A little honesty from Joey.
This week, a few people saw me at my worst.
Not the bubbly, enthusiastic, positive Joey that most people know.
Not the person who walks into a room full of energy, always smiling, always trying to make everyone feel good.
They saw a side of me that I usually keep very well hidden.
And it brought back memories of other times in my life when I’ve felt exactly the same way.
I’ve struggled with my mental health for as long as I can remember. I sometimes joke that it probably started in the womb, but there’s probably a little truth behind that humour.
People often describe me as outgoing, confident, enthusiastic and full of energy. And I am those things. I’m proud of those things.
But what people might not realise is that I’m also a true introvert. A homebody who loves her own company, needs time alone and, when things become overwhelming, has a terrible habit of shutting people out.
It’s a strange contradiction, being someone who gets so much joy from making others happy but sometimes finds being around people completely exhausting.
Looking back, there have been a few significant chapters in my life that have shaped who I am.
Like many teenagers, I went through my own struggles in Year 12. For me, that included difficulties with food and body image, which developed into disordered eating, including periods of bulimia and restricting my food intake.
Thankfully, I was able to educate myself about health and fitness and find my way through that period before it developed into something more serious. Perhaps that’s where my passion for helping people with their health really began.
At 21, I was living in Canberra and had worked my way up through sales in the fitness industry.
I was actually one of the top-performing sales consultants nationally, something I was incredibly proud of at such a young age.
I loved connecting with people, understanding what they wanted to achieve and helping them get there. My boss saw something in me and offered me the opportunity to manage a large health club.
At 21, that was a pretty big deal.
I loved so much about the role, but I wasn’t prepared for the responsibility that came with it.
The phone never stopped ringing. Before work, after work, weekends. There was always someone needing something.
My ringtone was Kelly Clarkson’s Since U Been Gone. To this day, I can’t hear that song without getting the heebie-jeebies. Funny how something so insignificant can take you straight back to a feeling you’d rather forget.
I was completely burnt out.
But I kept going, because that’s what I thought I was supposed to do.
Until one morning, I couldn’t.
I rang my boss, apologised and told her I couldn’t come back.
And I never did.
I eventually found my way into a corporate role in Canberra, working as an executive assistant in government. It wasn’t really me, but it gave me the breathing space I needed.
I learnt something about myself during that time. I loved being part of a team, but I didn’t necessarily love being the person responsible for everyone.
As I’ve always said, I’m not necessarily a great chief, but I’m a fantastic Indian.
My struggles with mental health haven’t always been connected to work, either.
After my daughter was born, I suffered postnatal depression. I was prescribed strong antidepressants, which remained part of my life for many years.
It was only two years ago that I finally came off them, after gradually reducing my medication over a twelve-month period.
I suppose when you’ve lived with these challenges for so long, you become quite good at functioning around them.
You learn to get on with life, to smile, to work, to raise a family and to be everything everyone needs you to be.
But just because you’re functioning doesn’t necessarily mean you’re doing okay.
Years later, Adam and I owned Ezyfit Health Club.Some of you reading this might remember those days. Some of you might even remember being in my classes.
I absolutely loved teaching group fitness.
My inspiration came from an instructor named Rose in Parramatta. She taught Body Step and Body Attack, and I remember how incredible she made me feel.
Her energy, her encouragement, the way you walked out of her class feeling like you could take on the world.
I wanted to make people feel that way too.
And I hope, in some small way, I did.
Although real estate is now my full-time career, I’ve never quite been able to let go of my love for teaching. I’m lucky enough to still teach two Pilates classes a week. It’s something I genuinely love, and that hasn’t changed.
But there’s something about those years at Ezyfit that I’ve never really shared.
There were Saturday mornings and Tuesday and Thursday afternoons when I’d sit in my car outside our own health club and cry.
I’d be trying to find the courage to walk inside, put on my microphone, turn up the music and become that energetic, motivating instructor everyone was expecting.
And somehow, I’d do it.
But there were times during those classes when the anxiety would become almost unbearable.
My heart would race, my throat would tighten, my vision would change and I’d feel dizzy and disconnected.
I’d suddenly become terrified that everyone could see what was happening.
I can still remember looking at the front row, knowing some of those members knew the choreography better than I did, and worrying they’d notice when my mind went blank.
The more I worried about people noticing, the worse it became.
