It didn’t happen in a meeting. It didn’t happen during an argument. It also didn’t happen during one of those long, slow-burn moments that can take weeks or months to unfold.
It happened while I was writing.
I was maybe five or six essays into the series that eventually became my first book, You Don’t Have to Escape to Be Free. On the surface, I didn’t think I was writing about anything traumatic. I was sitting in my basement kitchen that doubles as my home office, just thinking and typing. Without warning, something broke. I wrote a sentence, stopped to re-read it, and something in what I had just written hit me so hard. I felt the characteristic tightness in my throat — then the tears started streaming down my face.
I don’t cry often, and perhaps that’s part of the challenge, but when I do, I always ugly cry. I can’t talk because I’m choked with emotion, and there I was, sitting at my desk, my shoulders shaking while I wiped away tears that wouldn’t stop coming.
Like I said, that was day five or six. Two or three days later, the essay that really undid me came. I called it What I Didn’t Know I Was Carrying. In that essay, I told a story I’ve thought about so many times over the years. I thought I’d dealt with all the emotions around that story a long time ago. It’s a story about expectations, identity, and responsibility. It’s also about what I was willing to carry without complaint, and for whom.
Somewhere — maybe in my early adulthood, maybe sooner — I started confusing weight with worth. Somehow, I determined that increasing the weight of the burden meant I was increasing my value. And so, I took on everything. And not just tasks, but identities. I was the fixer, the provider, the hero. I was the guy who always stepped in, who never dropped the ball… even when no one else noticed the game.
For a long time, I was okay with it. I’d convinced myself that’s what it meant to be a provider.
That’s one of the insidious things about unhealthy patterns: they often come with applause. People, particularly bosses, like when you over-function, because it benefits them. They praise your self-sacrificing work ethic. They call you dependable. Reliable. A Team Player. They point to you when others drop the ball. Eventually, they stop checking if you even want to carry all that weight, because you’ve made it look easy. Necessary, even. Noble.
And if you’re not careful, you start believing the lie that strength also means silence. That’s toxic. Leadership doesn’t mean never being tired, but we convince ourselves that’s the case. We also start to believe that love means never needing anything back.
It happened again this week. I was back at the job I left seven months ago. At least, I was supposed to have left. I’d committed to help with a few wrap-up items, but the truth is I never really stopped showing up. Some part of me kept walking back in, doing things no one asked me to do, staying longer than I should.
I spent the weekend in my superpower: pre-ruminating about my conversation with the owner. When he finally got to the office, I spent almost two hours in meetings with him, pretending like nothing was wrong. Finally, seated in his office, I unloaded. I told him I wasn’t coming back to do work that wasn’t mine anymore.
Honestly, he never asked me to do that work. But I had convinced myself it wouldn’t get done if I didn’t do it. And if it didn’t get done, someone else might suffer. And if someone suffered, then I’d failed.
That’s how the logic loop works. And it was a declaration I had to make to stop myself from showing up in ways I hadn’t been asked.
We’re all familiar with this: If not me, then who? If not now, then when?
That script became my operating system a long time ago. It made me look strong. Sometimes even feel strong. But honestly, it was killing me.
Still is.
I read a line recently that was written by The Unseen Operator that hit home:
When you celebrate burnout as dedication, you teach people that suffering equals success. That’s how good people burn out quietly.
I felt like I was looking in a mirror when I read that.
Over time, I’ve become an expert in quiet burnout. I‘ve learned how to keep moving while I crumbled inside. I’ve mastered the art of “pushing through.” And I had praised myself for it.
Because I thought that’s what made me strong.
If you’re resonating with any of this, I wrote a book you might appreciate.
It’s called You Don’t Have to Escape to Be Free — a collection of honest reflections about identity, meaning, and building a life you don’t want to run away from.
You can check it out here: https://books.by/aaronpace
I learned to believe that strength was about absorbing impact, holding the line, and picking up the slack without complaining about it. I also thought, incorrectly, that it was about shielding others from the hard stuff. I thought the goal was to become unshakable.
Here’s the irony: real strength isn’t found in how much you can take. It’s found in knowing when you have to put something down.
It’s also found in being present instead of performing. In asking for help before you’re desperate. In walking away before bitterness and resentment replace love and generosity.
Strength is found in choosing to stay soft even when the world gives you every reason to be hard.
I’m still learning that. Most days, I’m still stuck in the old patterns. I still want to be the guy who shows up and saves the day. I’ve finally acknowledged that, in a lot of ways, I have a hero complex.
Thankfully, I’m finally starting to realize that I don’t need to be made of steel to matter. Tenderness, especially with myself, matters. Presence is often, maybe always, more powerful than performance.
And that is enough.
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