Hey,
It’s Michael.
This chapter isn’t the start of a book.
It’s the moment your body starts telling the truth.
I’m writing The People Pleaser’s Way Out in real time, each chapter a way out of the exhaustion that looks like “being good,” but feels like disappearing.
Maybe you’ve rehearsed how to ask for something that’s already yours.
Maybe you’ve shrunk your needs to keep the peace.
Maybe you’re just tired, and no amount of rest is helping.
This chapter is for that kind of tired.
The kind that lives in your jaw, your breath, your nervous system.
It doesn’t offer a fix.
But it might offer a beginning.
And at the very end, there's something quiet waiting.
Something I’ve only shared behind the paywall.
You’ll feel it when you get there.
With care,
Michael
Chapter 8: I’m So Tired of Being Good
The grief under the performance of ease
There was a time when I couldn't stop monitoring my tone.
Before I spoke to my boss.
Before I disagreed with a friend.
Before I said anything that might be taken the wrong way.
I'd practice the conversation in my head, adjusting my voice to sound just agreeable enough. Not too eager, not too flat. Interested but not needy. Confident but not threatening.
And I didn't realize how exhausting it was until one day I caught myself rehearsing how to ask my roommate to do the dishes. In my own apartment. For something that was already their responsibility.
That’s when something in me whispered:
You’re not just tired from a long day.
You’re tired from a lifetime of being whatever version of "good" kept you safe.
Maybe you know this bone-deep tiredness. Maybe you’ve lived inside it for so long, you thought it was your personality.
Pause. Feel. Let the examples name themselves inside you.
The Good One’s Exhaustion
Tired of saying “whatever you want” for the thousandth time.
Tired of your voice getting smaller when someone seems stressed.
Tired of apologizing just to keep the peace.
The Workaholic’s Exhaustion
Tired of staying late while others go home.
Tired of being the reliable one, always holding the weight.
Tired of guilt whenever you're not useful.
The Caretaker’s Exhaustion
Tired of remembering everyone’s birthdays and emotional landmines.
Tired of losing track of your own feelings while managing theirs.
Tired of feeling responsible for pain you didn’t cause.
The Adapter’s Exhaustion
Tired of mirroring everyone around you.
Tired of laughing when it’s not funny.
Tired of not knowing who you are when you're finally alone.
The Invisible One’s Exhaustion
Tired of taking pride in how little space you occupy.
Tired of never asking for help.
Tired of becoming so low-maintenance you almost disappear.
This is not ordinary tired.
This is the kind that lives in your nervous system. In your metabolism. In your story.
And it’s not just tiredness. It’s grief.
Not the poetic kind. The physiological kind.
The sacred, silent kind that shows up before words do.
The grief of what was never allowed to live.
The Body’s Sacred Pause
There comes a moment, not dramatic, not loud, when the body simply says:
“I can’t perform anymore.”
It doesn’t feel like clarity. It feels like collapse.
But collapse doesn’t always feel dramatic.
It might just feel... wrong.
Like something is off.
Like something inside you is failing, even though nothing visible is broken.
Like you’re missing a cue that everyone else seems to know.
Like something you should be trying to fix.
But what if the feeling you're calling 'wrong' is actually right on time?
What if the feeling you’re calling 'bad' is just the body’s way of saying: "Enough."
Not failure. Not dysfunction.
But intelligence, finally surfacing as sensation.
But collapse isn’t always failure. Sometimes, it’s wisdom taking over where willpower has run out.
Researchers call it hyporeactivity.
Cortisol levels drop.
The HPA axis downshifts.
The body enters conservation mode.
Not because it’s broken, but because it’s protecting something essential.
I call it a sacred pause.
You are not malfunctioning. You are conserving truth.
That blank stare at your coworker’s story? Sacred pause.
That quiet no to a plan you used to say yes to? Sacred pause.
That inability to fake a smile? Sacred pause.
And yes, those moments might feel wrong.
They might feel rude.
Selfish.
Like failure.
Like you're doing it wrong.
But what if they’re exactly right?
What if that’s the moment your nervous system starts telling the truth, louder than your training?
You are not lazy. You are done performing for crumbs.
Why This Exhaustion Doesn’t Go Away
This tired doesn’t lift with sleep.
Or with vacation.
Or with one more act of self-care that feels like another performance.
Because it’s not just physical fatigue.
It’s not just mental overload.
It’s identity fatigue.
You’ve spent decades:
Monitoring every tone for threat
Adjusting your presence to feel safe
Suppressing what was real to stay liked
Performing who you thought you had to be
And that performance has a metabolic cost.
This isn’t just emotional.
It’s somatic.
Your nervous system has been holding the burden of goodness for years, and it shows up in measurable ways.
Research shows suppressed oxytocin.
Diminished reward circuitry.
Compromised immune function.
These aren’t metaphors.
They’re physical traces, real data, real symptoms, of a life spent performing safety.
