I’ve been quiet for a few weeks.
Not because I stopped caring, or because the words dried up. I’ve been working. Building. Planning. Writing. Coding. Coaching. Creating.
Too much, if I’m being honest.
It’s easy to forget that every “yes” has a cost. Every project you add, every side quest you take on, every “I’ll just…” steals time and energy from the things that matter most.
I’m not talking about burnout in the dramatic sense—collapsing in a heap, unable to function. I’m talking about a quieter kind of exhaustion. The kind that sneaks in when you’re stretched too thin across too many good ideas.
The Illusion of Productivity
I’ve always been good at being busy. I can fill a day like nobody’s business. Coaching calls, blog drafts, product notes, app updates, admin, client feedback—it all feels like progress.
But busyness isn’t the same as momentum.
Momentum requires direction. Purpose. A sense of “this, right now, is the most important thing.”
When you try to do everything, you’re constantly switching tracks. You lose the rhythm. You don’t build momentum—you scatter it.
When Overload Becomes Something Heavier
When I get close to overload, it doesn’t always look like chaos. It looks like stillness.
For me, that’s how it shows up—through depression. The spiral starts quietly: I tell myself I’m tired. That I’ll get back to it tomorrow. That I just need a day to catch my breath. Then a day becomes a week, and the weight of everything I’ve promised myself starts pressing down and the dishes and laundry start to pile up.
More media gets watched.
The irony is that it’s not failure that triggers it—it’s trying to do everything right at once. My mind just… locks. The drive that was pushing me forward flips inward, and everything stalls.
That feels like a failure, and that failure feeds into the depression spiral.
Recognising that pattern has been crucial. It’s my warning light. When the spiral starts, it’s not a signal to push harder—it’s a sign to step back.
Focus Has a Cost, But So Does Fragmentation
Every task switch burns a little bit of energy. Every time you pick up a new project, you leave another one cooling on the bench. Eventually, all of them start to slow down.
The cost of doing it all is that nothing gets your best.
It’s not that you’re failing. It’s that you’re dividing yourself into pieces so small that no single piece has the strength to move anything forward.
What I’m Changing
I’ve stopped chasing the illusion that I can balance everything equally. I have too many paths that I could take, and if I try to take them all? I end up going nowhere.
I need to simply prioritise. Pick a thing, do that thing until it’s done.
Sounds simple, right?
Yeah. In theory, at least.
Reality is, that this has been me for my entire life. While I lack the formality of diagnosis, I’m probably somewhere in the ‘high functioning’ part of the autism spectrum, and almost definitely would test positive for some flavour of ADHD.
I can manage these things—I’ve done so for my whole life.
There’s a balancing act. My on-the-spectrum side thrives on routine. My “Look! A squirrel!” side adores and is easily distracted by novelty. There’s also an aspect of my psyche that pushes back against any “should”, including self-imposed ones.
I need to accommodate all of these aspects, because they’re all me. Pretending otherwise only adds pressure I don’t need.
So my change isn’t about forcing discipline or eliminating distraction—it’s about designing a workflow that accounts for who I actually am. One that harnesses the focus when it’s there, and forgives the detours when it isn’t.
The Takeaway
I can’t do it all, and when I fumble and start trying to do so? That throws me in a pit. A pit that I’m in the process of crawling my way out of.
One day at a time.
I’ve culled the list of ‘right now’ projects. I’ve prioritised, and given myself goals for the rest of 2025, and I know what I’m going to work on in 2026.
I’m doing what I can to work on what I need to work on.
I’m not perfect, but I’m perfectly me.