There are moments we as women face that feel almost impossible to say out loud—like the time a former client of mine realized the need to re-home her beloved dog:

“I love him so much. But I’m exhausted. I’m pregnant. I have another child. I don’t have it in me.”

There was no lack of love for her dog.
Only a woman reckoning with her limits.

And I recognized a similar feeling in myself recently.

Because I just let go of my clinical office.

That space held years of meaning. So many stories. So much growth. I used to walk in and feel lit up — like I was exactly where I was meant to be.

But slowly, that changed.

The plants became another thing to maintain.
The cleaning felt irritating instead of grounding.
Driving there felt heavy.

Not devastating. Not dramatic. Just… heavy.

And that quiet heaviness is often how these things begin.

We think letting go will come with a dramatic sign. A breaking point. A crisis.
But more often, it’s quieter than that.

It’s noticing that something that once felt expansive now feels like obligation.
It’s noticing resentment where reverence used to live.
It’s noticing avoidance.

We don’t talk about this enough — the way growth changes our relationship to things we once deeply loved.

Sometimes nothing is “wrong.”
It’s just no longer aligned.

And that is harder to justify.

This is the part that feels almost rebellious to say out loud:
You can love something and still not have the capacity for it.

Those are two different variables.

My client loved her dog.
I loved my office.

But love does not magically create energy. It does not generate time. It does not refill a nervous system that is already stretched thin.

This is often where burnout in women with high-functioning anxiety quietly takes hold — not from a lack of care, but from carrying too much for too long.

Especially in seasons of expansion — new babies, new businesses, new chapters — capacity becomes precious.

If we don’t consciously choose what we are holding, something ends up being dropped anyway.
Usually ourselves.

The real struggle isn’t logistical.
It’s identity.

“I should be able to handle this.”
“I used to handle this.”
“A good person wouldn’t give this up.”

We attach morality to endurance.

But endurance is not always wisdom.

There’s a difference between resilience and self-abandonment. And sometimes we don’t realize we’ve crossed that line until we feel chronic emotional exhaustion by something that once brought us joy.

Feeling drained by something is a signal.
Not that something is bad — but that something has shifted.

For me, it wasn’t one big moment.
It was a series of small ones:

• Feeling relief when a session moved online instead of in-person.
• Dreading the upkeep.
• Fantasizing about what it would feel like to simplify.

And then asking myself a hard question:

“If I were building from scratch today, would I choose this?”

That question can be clarifying.

Not what made sense five years ago.
Not what you’ve invested.
Not what others expect.

But today. From where you are now.

Would you choose it?