You Don’t Have to Carry Everything Forward

There was a time I couldn’t even finish writing a sticky note.

That sounds absurd now, given how many things I juggle in a day — projects, people, platforms, and problems. But back then, I couldn’t bring myself to grab a Sharpie and a stack of Post-its and just write down what was in my head.

My coach had suggested it months earlier. One task per note, he said. Get it out of your head, externalize the overwhelm. See it for what it is.

But I didn’t do it.

I told myself I didn’t have time, but the truth was harder to accept than that: I was afraid. Afraid that once I saw the size of it all—everything I was trying to carry on my own—I wouldn’t be able to look away. Like watching a lion take down a gazelle on a nature show, I knew it would be brutal. If I did the exercise, I’d have to face what I already knew: this was unsustainable.

Eventually, I did it. I didn’t use sticky notes because they wouldn’t stay on the textured walls or the closet doors in my office. So I opened Miro, the digital whiteboard, and mapped everything out. Eleven major categories. Some with two tasks, some with seven. Some quick and simple. Others months-long, multi-person endeavors that I somehow thought I could tackle alone.

And staring at that digital wall of “responsibilities,” I had to admit the one thing I’d been avoiding for years: I have a do-it-all problem.

There was a time when I needed to… at least that’s what I told myself.

For years, I worked in an environment that rewarded martyrdom. Say yes to everything. Show up early. Stay late. Build the system. Write the code. Manage the team. Do the grant writing. Take the hit when things went sideways. And never, ever say no.

In return, I was told I was essential. That the company wouldn’t function without me. And somewhere along the way, I started believing that was a compliment. That being irreplaceable was the same as being respected. I came to believe that if I carried enough, did enough, and bent far enough, I’d finally earn the security I never quite felt.

But it wasn’t security, or safety, or even appreciation. It was servitude dressed in praise.

I worked under a CEO who paid himself fifteen times what I earned while I borrowed against my life insurance to pay the bills. I begged for partial distributions while the other partner literally sat in silence. I had somehow convinced myself that the only way to ever be rewarded was to stay loyal at all costs. What I didn’t realize until much later was just how complicit I’d been in my own mental, physical, and emotional erosion.

And still, I stayed.

I stayed out of a deeply conditioned belief that my value was tied to what I could carry. That leaving, even something that broken, would mean I’d failed, or given up, or let people down.

That belief almost buried me.

It wasn’t until I started talking to my business coach, Neville — a mentor and now friend — that I started recognizing the pattern for what it really was. He called it what I knew but couldn’t say aloud: an abusive work relationship. A cycle of guilt and gaslighting that I had helped create and sustain because I was “part owner,” “high impact,” and “the one who could make it work.”

He asked me a question that chewed a hole through my brain: “If someone came to you describing exactly this situation, what would you advise them to do?”

I knew the answer. But applying it to myself meant facing everything I’d avoided for years.

Eventually, I left, but not all at once. I gave notice, and it took almost eight months to actually walk away. More than once, I nearly talked myself out of it because the company needed me. But eventually, I did leave.

And when I did, I realized something else: I didn’t just need to quit the job. I needed to quit the identity.

I needed, desperately, to stop being the one who says yes to everything. The one who feels responsible for everyone else’s chaos. The one who earns his worth by pushing beyond the breaking point.

That man served a purpose once. He got me through years of survival. He built things, protected people, and kept the ship from sinking.

But I don’t need him anymore.

These days, I run my own company. I lead a team of people who are smarter than I am in all the right ways. I don’t believe I have to have all the answers. Honestly, it’s better if I don’t. I no longer define leadership by sacrifice.

I’m still learning what it means not to carry everything forward. It’s not a clean break. Sometimes I still overextend. Still chase validation. Still feel the old panic rise when I think I’ve dropped something.

But more and more, I’m choosing to believe this:

That I am not the work.

That I am allowed to rest.

That I do not have to be the hero.

And that is enough.