I Was Allergic to Gold: A Founder's Story About Self-Worth

I'd been restless for a while.

Life on the outside was going as it was supposed to. I was enjoying work in Singapore, exploring a new city, traveling, making new friends. It looked like one of those Hollywood montage scenes—happy, settled, accomplished.

But deep down, something gnawed at me.

I sat with it. Meditated. And when I couldn't figure it out myself, I went to coaching. I was able to articulate that my life was in a good place, that I liked all parts of it. Saying it out loud was supposed to help me accept my reality. After all, it had taken difficult years to get here.

But I still felt restless. Annoyed. Like a jigsaw piece was missing.

So like any functioning 30-something psychologist, I knocked on therapy's door. I reiterated everything I'd said in coaching. Still walked away restless.

All I achieved was accepting: I'm restless. I have no words for why. I'm stuck feeling what I'm feeling.

I knew it centered around confidence or imposter syndrome. I was in the ballpark but nowhere close to the actual thing. And that wasn't enough for me because I wanted to move forward. There was something underneath these feelings and words. Something my brain couldn't piece through.

I'd been dreaming about building something of my own. I was already seeing patterns in founders and their lived experiences—the particular kind of burnout that comes from building while questioning if you're allowed to. I knew there was something here, but I wasn't showing up with stillness. I needed to do the research, analyze, see what was sticking out to me.

So I asked Abha, an expressive arts practitioner, to help me.

I told her I had no agenda but that I'd been wanting to paint and couldn't. I was restless. A lot was brewing but I didn't know where the session would go. I chose expressive arts therapy not because I thought it would "fix" anything—but because I was tired of trying to find the right words. Sometimes burnout recovery requires going around your brain, not through it.

What Happened When I Let My Hands Do the Talking

I showed up with no plan. Just: Let's see what happens when I stop demanding explanations.

Abha laid out paints, brushes, and paper. "Create whatever wants to come out," she said. No instructions. No "make it mean something."

I started picking colors. Abha prompted me to let my body and hands move naturally. I surrendered.

I started with chalk but she could see I felt constrained, so she opened her paints and left me with brushes and knives. Out of habit, I went for the brush. Quickly abandoned it for my hands. Feeling more agitated than calm, I needed my hands in it. Needed to feel the paint. Needed to touch, smear, blend without any tools getting in the way.

I picked colors that spoke to me. Eventually when my hand settled, I chose the knife. Sharp. Fierce strokes. Almost trying to bend the knife to my will.

And I landed up with this.

I stepped back. Stared at what I'd created. Had no idea what it meant.

That's when Abha started asking questions.

• "What do you notice about the colors?" 

• "Which one pulled you in most?" 

• "What attracted you to the gold?"

  
  

And as I answered, something clicked.

Yellow Paper - I wanted the pop. The brightness. The energy I wasn't letting myself access.

Blue - I wanted calm. Peace. The serenity I wasn't letting myself have.

Red - The physical need to MOVE. Power and intensity. "Do something NOW." I was seeking passion and trying to claim it as my own.

Purple - Transformation. The in-between. Purple is blue and red combined—both the states I am and I'm not.

Gold - The desire for my worth. With my knife strokes, I was trying to assert and ascertain my self-worth. I was struggling to give myself permission to have it.

I'd literally painted the exact conflict I'd been living: The urgent need to act (red), stuck in transition (purple), questioning if I even deserved what I was reaching for (gold).

My body had been screaming this for months. My brain just couldn't hear it.

And the gold! Strangely, I've never really been fond of gold. I thought it was loud, garish, not for me. But that day, I couldn't stop looking at it. This shimmering, impossible-to-ignore gold that I needed to immerse my hands in. To feel it bleed into the red. To watch it blend and contrast with everything on it. 

The painting that came out? A mess. Chaotic. No form. Nothing you'd hang anywhere.

And I loved it. Because the calm and relief I felt seeing this on paper was indescribable. Like a weight had lifted and now I could start seeing what lay beneath.

Finally, Abha anchored the session with a question: 

How Much Space Are You Allowed to Take Up?

I sat with that. And then it unraveled.

I wasn't restless about my business. I was restless about me. About how much of myself I was allowed to show. How visible I was allowed to be. How much I was allowed to own.

