I Love What I Do. And I’m Still Tired.

I often describe myself as an object in motion. Not just because I’m busy, but because I’ve always felt that forward movement was the safest place to be. Keep going. Keep doing. Keep showing up. That’s how I’ve built my life and my business—through grit, structure, and the discipline of momentum. I juggle executive leadership, frequent travel, raising children, and keeping my own health in check. It’s a lot. It has always been a lot. And I’ve always prided myself on being able to carry it.

But here’s the quiet truth that leadership rarely lets you say out loud: I’m tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes, not the kind that’s solved with a weekend off. I’m tired in the way that lives in your bones. The kind that accumulates over years of being “on.” Of holding space for everyone else while quietly asking yourself how long you can keep holding it.

It’s not burnout in the traditional sense. I’m not imploding. I’m not stepping away. I’m still present in my work, still deeply invested in my people, still driven by the same sense of purpose that has always guided me. But I’m not okay in the neat, polished way leaders are expected to be. And I think it’s time we talk about that.

There’s a pressure in leadership that doesn’t always have a name. A subtle undercurrent that says, “Be strong. Be stable. Don’t let them see you sweat.” And I’ve internalized that as deeply as anyone. For years, I’ve cultivated consistency. I’ve built routines that ground me: my yoga practice, my morning workouts, my time with my family. Those things are not just wellness tools—they’re survival mechanisms. But even those tools can begin to feel like one more thing to perform when the demands never let up.

The part people don’t see is what it takes to sustain that consistency. They don’t see the 3 a.m. wake-ups, the silent weight of responsibility, the constant triaging of emotional bandwidth. They don’t see the moments when I sit in my car for five extra minutes just to breathe before walking into a room and leading again. And maybe that’s part of the problem—not just for me, but for all of us. We’ve built a culture where resilience is expected but rarely replenished.

And lately, the intensity has only escalated. The market is shifting under our feet—interest rate hikes, economic volatility, geopolitical uncertainty, AI disrupting entire industries faster than we can plan for. In my sector, we’ve watched tariffs, regulations, and supply chain dynamics force us to reinvent our strategies overnight. Leaders everywhere are in triage mode. There’s very little margin for error, and even less room to pause.

The volume is up everywhere—on risk, on urgency, on expectation. And so, like many of you, I’ve doubled down. I’ve stayed later, moved faster, carried more. Because that’s what the moment has demanded. And while I’m grateful for the clarity of purpose that leadership brings, the truth is that this current cycle of “on” feels longer and heavier than anything I’ve known.

I’ve found myself, more than once lately, standing in front of a mirror and thinking, “This isn’t sustainable.” But then I pivot, because there’s no time to unravel. There are meetings. There are decisions. There are people depending on me. And the truth is, I love what I do. I believe in what I’ve built. I’m proud of the company, the team, and the culture we’ve shaped. But love doesn’t negate exhaustion. Passion doesn’t erase pressure.

And while I’m still moving—still an object in motion—I’m starting to realize that movement alone isn’t enough. I don’t want to just keep going; I want to keep going well. I want to sustain—not just my output, but my internal steadiness. My joy. My clarity. My sense of self.

That requires a kind of honesty that leadership doesn’t always allow space for. But I’m carving that space now. Because if I don’t tell the truth about what this season feels like, then I become part of the illusion. The illusion that leaders are supposed to be machines. That we don’t get overwhelmed. That we don’t crave softness, or rest, or simplicity.

There’s a duality to this life. I feel it constantly. For every moment of ease—curled up on the couch with my kids or walking in nature—there’s a corresponding moment of strain. A tough decision. A crisis. A quiet mental math of how many more hours I can give before I start borrowing from tomorrow’s reserves. And it doesn’t mean I’m doing it wrong. It means I’m human.

I know I’m not alone in this. I know there are other leaders carrying a thousand unseen burdens while still showing up, still succeeding, still leading with integrity. But the cost is real. And it’s time we stopped pretending it isn’t.

So the question becomes: What now? What do we do with this awareness?

First, we tell the truth. Not just to ourselves, but to each other. We drop the façade of effortless leadership and start talking about what’s real. We admit that we’re tired. We name the toll. And in doing so, we give others permission to do the same.

Second, we stop valorizing overwork. We quit treating exhaustion as a badge of honor. We begin to model what it looks like to lead with boundaries, with rest, with sustainable rhythms. Not because we’ve “earned” it, but because it’s the only way forward that doesn’t end in collapse.

Third, we check in on each other, not just as a performance review, but as a human practice. I’m starting to ask different questions in my one-on-ones: How are you sleeping? What’s weighing on you? What do you need that you’re not asking for? Because those questions matter. They reveal the truth beneath the productivity.

And finally, I’m calling other leaders into this conversation—not with blame, but with invitation. We have the power to shift the culture of leadership from one of silent suffering to one of mutual support. But it starts with someone saying, “Me too.” It starts with someone going first.

So let me go first. Let me say that I’m proud of what I’ve built, and also worn down by it. That I love my work, and also long for more stillness. That I am not giving up—but I am changing how I carry it all.

This is what leadership looks like in 2025: uncertain, evolving, stretched thin—and still showing up. We don’t need to be perfect. We need to be present. And whole. And willing to ask better questions—not just about what we’re building, but about who we’re becoming in the process.

I’m still moving. But now, I’m moving differently. More slowly, more honestly, and with more intention. Because I want to keep going—not just farther, but deeper. And I want that for you, too.