What is it in us that causes us to continually push, prove, and pursue, even when doing so moves us beyond our reasonable limits?
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I’ve been exploring this more in my life over the past year, but if I’m being honest—I continue to struggle. Not in the sense that I don’t see the pattern. I do. And so do my husband, son, family, and friends.

I have a habit of taking on more than is humanly possible.

And I guess in some ways, doing that taught me a lot about what I am capable of doing, long before I believed I could.

The cost seems to come when the ability to exceed your perceived limits becomes an expectation that you should keep exceeding them.

And I’m not entirely sure when that starts.

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For some, it may be early in childhood, earning their parents praise and adoration. Others, perhaps later—in college or even after they understood what doing the opposite cost them.

For me, maybe it was both. Childhood and the fear of letting others down, followed by giving up, and then pushing myself beyond to make up for lost time. That’s probably a more honest assessment.

I think we learn to look for the root cause when examining our lives, rather than understanding the patterns that shape them over time.

But patterns have histories, not just origins. They are reinforced by what works, what earns approval, what protects us, and sometimes by discovering that we really are capable of carrying more than we thought.

Which can make them remarkably difficult to recognize when they begin showing up differently.

I spent the past month facing yet another version of this pattern.

For some time, I knew I needed to reconsider my role on a board I care deeply about. My family needed more of me. My son needed more of me. There were learning and health needs that could no longer be squeezed into whatever space remained after everything else. My own health needed attention. And I was trying to build a business while continuing to give meaningful time and energy somewhere else.

Still, I kept trying to find a way to make it all work.

Maybe I could step down as chair but remain on the board. Maybe I could stay long enough to help with the transition. Maybe I could rearrange a few things, carry a little differently, or find some version in which I could continue supporting the team without neglecting what needed me at home.

I am very good at finding another way to carry something.

And somewhere in all that problem-solving, I began to recognize the pattern again.

The question wasn't whether I could find a way to stay. I probably could. The question was what staying would require me to keep sacrificing in order to do it.

That was harder to face.

Because there was no clean breaking point. I still believed in the work. People I cared about would be affected by my decision. Two other board members had recently needed to resign, which made the timing of my own departure feel even heavier. My reputation mattered to me. I didn't want to let people down.

But my son mattered more. Our health mattered more.

And perhaps part of recognizing a pattern is becoming honest about what it has already cost you.

I've sacrificed both before—not because I didn't love my family or care about my health, but because I was so accustomed to responding to what other people needed, wanted, or expected from me. And sometimes, if I'm being honest, because of what I thought I could prove about myself by continuing to carry it all.

So this time, after days of drafting correspondence, talking with people I trust, praying, examining my conscience, and inventing yet another way I might make everything fit, I sent the email I had been trying so hard not to send.

I stepped down.

“ The hardest decisions are not always the ones with a clear breaking point.

Sometimes nothing has gone terribly wrong. You still believe in the work. You still care about the people. You may still be capable of carrying what you've been carrying.

And perhaps that's precisely what makes the decision so difficult.

We can conflate importance with opportunity, or even with our ability to contribute. But something can matter deeply and still no longer be ours to carry.

For me, this decision meant accepting that two things I cared deeply about had come into conflict. I had made a commitment to people I respected. But my family needed something different from me now. My health did too. And I could no longer treat those things as what received whatever capacity remained after everything else.

There was no clean justification that made the decision stop hurting.

There was only a growing recognition that all the ways I kept inventing to stay were asking the same question: How can I keep carrying this?

When perhaps the question I needed to ask was whether I should.

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