Confidence Reclaimed Award

1. Describe a moment when you had to rebuild your confidence from rock bottom.

There wasn’t just one rock bottom — there were layers. But if I had to name the moment that stripped me bare, it was the day I was handed legal papers and knew it was over. The lies, the shame, the guilt I’d been carrying — it all came crashing down. I wasn’t just caught. I was exposed. And in that instant, I knew I had destroyed everything I had spent a lifetime building.

Let me rewind for a second.

I used to run high-end events — celebrity galas, luxury festivals, red carpet experiences. I had built a reputation as someone who could make magic happen. From “An Evening with Jane Seymour” to multimillion-dollar Italian expos, I was known for pulling off the impossible. On the outside, it looked glossy and powerful. But behind the scenes, I was drowning.

I’d been conned by people I trusted. First a slick, fast-talking chef who left me with over a million dollars in debt. Then a so-called “prince” who manipulated me into handing over €50,000 in cash — supposedly to secure Sophia Loren’s appearance at an event. I was told not to tell anyone. Not even her manager. That should’ve been a red flag, but I was already in too deep.

By then, I had lost my business, my savings, and any sense of control. I was desperate, cornered, and emotionally wrecked. That’s when I did something I still regret with every cell in my body: I stole from someone who had trusted me — a client of over 20 years, someone I considered a friend. It was a last-ditch attempt to fix a financial mess I didn’t know how to escape. But there’s no excuse. None.

And so, there I was, facing the fallout.

That moment — being charged, facing the courts, standing in front of a judge — that was the day I hit the kind of rock bottom you don’t just walk away from. I lost everything. My reputation. My business. The respect of my peers. My identity. I wasn’t “Connie the extraordinary event planner” anymore. I was an inmate. A criminal. A woman who had betrayed trust in the worst way.

And let me tell you — nothing prepares you for prison. You think you’re strong until the door slams shut behind you and your whole life becomes a number and a routine. My confidence didn’t just disappear. It disintegrated. I felt worthless. Like a failure. Like I deserved every bit of suffering that was coming.

But inside that darkness… something cracked open.

At first, it was just survival. I started journaling. Reflecting. Looking back at the choices that led me there — not to justify them, but to understand them. And through that process, I realised something: confidence isn’t about success or status. It’s about integrity. It’s about facing your truth, no matter how ugly, and deciding to do something about it.

So I started to rebuild. Slowly. From the inside out.

I did the inner work — therapy, writing, confronting shame head-on. I didn’t want to just get through my sentence. I wanted to come out of it better. Cleaner. Honest. And capable of helping others not make the same mistakes.

When I was released, I was terrified to re-enter the world. I had nothing. I’d lost my network, my career, and most painfully — the ability to trust myself. But I was determined to start again. To earn back my self-respect one small step at a time.

I started volunteering. Speaking. Sharing my story — first in small community groups, then in front of organisations like Gambler’s Help and Headspace. Eventually, I began speaking on bigger stages. And the moment someone came up to me with tears in their eyes saying, “Thank you… I thought I was alone,” I knew I had found something worth rebuilding for.

And so I wrote my book: From the Shadows into the Light. It wasn’t easy. I had to relive things I’d tried to bury. But I also got to honour the lessons, the growth, and the brutal beauty of second chances. That book is a line in the sand — a promise to never go back to hiding. To keep showing up, telling the truth, and helping others rise.

I won’t pretend rebuilding confidence is a straight road. It’s more like a demolition site — rubble everywhere, ghosts of who you used to be whispering that you’re not enough. But here’s what I’ve learned: when you’ve lost everything, you’ve got a rare gift — the freedom to rebuild authentically.

I don’t want to be who I was before all this. That version of me looked confident but was constantly performing, pleasing, proving. Today, my confidence is quieter — but stronger. It’s rooted in truth. In owning my story. In knowing that even at my lowest, I chose to rise.

So yes, I rebuilt my confidence — but not by pretending nothing happened. I rebuilt it by facing everything that did… and deciding it didn’t get to define me.

This journey isn’t just mine anymore. It belongs to every woman who’s ever fallen, every person who’s carried shame, every voice that’s been silenced by guilt or fear. I speak for them too.

My name is Connie Paglianiti. I am a woman who lost it all. And I am also a woman who came back — wiser, louder, and more alive than ever.

2. What internal beliefs did you have to change to reclaim your self-worth?

When everything came crashing down — the betrayals, the financial ruin, the media headlines, and finally, prison — I realised something terrifying: I had no clue who I really was without the external “success.” All my life, I’d wrapped my identity around what I did — not who I was.

