I stopped giving 100% to everything and watched my life get better in ways I didn’t expect

For years, I lived like a woman on the verge of proving something.

I didn’t know exactly what or to whom—but I was determined to show up, deliver, be excellent, be kind, be reliable, be useful, be calm, be composed, be everything. To everyone. All the time.

I answered texts immediately. Took on extra work even when my plate was full. Showed up to birthday dinners when I was barely keeping myself upright. I even smiled through conversations that drained me just because I didn’t want to seem “off.”

And sure, from the outside, I looked like I had things together. Productive. Considerate. Capable.

But inside, I was slowly unraveling.

I wasn’t sleeping well. My days blurred together in a haze of effort and low-grade resentment. Even the things I used to love—writing, reading, long walks at dusk—started to feel like chores. Like everything in my life had become one big obligation I couldn’t say no to.

Worse, I was still somehow falling short. The emails never ended. The dishes kept piling. The emotional labor of being the “grounded friend” or “dependable daughter” never let up.

It was burnout, yes—but it was also something deeper.

I didn’t just feel exhausted.

I felt disillusioned. Like I’d built my life around other people’s expectations and called it responsibility. I’d said yes out of fear. I’d over-functioned to avoid disappointing anyone. And it was slowly draining every last drop of joy I had left.

The myth of giving it your all

It hit me in the middle of folding laundry, of all things.

I was three minutes into some podcast about optimizing productivity—because of course I was—and I remember pausing the audio, setting down a towel, and thinking, “I don’t want to be optimized. I want to feel like a person again.”

That thought stopped me cold.

Because somewhere along the way, life had become this ongoing performance. One where I was always auditioning for approval. Always trying to prove that I was enough by doing more, being better, pushing harder.

I had no room for mistakes. No tolerance for rest. No patience for slowness.

Even things that were supposed to nourish me—yoga, journaling, meal prep—had become boxes to tick. Another form of output. Another place I had to give 100%.

It reminded me of a quote I came across years ago in a book on perfectionism: “Perfection is the enemy of connection.” At the time, I nodded. It sounded true.

But now, it felt personal.

I was so busy trying to perform my way through life that I wasn’t actually living it. I wasn’t connected—to myself, to my own desires, or to the moment right in front of me.

So I decided to try something radical. I started doing less.

Not as in giving up. Just… giving differently. Giving selectively. Giving imperfectly. And more importantly, knowing when to stop giving altogether.

I stopped replying right away to non-urgent messages. I let dishes sit in the sink longer than I’d like. I declined invites when my body said no, even if my guilt said yes.

At first, it was uncomfortable. I felt lazy. Selfish. Like I was violating some invisible contract that required me to be endlessly available.

But then something shifted. The world didn’t fall apart.

In fact, something unexpected happened: I started to feel alive again.

Life got lighter when I got honest

Some people adjusted quickly to the shift. Others seemed a little thrown off.

There were fewer enthusiastic reactions to my “delayed replies” era. Some invitations stopped coming when I stopped saying yes to everything. Certain dynamics felt different when I didn’t jump in to fix or over-function. But I didn’t miss the old rhythm as much as I thought I would.

The more space I gave myself, the more I noticed how much energy I used to spend micromanaging perception—making sure I was liked, helpful, competent, generous, thoughtful, whatever the moment seemed to demand.

I was always trying to hit this invisible standard. Not just in work, but in friendship. In the way I showed up socially. Even in how I rested. (If rest wasn’t productive, was I doing it right?)

But when I stopped giving 100% to everything, I started to see what was underneath all that striving: a quiet, persistent fear that if I wasn’t excellent, I’d somehow fall behind—or fall apart.

It was around this time I picked up a copy of Laughing in the Face of Chaos: A Politically Incorrect Shamanic Guide for Modern Life  by Rudá Iandê. I wasn’t sure what to expect—a politically incorrect shamanic guide sounded, honestly, a little intense—but within a few pages, I was underlining like my life depended on it.

One quote in particular felt like it had been written for exactly where I was: “When we let go of the need to be perfect, we free ourselves to live fully—embracing the mess, complexity, and richness of a life that’s delightfully real.”

It hit me straight in the gut.

I’d been so busy trying to do life right—the right boundaries, the right responses, the right energy in every room—that I forgot life wasn’t meant to be a performance. It’s meant to be lived. Messily, inconsistently, humanly.

Rudá’s words made me laugh, then breathe. He doesn’t sugarcoat things, but he gives you permission to be real. To step off the hamster wheel of perfection and finally exhale.

It was the exact reminder I needed: I don’t have to be flawless to be free. I do need to stop overgiving and start choosing.

Choosing where my energy goes.

Choosing which expectations I’d keep—and which ones I’d finally return to sender.

Choosing myself. Without the guilt.

Final words

Since I started pulling back, my life hasn’t become less full. It’s just become mine again.

I sleep deeper. I smile more easily. I show up to things because I want to, not because I feel obligated. And the quality of my relationships? So much better.

Turns out, when you stop giving 100% to everything, you leave room to give fully to what actually matters.

If you’re feeling burnt out, disillusioned, or just a little lost in all your effort—I highly recommend Laughing in the Face of Chaos. It’s messy, funny, and wildly liberating. And sometimes, that’s exactly what we need.

Not a new routine.

Not a productivity hack.

Just permission to be human.