in regional WA. She's the founder of She's Honestly Mental, a podcast and community created from her own lived experience with ADHD, PTSD, and motherhood in the messy middle. Corrina writes and speaks about survival, honesty, and the impossible load women are asked to carry.

If you or anyone you know would like to speak with an expert, please contact the SANDS Australia 24-Hour Support Line (1300 072 637).

If you or anyone you know needs to speak with an expert, please contact your GP or in Australia, contact Lifeline (13 11 14), Kids Helpline (1800 55 1800) or Beyond Blue (1300 22 4636), all of which provide trained counsellors you can talk with 24/7.

Feature Image: Supplied.