Iwas in my mid-20s when I fell into one of the most toxic relationships of my life. I remember buying my first self-help book, which promised I could be healed of anything if only I banished my limiting beliefs. I devoured it in days and even though I was still the same depressed, broke, single mother I had been when I picked up the book, that didn’t matter. I was hooked. Over the next 15 years, I bought hundreds of self-help books, courses and apps, and tracked down every self-styled personal improvement guru on TikTok and YouTube in the hope that they could teach me how to become happier, more confident and more lovable. I internalised messages, such as: “Stop being a victim to take back your power.” I even dipped my toe into manifesting and hypnosis: “Start thinking you are slim and healthy even though you probably need to lose a few pounds and have a chronic health condition.” But still, nothing worked. Some approaches were gentle and perhaps even obvious: “talk kindly to yourself, get enough sleep”. Others bordered on dangerous, whether it was encouraging me to spend more money than I could afford in order to “manifest” wealth or telling me to ignore my health problems to feel healthy. Only I never realised the danger at the time. Growing up in an environment of addiction and domestic conflict made me vulnerable to the industry’s promises of self-improvement. My childhood experiences made it hard for me to know my place and value in the world, or find my people. I believed self-help authors could be the mentors I thought I had always needed but never found. My dependency took a particularly strong hold after the death of my father in 2022. I managed to spend such an enormous amount of time reading about how to grieve well and overcome trauma that I was not, ironically, doing the things I needed to do to actually feel better: sitting with my feelings, allowing myself to cry and processing the loss. Still, the obsession persisted, and the start of this year was no different to every other. I stocked up on content that promised to help me tackle my every issue, from overcoming anxiety and escaping my overdraft to changing my diet to rid myself of my multiple sclerosis. This would be my year, I thought. But even though I was following the guidance, nothing was helping me to feel better about myself and my brain scans still showed I was living with an incurable neurological disease. I couldn’t help but feel that not getting results was my own personal failing, rather than the industry’s with all its promises. My obsession with self-help had become toxic, and something had to give. It started to dawn on me that instead of helping me, the advice was making me feel worse. It took a deep conversation with a loved one to recognise that in trying to change my life, I was trying to change things that had happened to me and shaped who I was – often things that were out of my control. Instead of focusing on who I wanted to become, I had to quit self-help to learn and accept who I really was. Spending time alone, often walking, and listening to my thoughts without trying to silence or change them helped. I let myself cry rather than hold in the tears like I always used to do. Since I quit my self-help crutch, I’ve realised that focusing all your energy on improving yourself can really suck the joy out of life. It makes happiness conditional: only when I have got to a certain stage can I feel contentment; only when I look that way can I be loved. It can also stop you from unconditionally accepting your imperfectly perfect self. After a long time, I am finally coming round to the idea that perhaps I never needed fixing at all. Emily Goddard is a production subeditor at the Guardian and a freelance writer