Unsolicited Advice Isn’t “Being Helpful.” It’s a Trauma Response.

This blog is for both sides of the dynamic.

If you’re the one who gives unsolicited advice, meaning you jump into fixing mode, feel responsible for other people’s emotions, or get uncomfortable watching someone struggle, then this is for you.

And if you’re the one who constantly receives unsolicited advice, meaning that you feel unseen, second-guessed, or subtly controlled even when the other person “means well,” then this is also for you.

Because unsolicited advice isn’t about being helpful, it’s about nervous system safety, control, and survival patterns.

I was a guest on a podcast this week, and at one point, we were talking about my story, my work, my journey, the things I’ve lived and learned.

Mid-conversation, the host paused and said, “Do you know how amazing you are?”

And it completely caught me off guard.

Because, despite the years of inner work I’ve done and even though I genuinely do love myself, I realized something uncomfortable in that moment:

I don’t always see myself that way. At least not consistently, instinctively, or without effort.

And that surprised me.

Because I talk a lot about self-worth, self-trust, and self-acceptance, and here I was thinking I was walking the walk, but realizing that I don’t always hold myself in the same regard as others sometimes do.

So, I took time to process what that means and how I can show up differently for myself.

I have jump rope trauma.

Generally, it lives in the undercurrents of my brain. But every time I see someone jump roping, it punches me in the face. Luckily, this is not a sight I see too often. However, I was at the gym last weekend, and I saw a woman jump roping with some crazy moves like side swings and criss-cross arms.

Initially, I was mesmerized by her skills, but then the shame hit me.

Why am I not over this by now?

It was not a rhetorical question. I earnestly thought about why I wasn’t over it. And I found that it’s not about jump roping. It’s about what happens when you outsource your worth to people who don’t even like themselves.

Since I already wrote about the full version of the jump rope shaming incident in my book, Running in Slippers, I am pasting some excerpts below, and then will follow with a reflection from 2026 Me.

To give some context around these excerpts, I was in Guam in late 2019 for a three-week dog-sitting assignment for five dogs. I was referred to this by a girl who told me I needed Botox (this will be addressed in the reflections!).

Several months ago, a friend invited me to a swimwear fashion show. She invited me via text and sent the link to secure a ticket. Our tickets were free because she knew a vendor so all I had to do was do was click, register, and show up.

The day of the event, as we were waiting in line to get in, I ran into a guy that I know from surfing. And when I say “know,” I mean just that. I simply know him. I am not friends with him. And I wouldn’t call him an acquaintance either.

I know his name. I know of know what he does for work. But other than that, we generally only talk about surfing.

Let’s call him Tom.

If you’re walking into the New Year saying, “I just want to feel better,” “I just want more ease,” or “I just want things to change,” but you haven’t decided who you are becoming, you are not setting intentions.

This is called hope.

And hope is nice. But intention is fierce.

Because intention is clear. And clarity kills identities that can’t come with you because you are upleveling too hard.

So, for my first blog post of the year, we’re talking about intentions. Not resolutions to go to the gym or vision boards that you forget about by February or “good vibes only” toxic positivity. But the kind of focus that locks in your nervous system, behavior, and bank account.

The Munich airport is extremely clean and modern. It reminds me of a Russian company that I once interviewed for that was extremely formal, had a spartan office with minimal décor, and was void of any colors not on the black and white spectrum.

Near my gate, there is a lush garden area off to the side with small trees, plants, and plentiful chairs, yet everybody is sitting in the institutional, noisy gate area.

I am exhausted from my 2 am flight from Marrakesh. Normally, I would be pissed at a 2 am flight because I hate interrupted sleep, but I am so eager to go home, I really didn’t care what it took.

I had trouble sleeping on the plane because of the chronic hypervigilance I have developed from this trip.  I have about an hour until my flight to San Francisco departs. I am confident I can sleep on that flight, but until then I want to rest in this garden.

With the warmth of the fire on our faces, the basket lifts off the ground.

