Things I Didn’t Know

There comes a moment - sometimes unremarkable, sometimes painfully sharp - when you realize that pretending everything is fine no longer works. Not just in theory, not just as something you agree with in conversations about burnout or work-life balance, but in your own life, in your own body, in the way your days unfold. For a long time, I thought I could outrun that moment. I believed that if I just kept pushing forward, meeting expectations, staying available, staying responsible, keeping the machine running - then whatever fatigue or heaviness was lurking underneath would eventually dissolve on its own. I was wrong.

In the professional environments we often move through, the pressure to remain composed is immense. We’re expected to deliver, to lead, to reply on time, to smile, to sit in meetings and make decisions even when our bodies are tired and our minds are aching for pause. Somewhere along the way, I started believing that allowing myself to step back, to say “I’m not okay,” to slow down, would be seen as a failure - would make me appear less capable, less reliable, less strong. And so I became very skilled at hiding. I carried stress quietly, ignored signs that my health needed attention, told myself that I’d rest later, that I’d get around to checking in with myself once the urgent things were done.

But the urgent things never stop coming. And health does not wait for a convenient time to break.

If this past year has taught me anything, it’s that no level of commitment to your work can - or should - come at the expense of your health. Not just physical health, though that too is so often ignored until it's impossible to avoid, but also the mental and emotional spaces we live in. The long silences we keep. The exhaustion we normalize. The pressure we put on ourselves to always show up smiling, even when we feel nothing of the sort. And in that space, I’ve had to face a truth that is not easy to admit: I am not always strong. I am not always well. And pretending that I am - especially when I am not - is not an act of resilience. It is, in fact, the exact opposite.

There is a deep cost to this kind of pretending, and I am only now beginning to fully understand it. It seeps into your relationships, your energy, your ability to connect with others honestly. You start to forget how to ask for help, how to let people know what you need, how to say, “This is too much for me right now.” And perhaps worst of all, you begin to disconnect from your own intuition - the inner voice that knows when you’re pushing past your limit but has been silenced for too long.

This birthday didn’t arrive with a celebration or a loud moment of clarity. But somewhere in the quiet of today, I felt something shift. A small but important realization that the strength I used to value so much - the ability to keep going, to never break, to never stop - is not the kind of strength I want to carry into the future. What I want now is something softer, something truer. The strength to be honest. To say, “I need rest.” To admit, “I’m struggling.” To stop pretending that unread emails, delayed tasks, or stepping away for a day make me less of a professional. They don’t. They make me human.

There’s something powerful in being remembered on your birthday by people who are no longer in your daily life. When their message appears - simple, warm, unexpected - it reminds you that connection doesn’t only live in the fast-paced world of our calendars and deadlines. It lives in memory, in shared history, in care that remains even after distance grows. And it reminded me that I, too, need to care for myself with the same gentleness I offer others. Because if I cannot show up for myself in moments of weakness, how can I expect to fully show up for anyone else?

I don’t know what the year ahead will bring. I won’t make promises to myself about balance or wellness that I can’t keep. But I will try to stop apologizing for needing space. I will try to stop measuring my worth through constant availability. I will try to speak more openly when something is not right, and to treat health - my own and others’ - not as a luxury we earn after the work is done, but as a constant, non-negotiable part of our lives.

We all carry something invisible. Sometimes, what we carry is far heavier than we let on. But perhaps the bravest thing we can do - especially in environments that reward silence over softness - is to let it show. To admit that we are not machines. To trust that people will understand, if we allow them the chance.

And so, on this quiet day of turning one year older, I am not making a resolution. I am simply acknowledging a truth I’ve long tried to outrun: that I am allowed to be unwell, to be unsure, to not have everything under control. And maybe, from that place of honesty, something softer, kinder, and more sustainable can begin.