It might not feel like science. It might feel like fog.
Like bone-deep weariness.
Like something’s off and you can’t explain why.
But that feeling has roots.
And those roots are trying to tell the truth your body was never supposed to carry alone.
And you might still think, "Maybe I just need to try harder. Be more positive. Push through."
But what if this exhaustion is the intelligence that says: Not this time.
What if there's a boundary
one your body tried to whisper years ago
now arriving louder, clearer, non-negotiable?
A boundary that says: I can’t keep crossing myself to be loved.
And yes, it might feel wrong.
Like you're giving up.
But maybe you're finally listening.
And yet, beneath the collapse, something else lives.
The Intelligence Inside the Exhaustion
Let this land gently:
Your exhaustion is intelligence.
When the agreeable one can’t say “I don’t mind” again
something is breaking through the mask.
When the workhorse hits the wall
the body is setting the boundary the mind wouldn’t.
When the caretaker has no capacity left
the nervous system is asking to care for you.
When the adapter forgets who to become
the true self is asking to be remembered.
When the invisible one finally says, I’m here
the body is remembering it deserves to be seen.
Every form of collapse is a truth trying to rise.
Let it rise. Slowly. Gently. Without fixing.
Grief vs. Depression: A Living Difference
Grief isn’t the absence of energy. It’s energy moving differently.
Neuroscience shows this:
Depression is hypoactivation, stuck loops, suppressed motivation.
Grief is dynamic, activation in areas that rebuild, reframe, reorient.
When you cry without knowing why…
When you ache over years lost to performance…
When you rage about all the yeses that should’ve been no
That’s not pathology.
That’s processing.
That’s sacred circuitry rewiring itself toward what’s real.
Grief isn’t evidence you’re broken.
It’s proof you’re coming back into contact with what mattered.
And what mattered was you.
But it might not feel that way.
It might feel like you f*cked up.
Like you broke something.
Like you’re sitting in the wreckage of all the effort you held together for so long.
That’s okay.
Sometimes grief feels like the thing you were supposed to avoid.
But now, it’s the thing that’s bringing you home.
Cultural Grief and Performance Fatigue
For some, the performance was survival in a cultural system that asked you to disappear.
You code-switched. You quieted. You carried more than most.
Maybe your “goodness” meant pleasing whiteness. Or men. Or institutions.
Maybe it meant performing ease in rooms that called your rage unprofessional.
Performance fatigue isn’t just personal. It’s collective.
It’s ancestral.
If you feel the grief of never being your whole self in a space that demanded conformity
that grief is sacred too.
And your body collapsing now?
It might feel like disloyalty. Like letting someone down. Like betraying what kept you safe, what helped your family survive.
But what if that collapse is reverence, not rebellion?
What if it’s your body honoring what was carried, and whispering that it’s time to carry it differently now?
It may be the first honest signal that something in the system must change.
This Chapter is a Threshold
Not a lesson. Not a fix.
A sacred threshold.
Your body is not asking for a solution. It’s asking to be heard.
So rest.
Let this be the page where you don’t push through.
Let this be the moment where your tiredness doesn’t need a reason.
Let this be the pause before the ritual begins, not the ritual you perform for others, but the one your nervous system already began:
When it said: “We can’t do this anymore.”
And then whispered:
“Maybe we don’t have to.”
And maybe the next time you catch yourself rehearsing how to ask for something that's already yours
in your own apartment,
in your own life,
in your own body
you'll remember this moment.
The moment your exhaustion became sacred.
The moment your tiredness became truth.
The moment you stopped monitoring your tone
and started listening to what your silence had been trying to say all along:
"I'm here. I matter. And I'm tired of pretending otherwise."
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This is the end of Chapter 8 (Keep reading for more content below)
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Chapter 8: I’m So Tired of Being Good
The grief under the performance of ease
Feel that fed-up ache in your gut, your body’s spilling a truth you’ve buried.
Maybe you’re choking back words, just to ask your roommate to do the damn dishes, in your own home.
Your throat locks. Your chest caves.
That’s no ordinary weariness, it’s your nervous system raging against years of “being good.”
What if that ache isn’t your downfall?
What if it’s the fight to stop disappearing?
Unlock behind the paywall:
Why that fed-up ache burns in those spots (your nervous system’s mapping your buried fight)
The one question that turns collapse into a breakthrough (so simple, it’ll stick with you)
What shifts when you quit battling your fatigue (and hear what it’s shielding)
The quiet way to hold yourself when it all feels fucked (no forcing, just real)
This isn’t about fixing your exhaustion.
It’s about trusting the raw wisdom in your body’s rebellion.
What if that gut ache is your last shot at freedom?
[Subscribe for $7/month to find out]
Feeling Wrong Is Not Wrong
Your body is remembering a truth your mind forgot.
You're not broken.
You're just feeling the return of something you were taught to live without.