So when I lost the titles, the events, the client list, the invitations, the red carpets, the so-called power — I was left standing there stripped bare. No makeup. No brand. No buffer. Just Connie. And at the time, I hated that version of her. I didn’t just lose my self-worth — I felt like I never truly had any to begin with.

That was the first belief I had to confront:
“You are only valuable if you’re achieving.”
That belief had been running the show for decades. I was the ‘doer,’ the ‘fixer,’ the one who pulled rabbits out of hats for A-listers and created spectacular experiences under impossible deadlines. People clapped. They admired. They praised me for my energy, my flair, my work ethic. I wore that as a badge of honour… until the mask was ripped off.

The truth? That kind of self-worth is a trap. Because the moment you’re not producing, not achieving, not impressing… you crumble. And that’s exactly what happened to me.

The second internal belief I had to dismantle was:
“Your worth is tied to what other people think of you.”
That one ran deep. I didn’t want to disappoint people. I didn’t want to be seen as the woman who failed. So I hid things. I pretended I was coping. I smiled on the outside while drowning internally. And because I didn’t want to be judged, I avoided asking for help — until it was too late. That’s how people spiral. That’s how secrets fester.

The third belief — and this one was the hardest to admit — was:
“You’re a bad person because of what you did.”
I carried that for years. I punished myself. I isolated. I lived in shame. I avoided mirrors. I thought I deserved to suffer. And to be honest, I didn’t even think I had the right to rebuild my life. Not after what I’d done.

But here’s what shifted everything…

Sitting alone in a prison cell, stripped of everything familiar, I asked myself a question that cracked me open:
“Is this really who you are — or is this who you became trying to survive?”

That question changed everything.

I wasn’t born dishonest. I didn’t wake up one day and decide to commit a crime. I was a woman under pressure, manipulated, desperate, ashamed — and I made an awful choice. A choice I take full responsibility for. But I also realised: one chapter doesn’t define the whole book.

And that’s when the rebuild began. Internally first.

I started journaling. A lot of that writing would later form the backbone of my book, From the Shadows into the Light. I began challenging those toxic beliefs one by one. I worked with mentors. Therapists. I faced the people I had hurt. I apologised. I took responsibility. But I also gave myself permission to grow.

New belief systems started to form, brick by brick:

👉 “I am more than my mistakes.”
👉 “My worth isn’t earned through achievements — it’s inherent.”
👉 “Telling the truth is more powerful than maintaining an image.”
👉 “Vulnerability isn’t weakness — it’s connection.”

One of the most transformative shifts for me was understanding that shame and guilt are not the same. Guilt says, “I did something wrong.” Shame says, “I am something wrong.” Guilt can be useful — it can drive repair, humility, and growth. Shame, on the other hand, keeps you stuck. And I was stuck for a long time.

I had to separate who I was from what I did — and that was the turning point. I could acknowledge the pain I caused without condemning myself to a life sentence of self-loathing.

Confidence, for me, didn’t come back with applause or achievements. It started in quiet moments:
— When I answered a call from someone I wronged, instead of running from it.
— When I walked into a room full of professionals and said, “I’ve been to prison.”
— When I stopped trying to hide and started telling my story — all of it.
— When I finally stood on stage and said, “Yes, I fell. But I got back up.”

That’s when I started reclaiming my power — not because I was perfect, but because I was honest. Because I refused to be silenced by shame anymore. That shift? That was the rebirth of my self-worth.

And here's something unexpected: the more I shared my truth, the more people came out of the woodwork. Women in recovery. Business owners carrying secrets. Leaders battling burnout. People who were stuck in cycles of addiction, fear, and imposter syndrome. They told me my story gave them courage. That my honesty helped them feel seen.

That’s when I realised that my mess wasn’t just for me. It could be a message. A roadmap. A mirror for others. And suddenly, the weight I’d been carrying for years became a platform I could stand on.

I don’t rely on external validation anymore. Do I still like being recognised for my work? Of course. I’m human. But I don’t need it to feel worthy. I know who I am — and I like her. Not because she’s flawless, but because she owns her truth.

And that is the greatest shift of all.

Today, I teach other women how to reclaim their confidence after chaos. I speak about it. I write about it. I live it. My entire Breaking Chains movement is about letting go of shame, rewriting the narrative, and standing tall in your truth — no matter where you’ve come from.

Because the truth is, your past isn’t a life sentence. It’s a lesson. And when you’re brave enough to face it — when you challenge the beliefs that broke you — that’s when the real healing begins.