Through coaching questions, I recognized that I wanted and needed more. I wished to help people the way I knew how but was too afraid to claim it as my idea. I wanted to take space, own it but I wasn't ready to step up.

I'd spent my entire coaching career helping others articulate their vision, claim their voice, step into their power. But me? I stayed behind the scenes.

"I'm just an introvert," I'd say. "I don't need the spotlight."

But that wasn't introversion. That was a self-worth problem dressed up as a personality trait. This is what imposter syndrome looks like in founders not just doubting your abilities, but doubting your right to be visible at all.

I wasn't avoiding visibility because I needed alone time to recharge. I was avoiding it because showing up fully felt like claiming something I hadn't earned yet. Like taking up space that didn't belong to me.

I'd built a career. Coached hundreds of leaders. Advocated for mental health. But I was still waiting for permission to own any of it.

Funnily enough, the gold stayed with me.

After that session, something strange happened. I couldn't stop painting gold.

I bought some gold leaf. Made small paintings experimenting with it for gifts. Eventually I painted the small nook in my home with it. Not hidden in a sketchbook—on my actual walls where I'd see them every day.

This gold fern on vibrant red became a permanent, visible piece of art. A way of  claiming space in my home.

That shift from "paint on paper" to "gold on my walls" was everything.

It was me saying: I'm not hiding this. I'm not keeping my worth tucked away where it's safe and small. I'm putting it out where I have to see it. Where others can see it and comment on it. Receive the good, bad, and ugly for it.

The Self-Worth Problem Most Founders Don't Talk About

Here's what I realized about self-worth that goes beyond the usual "believe in yourself" advice:

Self-worth is spatial. It's not abstract. It's about how much room you permit yourself to take up.

In meetings - do you speak up or edit yourself down before words even leave your mouth? Online - do you post your ideas or let them die in drafts? In your life - do you claim what you've built or deflect it as luck?

I'd been compressing myself for years. Making myself smaller so others would feel comfortable. I called it being "a team player." Being "humble." Being "not too much."

Self-worth is what you learned NOT to have.

Somewhere along the way, I absorbed messages: 

• My needs are a burden. 

• My success makes others uncomfortable. 

• My visibility is "showing off." 

• My worth is conditional on performance.

  
  

And I built a life around those beliefs so I wouldn't ruffle feathers. Working harder to prove I was valuable. Staying small so others felt big. Giving endlessly to earn the right to exist.

The exhausting part? It never ends. Because I wasn't trying to BE worthy. I was trying to BECOME worthy. 

This is how self-sabotage works in founders. I was so used to letting others take space that I thought that's what I was good at. I used a version of "positive self-worth" to not allow myself space. Used introversion as a way of being humble and justifying my choices. 

I coached founders through their ideas. Built their vision. Made them look good.

But my own ideas? My own voice? That stayed hidden.

Because if I never claimed my ideas, I could never fail at them. If I never took credit, I could never be criticized. If I stayed behind the scenes, I could never be "too much."

That's not generosity. That's self-sabotage masquerading as service.

What Changed After the Session

Over the months from that messy painting to the painted walls, I followed my gut.

I worked on the question about founders that I itched to answer.

I launched Founder Burnout. Publicly.

Not quietly. Not "let me just put this out there and see what happens." I claimed it. Said out loud: "This is mine. I built this. It matters."

I started posting on LinkedIn as myself. About my ideas, my experience, my quirks, my thoughts. Me. Not hiding behind the company page. Not softening my opinions. Not editing myself down to be palatable.

Just: Here's what I think. Here's what I've learned. Here's what startup founders need to hear about their mental health.

I rebuilt what burnout had taken.

My previous burnout, the one that came from overgiving, over-proving, staying invisible while carrying everything had cost me my voice. My confidence. My belief that I was allowed to exist loudly.

This work? The gold? It gave me permission to rebuild. Not as someone who'd "recovered from burnout." But as someone who understood that worth isn't earned….. it's claimed.

The work continues.Gold has mingled into my life now without thought or realizing.

The gold on my walls reminds me daily: You're allowed to take up space. You're allowed to be seen. You're allowed to own what you've built.

I still catch myself shrinking. I still hear the voice that says "who are you to..." Still feel the pull to stay small and safe.

But now? I have a different response.

I look at the gold. And I remember: This was always mine. I just needed to stop being allergic to it.