There's a before and after. Before: I was the partner who never missed a deadline, the mother who packed organic lunches while drafting motions, the woman who believed "good" meant flawless. My calendar was a bloodstain of "yes," my worth measured in billable hours. I’d sit at my desk at 11 PM, eyes burning, wondering why the exhaustion felt like a personal failure. I should be better at this, I’d think, as I spilled coffee on a client document while simultaneously calming a twin’s meltdown.
The moment came on a Tuesday. I’d promised my twins’ school a handmade craft for the fair. I’d spent two hours trying to make it perfect—crooked lines, glue everywhere—while simultaneously fielding a hostile email from a client. My hands shook. I dropped the glue bottle. It splattered across the table, the craft, my laptop. I just stood there, staring at the mess, tears mixing with glue. I’m bad at this, I thought. Not just the craft. All of it.
Here’s what no one tells you: being bad at something isn’t a flaw—it’s the necessary friction for growth. I’d spent my life avoiding "bad" because I equated it with failure. But that glue-splattered moment was the first time I let myself be bad. I didn’t fix it. I didn’t apologize for the mess. I said to my twins, "Oops! Let’s make it worse together," and we turned the disaster into a glittery, lopsided masterpiece.
That’s when the shift happened. I stopped chasing "good" and started asking: What’s the minimum I need to do well? I stopped taking on the "urgent" client call at 7 PM. I said no to the committee that demanded my time. I let my kids eat cereal for dinner. I learned this the hard way so you don’t have to: Your worth isn’t tied to your output. It’s in the space you create when you stop pretending to be perfect.
Now? I teach boundaries like they’re profit margins. I tell clients, "If you need me to be perfect, we’re not a fit." I let my twins’ school projects be messy. I finally understand: being bad at "everything" is the point. It’s how you find the work that matters, the rest that doesn’t.
Burnout isn’t a sign you’re broken. It’s a system error. And the fix? Stop trying to be good at everything. Start being real at what’s important.
— Tracy Carlson, drawing the line