(I033) Confessions of an Overachiever

I’m going to post in a way I haven’t before.

I’m going to talk about my recovery from being an overachiever.

Nine years ago, I wanted nothing more than to be an executive director, standing shoulder to shoulder with a high-performing CEO, doing cool shit. I could see their dream. I could talk big ideas. I could go deep into visioning team culture and those feel-good, winning vibes.

I’m without a doubt a glass-half-full kind of woman. My brain naturally reaches toward what’s possible, what could be better, what could feel more human and alive.

And then—I got there.

I stood at the top. And looking down, all I could see were the people I’d stepped over to get there. The purpose that had once felt so clear suddenly quieted. It was like the volume got turned down on everything I thought I knew.

I had built the systems. I had built the policies. I’d held the line, weathered the storms, had the hard conversations. But I hadn’t built the one thing I really needed—a rooted understanding of my why.

I had been leading, yes. But I was also following. Following leaders I admired. Following their dreams. And in doing that, I’d lost sight of whether those dreams were ever mine to begin with.

That’s when procrastination crept in. Slowly at first. I couldn’t explain why I was so drained. I told myself I was tired. But it wasn’t just tiredness. It was misalignment. My return on energy was dropping and I didn’t know how to fix it.

I thought my why was to support someone else’s vision. To stand beside the CEO and bring their success to life.

But eventually, I had to admit—I was standing inside their why. Not mine.

What came next wasn’t collapse, it was burnout of a different kind. The kind no one sees. Silent burnout. I was still performing. Still delivering. But inside, something had gone numb. The fire was gone. And yet, I kept showing up. High-functioning burnout is a strange space. You don’t fall apart—you slowly fade.

So I did the deep work.

And no, this isn’t about arriving at a perfect answer. This isn’t a statement that comes to you overnight. It’s soul work. It’s self-inquiry. It’s learning to be still long enough to hear your own truth.

That’s what Ensō, A Tree Still Grows became. A place for that stillness. A space to re-root.

What I uncovered was this: my overachievement came from a deep need to be seen. To feel like I mattered. To belong.

I learned early that if I excelled—on the field, in the pool—I earned respect. And with that respect came a kind of place. I brought that same energy into my professional life, especially in male-dominated spaces. I figured if I carried more, delivered more, anticipated more—I would be impossible to ignore.

But in doing so, I also unknowingly set the bar impossibly high—not just for me, but for those around me.

I started to see it clearly in the teams I was part of. In small businesses too. We overachieve, and then unintentionally set that as the standard. Others try to match it, and before long, exhaustion becomes the culture.

I used to be a big believer in “repeatable and scalable.” And sure, there’s value in that. But doing the same thing over and over without pausing to evolve? That’s just survival disguised as strategy.

So now I ask: Is it sustainable and evolving?

Because my overachievement wasn’t sustainable. And no—I wasn’t evolving. Not until I defined my own why and committed to aligning with it.

Here’s the truth: your why, aside from the paycheck, is one of the hardest questions you’ll ever face. And it doesn’t come in a neat package. It comes slowly, in fragments. In reflection. In moments you almost miss.

That’s why ikigai resonates for so many. But here’s what’s often missed: ask someone in Japan and they’ll tell you—ikigai isn’t something you declare. It’s something you become.

It’s not a fixed statement. It’s a way of being. A relationship with your gifts. With your joy. With the kind of impact you want to make. It lives in the rhythm of your days, not the bullet points of your bio.

For me, that clarity didn’t come from a framework or a worksheet. It came from my mother. And from the language she raised me in.

English taught me to finalize, to define, to prove. It’s a language of hierarchy, of completion.

But Japanese gave me something different. It taught me nuance. Presence. Continuity. It gave me room to experiment. To explore. To reflect before reacting.

It reminded me that leadership is not a destination. It’s a becoming.

And now, I work with leaders who feel that same quiet ache I once did.

Leaders who have achieved plenty, but still feel a restlessness they can’t quite name. They may not have the sentence yet, but they can feel the pull. They know they’re done chasing someone else’s why. They want their own to pull them forward—not the other way around.

They want to build teams where that alignment is alive. Where values are felt, not just posted. Where purpose isn’t a marketing tool—it’s a shared rhythm.

So I help them hear that calling more clearly. I help them reconnect with their own clarity. I help them build cultures where belonging doesn’t cost you your wellbeing.

Because real purpose doesn’t burn you out.

It brings you home.

If this landed with you, I’ll be speaking more about it in the (道)Dō Your Way webinar. I’ll share the exact 7 confessions I once kept to myself—truths that shaped my recovery from silent burnout and overachievement. They’re the kind of things I wish someone had told me earlier. If you’ve ever felt the quiet tug of misalignment or the weight of always needing to prove, I hope you’ll join me there.