3. Who or what supported you during your comeback?

When everything crumbled — the arrests, the court dates, the media attention, and eventually prison — I quickly learned that support doesn’t always come in loud or obvious ways. Sometimes, it shows up quietly. In the people who still look you in the eye. In the ones who stand beside you even when your world’s been flipped upside down.

For me, that person was first and foremost my mum. She stood by me from day one — not with judgement, but with unconditional love. She sent me money while I was inside so I could buy the basics — shampoo, toothpaste, even a cup of decent coffee from the canteen when instant sludge just wouldn’t cut it. Those small comforts meant the world in a place where dignity is stripped away piece by piece.

She never told me I was a disappointment. She never asked, “Why did you do this?” She just loved me. Quietly. Steadily. And I’ll carry that kind of love with me for the rest of my life.

And then there was my husband. My rock. Even after the shame, the media headlines, the complete upheaval of our life — he stood by me. That kind of loyalty doesn’t come wrapped in flowers or dramatic declarations. It’s in the everyday presence. The visits. The holding on when it would’ve been easier to let go. We’d been through our own storms, but this tested everything. And somehow, even with all the chaos, he chose to stay.

My son, too. He didn’t send letters or draw pictures — and I didn’t expect him to. He was hurting. Confused. Processing it all in his own way. But during the rare moments when he was allowed to visit — thanks to the strict COVID restrictions — he showed up. And just seeing him, being able to hug him even for a few minutes, reminded me that I still had something to fight for. I didn’t need him to say anything. His presence was enough. He’s older now, and we’ve had open, honest conversations about that time. I think, in a strange way, it’s made us closer.

Of course, COVID changed everything. Most of the time, we weren’t allowed visitors. The prison was on lockdown more often than not. That meant no physical connection, no human touch from the people who meant the most to me. That isolation could have broken me. But somehow, it cracked something else open instead.

Inside that silence, I found something unexpected — reflection. I had no choice but to sit with myself. And that’s where some of the real support came from — not from people, but from the choice to stop running.

But I also found support in unexpected places. The women inside. Fellow inmates. They didn’t care who I used to be. They didn’t judge my crime — many had their own complicated pasts. There was something very raw and human about our shared experience. We swapped stories, tears, and survival tactics. One woman said to me during a meal, “You’ve still got a spark, Connie. Don’t let this place put it out.” That stuck with me.

We weren’t friends in the traditional sense, but we were mirrors for one another — showing each other what pain looks like, and what resilience sounds like. Those conversations grounded me.

When I was finally released, the world felt unfamiliar. I had nothing. No business. No income. And trust? I had to rebuild that from scratch — with others, yes, but more importantly, with myself.

That’s when mentorship and personal development came into play. I found support in circles I never would’ve imagined being part of — speaker communities, recovery advocates, life coaches. Women and men who weren’t interested in judging me for my past, but saw the value in my present. People who believed I had something to offer — not because I was polished, but because I was real.

That was a game changer.

They helped me get clear on my message. They challenged me to share my story, to use it as a force for good. They didn’t coddle me — they elevated me. And that kind of support changed my life.

I started speaking again. First to community groups, then to organisations like Gambler’s Help and Headspace, and eventually on national and international stages. Each time I told my story, a little more shame fell away. And each time someone came up to me and said, “You gave me the courage to face my own truth,” it reminded me why I kept going.

And then I wrote my book, From the Shadows into the Light. That book became another form of support — not just for me, but for others. Writing it forced me to face everything I’d buried. But it also helped me reclaim my voice. The feedback I received — messages from readers who said it helped them feel less alone — that’s been the most healing part of all.

And let’s not forget: I supported myself too. I had to. There were days I didn’t want to get out of bed. Days I wanted to stay invisible. But I didn’t. I got up. I journaled. I reflected. I read. I did the hard internal work — the stuff no one claps for.

People often say, “You’re so strong, Connie.” But strength isn’t something I was born with. It was built in silence. In cells. In courtrooms. In rehab rooms. In conversations that made me weep. I pieced myself back together because I had to — for my family, yes, but also for the woman I knew I could become.

So, who supported me?

My mother — who never stopped showing up.

My husband — who stood beside me when the world didn’t.

My son — who kept me grounded by simply being there.

The women I met inside — who showed me humanity in the most unlikely place.

The mentors and speakers who helped me rise.

The readers and strangers who reminded me that my story matters.

And the version of me who refused to stay broken.

My comeback wasn’t built on crowds or applause. It was built in quiet moments. In deep truths. In real love. And in the fierce decision to never let shame win.