Yet somehow, my body kept moving. The music kept playing. And I kept teaching.Looking back, I wonder how many people noticed something wasn’t quite right.
I don’t think many did.
And perhaps that’s what makes it so strange. You can be standing in front of a room full of people, appearing completely in control, while inside you’re desperately trying to hold yourself together.
And then came this weekI’ve been struggling a little lately.
I can’t pinpoint exactly why, and that’s probably the most frustrating part.
Some days I wake up feeling perfectly fine. Other days, I don’t quite recognise myself.
I’ve felt increasingly exhausted by the expectation, mostly my own, to always be the happy, positive Joey.
And this week, it caught up with me.
I was due to teach my Pilates classes, and two days beforehand, I could already feel that familiar dread creeping in.
The night before, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. By the morning, I was trying to convince myself that I’d be fine.I arrived late, having already had a little cry in the car.
The moment I walked through the door, I felt exposed. As though everyone could see straight through me.
Of course, they couldn’t. But anxiety has a wonderful way of convincing you otherwise.
I started teaching, and that horrible familiar feeling returned.
The tightness around my throat. My racing heart. The dizziness.
That overwhelming sense that I needed to escape but had nowhere to go.
And then I started crying.
I actually told the clients I’d accidentally poked myself in the eye.
I hadn’t.
I was crying, and I was desperately trying to hide it.
For an hour and a half, I kept teaching, quietly telling myself to just get through the next exercise, then the next, then the next.
When the classes finally finished, I asked my beautiful manager, who is also a friend, if we could have a chat.
The moment she walked into the room, I completely fell apart.
I cried.
All I could say was that I was sorry, but I just couldn’t be the person everyone expected me to be at the moment.
I needed some time away.
And she understood.
There was no judgement or disappointment. Just kindness and understanding.
I can’t explain how much that meant to me.I’ve always been a people pleaser.
I get enormous satisfaction from making people happy, delivering good news and knowing I’ve made a positive difference in someone’s life.
And I’ve been thinking about how much of that carries into my career in real estate.
When I look back, I don’t think I’ve really changed all that much.
For more than 25 years, I helped people with their health. These days, I help people with their wealth.
To me, both come from exactly the same place. A genuine desire to help people improve their lives.
But there’s a stigma attached to real estate that empathy and the industry don’t necessarily go hand in hand. That to be successful, you need to be tough, ruthless and thick-skinned.
And that’s never really been me.
I feel things deeply.
When a seller is disappointed, when a buyer misses out or when I have to deliver news that I know someone doesn’t want to hear, I carry that with me.
I’ll spend time preparing for those conversations, trying to find the right words, wanting to be honest without hurting someone.
And then I’ll go home and replay it all in my head.
I absorb people’s emotions, sometimes without even realising I’m doing it.
And I think, over time, it all builds up.
I keep telling myself I’m okay.Until suddenly, I’m not.
Adam has always known this side of me. He’s seen me at my absolute best and my absolute worst. He knows when I need space, when I’m struggling and when I’m not quite myself.
But outside of Adam, I’ve generally kept this part of my life pretty private.
This week was different.
People saw me vulnerable. They saw me cry. They saw a version of Joey that I usually work incredibly hard to hide.
I’ve thought a lot about whether to share this, particularly knowing that clients, past gym members, friends and people who only know me professionally might read it.
Some of what I’ve written here is so personal that even my own children don’t know these parts of my story.
And perhaps that’s why writing it feels so confronting.
I’ve spent years keeping certain parts of myself private. Not because I’m ashamed of them, but because I’ve never really known how to talk about them.
I don’t know how people will feel reading this. I don’t even know how I’ll feel once I’ve shared it.
But I wonder how many people I’ve crossed paths with over the years have been carrying their own struggles without anyone knowing.
Perhaps someone who used to stand in the front row of my classes will read this and remember those days a little differently.
Perhaps someone working in real estate will recognise the emotional exhaustion that can come with caring so much about other people’s outcomes.
Or perhaps someone will simply recognise that strange feeling of being one person to the outside world and someone quite different behind closed doors.
I don’t really know.
I just know that this week was difficult, and for once, instead of packing it away and pretending it didn’t happen, I felt like writing about it.
And perhaps sharing something I’ve kept hidden for so long might mean something to someone else.
But today, I’m okay.
Joey