Riding in a hot air balloon is a strange sensation. We are floating. It feels magical. And the rising sun, dawn peacefulness, and other hot air balloons in the distance add to the whimsy of it all.

I hate it here. I can’t wait to go home.

There is a drone filming all of us hot air balloon passengers and I want to buy a video, so I stuff down my feelings and plaster on a smile.

I enter the air-conditioned lobby, and the employee at reception eagerly greets me before I arrive at his station.

“Hi,” I respond much less enthusiastically while faking a smile. Although I am happy to finally be at the hotel, I won’t feel better until I eat, shower, and regulate my nervous system from the overstimulation of the day.

“How are you today?” he overzealously asks in a way that seems like he’s being sincere and not going through the motions of a perfunctory greeting.

I don’t know if it’s his perceived genuineness or me being too exhausted to keep of the fake happy façade, but I tell him the truth, “Not good.”

I can tell by his smile immediately disappearing that wasn’t what he was expecting to hear. The recovering people-pleaser in me feels the need to over-explain now that I feel responsible for ruining his cheery mood.

Because I’m not surfing anymore on this retreat, Imsouane is cold and dusty, and I don’t want to share a room, I decided to leave a day early to spend an extra day in Marrakesh, which is where I already had plans to cap off this trip anyway.

This means that I have to pay for an extra night at the hotel and my own transportation to Marrakesh since I am not leaving with the retreat group. This wouldn’t be a big deal except the five-star hotel that I already have a reservation at in Marrakesh doesn’t have the same room available a day earlier, so I have to pay for a much higher-end room, which is a significant upgrade, although still cheap for a 5-star hotel in US dollars.

I really don’t care how much it costs to get out of here though. I haven’t had this bad of a trip since I dog sat for five dogs in Guam in 2019.

Is this worse than Guam?

I feel like I’m on a Gen Z car trip.

Oh wait, I am.

I was looking forward to today because anything that doesn’t include dressing in a smelly, marshmallow fit wetsuit and surfing in freezing water and reckless crowds sounds like a treat. But now that we are heading to a local market in Essaouira in a cramped car, listening to girly pop music at an unpleasantly high level, I am equally uncomfortable.

The freezing water to my face feels like I’m in a knife fight with the ocean. Since I didn’t surf yesterday because I couldn’t move my neck to the left, I thought I would be more excited about surfing with the retreat group today. But when I put on my smelly, marshmallow costume, I mean wetsuit, my chest was heavy with dread.

You love surfing. You love the ocean. Just get out there and you’ll be fine.

I do love surfing, and I do love the ocean, but not in Morocco with freezing water and reckless surf schools. Now that I am out in the ocean, I am not excited at all.

The waves are nice here. Just focus on learning more about surfing.

I see a good-sized wave coming and get excited about catching it, especially now that I am feeling slightly more agile in a wetsuit. With much more grace than the last few sessions, I catch the wave and start riding down the line as five other people who aren’t even paying attention take off in front of me. This is the equivalent of a car pulling out into oncoming traffic and not looking. Because I don’t want to hit them, I pull off the wave, even though I had priority.

It's frustrating that I can’t even enjoy surfing here.

Was I drugged?

Because I am half-unconscious and can’t seem to move my body, this terror-fueled thought is only in my brain. I become more coherent ss the sensation of the cold floor intensifies on my right cheek.

What happened? Why am I lying on the floor?

The terror escapes the confinement of my brain and moves into a full-blown panic attack that consumes my entire body as I regain more consciousness but still feel very cloudy and confused. My body still feels limp, but the adrenaline of the panic enables me to use my arms to prop myself on the floor.

The left side of my neck and face are in searing pain. As if in a dream, I reach up with my left hand to touch the painful areas, which confirms that they are raw and tender. My brain frantically scans for any memories of what happened but all I can remember is walking through the longue area.

Finally! I have made it to the surf retreat in Imsouane.

I was expecting to feel relieved, but I feel on edge. I saw pictures of Imsouane on Instagram but in true Instagram vs. reality fashion, the filters and edits distorted what I am now seeing.

