When Everything Needs You at Once

Photo by Noah Ridge

Overcommitment, Burnout, Grief, and the Cost of Carrying Too Much

I didn’t realize how tightly wound I’d been until I wasn’t.

On a recent Wednesday night, I found myself sitting with a group of women, my age and older, who’ve been meeting monthly for years. Women who’ve lived through Nixon, Reagan, Bush, Trump, loss, illness, activism, caregiving, burnout, and the long arc of disappointment and resilience that comes with paying attention.

There was wine. Maybe more than one glass. There was laughter that came easily and crying that didn’t need explaining. We talked about politics, because of course we did, but in a way that didn’t spiral us into despair. We talked about what still matters. Where we still have agency. How to stay informed without letting it hijack our nervous systems or push us into chronic stress.

And for a few hours, I wasn’t thinking about my next blog post.
Or the half-written drafts staring at me from my desktop.
Or the self-created deadlines I’d decided were somehow urgent and non-negotiable.
Or my business.
Or my family.

I let myself be there. That was the reset.

Overcommitment Isn’t a Time Management Problem

Lately, my life has been feeling like a pile-up of responsibility. The kind of overcommitment that quietly leads to burnout, even when the things you’re carrying matter deeply.

Work that matters to me.
A business that doesn’t pause just because I’m tired.
Family needs that don’t politely space themselves out.
Illness.
The death of my dog.

And then there’s my remaining dog, who lost his brother, his constant companion, his pack. He’s struggling in ways he never has before. Separation anxiety. Distress when he’s alone. Grief that shows up watching our every move, worrying we might walk out the door without him.

So when I talk about overcommitment, I’m not talking about saying yes to too many social plans.

I’m talking about love + responsibility + grief + meaning all colliding at once.

I’m talking about being the kind of person who keeps going because people, and animals, depend on you. Because you care. Because stopping feels dangerous, indulgent, or irresponsible.

For many of us, overcommitment isn’t optional. It’s contextual. And it takes a real toll.

Why Rest Feels So Hard (Even When You Need It)

The holidays have a way of amplifying everything. For many people, especially highly sensitive ones, this time of year brings more stress, more memory, and more pressure to hold it together, even when old family dynamics or grief are close to the surface.

As highly sensitive people (HSPs), we don’t just notice more. We carry more.

We absorb the emotional undercurrent of rooms.
We track what isn’t being said.
We feel responsible for smoothing things over, holding things together, staying functional.

So when there’s a small window of relief, an evening with no obligations, an hour without emails, a rare quiet afternoon, we often fill it.

Laundry.
Emails.
One more task.
One more “productive” thing.

Even untangling and putting up Christmas lights, because light matters in these dark winter days.
But this year, even the thought of putting them up feels like a chore instead of comfort.
Like effort I don’t quite have.
And that’s a drag.

That’s how I know I’m tired in a deeper way.

Not because I’m bad at resting, but because it’s something I see again and again in highly sensitive people.

Our nervous systems are conditioned to stay alert.
To stay useful.
To stay on.

Even rest can feel like something we need to earn.

Making Space Without Making It Another Obligation

When you’re already overwhelmed, even rest can start to feel like another thing to do correctly.

Another decision.
Another commitment.
Another way to get it wrong.

So instead of aiming for some ideal version of calm, it can help to work with the time and capacity you actually have, especially if you’re a highly sensitive person already living with emotional overwhelm or burnout.

Sometimes that looks small.

A few minutes staring out the window instead of picking up your phone.
Stepping outside to feel the air change.
Letting your mind wander without steering it anywhere useful.

Sometimes it looks like doing less than you planned, and letting that be enough.

The trap is thinking it’s not worth slowing down unless there’s enough time to do something meaningful. So we push through. We stay busy. We fill the space. We tell ourselves we’ll rest later, when things are calmer, when we’ve earned it.

But for many of us, later doesn’t come.

Making space doesn’t have to mean a perfect day off or a carefully protected block of time. Sometimes it’s just choosing not to add one more thing. Choosing not to optimize the moment. Choosing not to turn rest into another form of productivity.

That counts too.

What Rest Can Look Like When You’re Already Tired

If you’re already overwhelmed, the idea of “doing rest correctly” can feel like just another demand.
So think smaller. Gentler. More honest.

Five minutes of staring out a window instead of grabbing your phone
Ten minutes of quiet before transitioning into the next role you play
An evening where you don’t talk about what you should be doing
Time with people who understand the weight you’re carrying without needing you to explain it

This isn’t about optimizing your nervous system.
It’s about giving it a break.

When Relief Is Enough

Sometimes self-care looks less like recovery and more like relief.

Letting yourself go to bed early without “just one more thing.”
Canceling plans without over-explaining or apologizing.
Doing something mildly comforting: warm food, familiar music, a slow walk with your dog—without turning it into a project.
Choosing quiet over input. Fewer conversations. Less news. One less place you have to show up and hold it together.

None of this fixes everything.
But it softens the edges enough to breathe.

Unhooking Without Escaping

The reset that night didn’t solve anything, but it did loosen something.

The work didn’t disappear.
The grief didn’t resolve.
The world didn’t suddenly feel calmer or more humane.

But my body remembered something important: I don’t have to be braced all the time.

Sometimes rest isn’t about getting away or clearing the deck. Sometimes it’s about unhooking, temporarily, from the constant scanning, managing, preparing, and holding.

It’s letting yourself be with people who don’t need you to perform competence.
It’s laughing without tracking the cost.
It’s remembering that even in hard seasons, you’re allowed moments of ease.

I did put up the lights outside my home.

Not because I suddenly had extra energy, but because light still matters to me. I had to get clear that I was doing it because I wanted to, not because I should.
A little later, my neighbor, one of the women from that group, texted:
“I just saw your lights. They look beautiful.”

It may not have fixed anything.
But it brought joy. And a sense of connection.

Rest Isn’t a Reward—It’s a Response

If slowing down brings up guilt, that doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong.

It usually means you’ve spent a long time being the reliable one. The capable one. The one who keeps things moving even when you’re worn thin.

Rest isn’t avoidance.
It isn’t laziness.
And it isn’t something you have to justify.

Especially when life is asking more of you than usual.

So if you find yourself with a small pocket of time: fifteen minutes after work, a quiet house, an evening with nothing scheduled—try asking this instead of What should I be doing?

What would help me feel a little less anxious right now?

The answer doesn’t have to be impressive.
It doesn’t have to be productive.

Sometimes it just needs to be kind.

Disclaimer: Reading this blog isn’t the same as therapy. If you’re struggling, please reach out to a licensed mental health professional — you don’t have to do this alone.