For most of my life, being “high functioning” was a badge of honor. It meant I could accomplish tasks no matter the circumstances. I would attend meetings with a smile, even after sleepless nights, and meet deadlines amidst emotional turmoil. I pushed through pain, fear, confusion, because I was capable. I could compartmentalize and perform well under pressure. People admired that. So did I.
Until cancer. Until surgeries. Until my capacity finally crumbled, leaving nothing to function through.
The High Cost of “High Functioning”
The term “high functioning” suggests control, mastery over emotions, the ability to rise above distractions and compartmentalize pain. But here’s the truth: “High functioning” doesn’t mean you’re okay. It just means your suffering is convenient for others. You still grieve, spiral, and ache. You just hide it well enough to meet expectations. And by doing so, you reinforce the belief that you don’t need help, that you’ve got it handled, that you’re fine—even when you’re not.
The Breaking Point
Radiation shattered that illusion for me. There were days when I physically couldn’t sit upright, couldn’t taste, couldn’t speak clearly, couldn’t stop crying. Yet, I still caught myself wondering if I could “get a few things done” between treatments, calculating how long I could work before nausea set in, clinging to the idea that being productive would keep me sane.
Until my body said no. And when it did, I realized: My worth has never been tied to how well I can suppress my needs.
Redefining Strength
I’m no longer interested in being “high functioning” if it means abandoning myself, smiling through pain just to avoid discomfort for others, or pushing through when I need to pause. Now, strength looks different to me: saying no, resting without guilt, being honest about my limits, choosing peace over performance. Because the people who truly matter? They don’t need me to be impressive. They need me to be whole.