The town clings to the mountainside, where tall, beige cliffs, bare of any vegetation, loom over the ocean. The architecture is very basic with a run-down surf town vibe, complete with shacks, surfboard décor, and dust swirling in the wind.

The car pulls up to our hotel, which is surrounded by a protective wall. It’s giving institutional fortress, yet safe. There is a defunct ATM on the outside, which feels ominous, so I look away, searching for an auspicious sign so I can feel relieved about finally making it here. But I am grasping. Everything feels bland and un-whimsical, the complete opposite of what I came for.

After eating my room service, I take a comforting, hot shower which feels extra refreshing after a long day of traveling. After beating myself up for making a few mistakes, I feel proud of myself for making it to the hotel at the originally planned time. If I figured out logistics of today, I can figure out anything. This empowerment is interrupted by the room telephone ringing.

Don’t answer it. You need to relax.

Curiosity killed the cat. I answer the phone. “Hello?”

I am met with a stern, deep voice, “Hello, Ms. Hawkins, you need to come down and give us your credit card. We don’t have it on file.”

Oh my God, leave me alone. I am trying to relax.

The reality of my short time in Spain is hitting hard this morning now as I am boarding my flight to Málaga. I have a long day ahead, but I am excited. I am finally taking the ferry from Spain to Morocco! But it comes with a price. I am flying from Mallorca to Málaga, riding a bus from Málaga to Algeciras, taking the ferry from Spain to Morocco, taking a car from Tanger Med to Tangier, train from Tangier to Casablanca, and spending the night in Casablanca. Tomorrow, I have a flight from Casablanca to Agadir, and then a car from Agadir to my final destination of Imsouane.

The tightness in my chest is telling me that something is off. But what? Should I not go on this trip?

It’s rare that I dismiss my intuition but my Uber to the airport will be here in a few minutes, so I don’t have time to interpret what is happening, especially since I can’t not go at this point and I don’t want to know if something bad is going to happen. I remind myself of my intention for this trip:

I am open to receiving.

This trip is special because Spain and Morocco have been on my travel bucket list since the early 2000s. I loved watching Rick Steves Travels Europe, and my favorite episode was when he went to Spain and crossed the Straight of Gibraltar by ferry to Morocco.

In the early 2000s, I loved watching Rick Steves Travels Europe, and my favorite episode was when he went to Spain and crossed the Straight of Gibraltar by ferry to Morocco.

At the time, I was almost fluent in Spanish and dreamed of going to Spain and practicing in the wild.

But this began my fascination with Morocco and the bucket list destination of Spain/Morocco.

I ran the 2011 Chicago Marathon in 3 hours and 31 minutes. My goal was to finish under 3:30. I didn’t miss my goal by 1 minute. I missed it by 1 minute and 48 seconds. And as a perfectionist, I didn’t see the 26.2 miles I conquered. I saw a 1-minute and 48-second failure.

Instead of celebrating, I punished myself. I ran harder, longer, and eventually burned myself out to the point I physically could not run long distances anymore.

Fast forward to a few years ago, and I was stuck in the same pattern, only this time with forgiveness.

There were several people who had hurt me. Deeply. And I wanted to forgive them so I could stop hurting. But no matter how much I tried, it didn’t click.

Recently I posted a video on social media where I was wearing my signature style of statement sunglasses, and I received a critical comment about them. It stung for a minute because I am a human being, and I have feelings. And then I moved on with my life because I don’t care about that person’s taste in eyewear.

There are many older versions of me that would have cared way too much.

I saw it while mindlessly scrolling through my Instagram feed. Intrigued instantly slapped me across the face as I read about a White Lotus Thailand themed murder mystery dinner party.

Do it.

I am my intuition’s bitch, so I immediately went to the event page to sign up. There were two options: participant and spectator.

Sign up for participant.

No, Intuition. I don’t want to participate. I’d rather hide and watch.

Do it.