Chapter 1: "Stop Showing Off"
My boyfriend got my sister a sign for her apartment that says "Suck it up, Buttercup." It's been a real laugh ever since. So simple. So direct. So hustle. So classic.
And for most of my early career, that's exactly what I did.
I showed up early. I stayed late. I volunteered for projects nobody else wanted. I learned every software system, memorized every process, and made myself indispensable to everyone around me. When things got hard, I pushed harder. When I felt overwhelmed, I reminded myself that this was just part of paying my dues. When my body started sending distress signals—the racing heart before meetings, the Sunday night dread, the exhaustion that sleep couldn't touch—I told myself to suck it up.
Buttercup had work to do.
By the time I was 26, I had built something I was genuinely proud of. Five years at the same organization. Email engagement rates that had improved by 67%. Social media platforms I'd grown from nothing. A community of 95,000 people I'd helped connect with resources that mattered to them. Crisis communications I'd navigated with values intact. Partnerships I'd built through authentic relationship, not transactions.
On paper, I was succeeding. In meetings, I was the one with answers. On performance reviews, I exceeded expectations. I had become exactly what I'd set out to be: someone who made things happen, who solved problems, who showed up fully every single day.
So why did I feel like I was disappearing?
My dad recently had knee surgery. His knee had been bad for over a year, but the surgery went perfectly—he was feeling better immediately. The catch? Now he has to exercise consistently to regain the muscle. When people ask how he's doing, he's honest: the recovery work is harder than the surgery itself.
I think about that a lot. Because since I left my job, I've felt like I broke my brain and my will to go on. Unlike a knee, this is an invisible injury. No one can see the damage. No one fully understands how broken I felt at the point I quit, or how hard and intense it's been to do the healing work.
The small moments had been adding up for years. Little comments that made me question myself. Responsibilities that multiplied without recognition. A creeping sense that no matter how much I gave, something was off. My body knew the truth long before my brain caught up.
I remember the exact moment that crystallized everything.
We were in the middle of a massive anniversary campaign—the kind of project that required everyone working at full capacity. My manager at the time had mentally checked out; she was about to leave for another job. So my coworkers and I were doing everything ourselves, moving fast, solving problems on the fly, making things happen that had no business getting done on that timeline.
I had just finished something significant—a piece of the project that moved us forward in a meaningful way. I was proud of it. Excited, even. So I told her.
Her response? "Stop showing off."
Three words. That's all it took.
In that moment, I understood something I hadn't been able to name before. My excellence wasn't being celebrated—it was being experienced as a threat. My competence wasn't lifting the team—it was exposing someone else's insecurity. The harder I worked, the more problems I solved, the more visible I became... the more certain people needed me to shrink.
"Stop showing off" wasn't feedback. It was a warning: Your light is making me uncomfortable. Turn it down.
Here's what I want you to understand, especially if you're reading this in the middle of your own "suck it up" season:
Sometimes environments become toxic not because you're failing, but because you're succeeding so visibly that it exposes other people's failures. Sometimes the problem isn't your performance—it's that your performance is making the wrong people uncomfortable.
The small moments add up. The offhand comments. The credit that goes to someone else. The responsibilities that multiply without the title or compensation to match. The way certain people look at you when you solve a problem they couldn't. These moments accumulate like drops of water, and if you're not careful, you can find yourself drowning without understanding how you got there.
I want you to remember who you are.
I want you to trust your intuition, your quality of work, and your right to feel strong and confident in any situation. Even if it gets as bad as real-life mental and emotional abuse—and sometimes workplaces do become exactly that—I don't want you to ever get lost and actually believe what the haters are trying to say about you.
The only reason I still believe in myself after everything—the only reason I was able to maintain the core of who I am through that entire process—was because I knew, deep down, that my work had value and meaning. Not because anyone validated it. Not because I got the recognition I deserved. But because I believed it was good work. And that belief was worth protecting at any cost.
The Pattern
As the oldest in my family, I learned early to take care of things—to anticipate needs before they're spoken, to make sure everyone else is okay before I check on myself.
Maybe you're the eldest daughter too. Or maybe you're just the person everyone learned they could count on to hold things together—regardless of your place in the family. Maybe you're the only woman on your team, or the high achiever who got rewarded for self-sacrifice, or the one who learned early that your value came from what you could do for others.
Whatever your version of this pattern looks like, here's the trap: your greatest strength becomes the very thing that keeps you stuck.
You get so good at sucking it up that you can't recognize when sucking it up has become self-abandonment. You get so practiced at making things work that you can't see when the situation is fundamentally broken. You get so committed to being the person everyone can count on that you forget to ask if you can count on them.
The reckoning comes when you realize that your capacity to endure has been weaponized against you. That people have learned they can pile more on your plate because you'll find a way. That your reliability has become an excuse for others' unreliability.
If that's where you are right now—exhausted from carrying more than your share, wondering if you're the problem because you're the only one who seems to notice how broken things are—I need you to hear this:
You're not too sensitive. You're not asking for too much. You're not the problem. You're just finally seeing clearly what was always true.
What I Wish Someone Had Said
During the hardest months—when I was showing up every day to an environment that was actively trying to diminish me—I wish someone had said these things:
"You're doing incredible work. I see it, even if they don't."
"I'm thankful for your contributions. They matter."
"I'm proud of you for showing up as yourself, even with all the drama and anxiety surrounding you."
"You're on the right path. Keep going."
And equally important—what I wish people hadn't said:
"It took me six months to find a job." (Especially when your experience level isn't the same as mine.)
"The job market is really bad right now." (Literally not helpful. What am I supposed to do with that information?)
If someone you love is going through a career transition, please—don't project your fears onto them. Don't share horror stories. Don't remind them of how hard it is. They already know. What they need is someone who believes in them when believing in themselves feels impossible.
The Permission You Didn't Know You Needed
Let me be clear about something: I'm so thankful for my time at that organization. The memories, the experiences, the friendships, the TikToks we made together, the community I got to serve—all of it meant the world to me, and still does. Some of the people I worked with became genuine friends. The work I did there built the foundation for everything I'm creating now.
This chapter isn't about bashing where I came from. It's not about revenge or bitterness or proving anyone wrong. The difficult parts were real, but so were the beautiful parts. Both can be true.
What this chapter is about is giving you permission.
Permission to acknowledge that your feelings are valid. Permission to trust your gut when it tells you something is wrong. Permission to stop shrinking yourself to make insecure people comfortable. Permission to want more than "good enough." Permission to leave a situation that's breaking you, even if you don't have the next thing perfectly lined up—and to do it with gratitude for what was good while refusing to stay in what wasn't.
You don't have to have it all figured out. You don't have to justify your decision to anyone. You just have to trust that the voice inside you—the one that's been whispering that something needs to change—knows what it's talking about.
That voice led me here: eleven months into a strategic job search, a 14% interview rate (seven times the industry average), over a thousand meaningful professional connections, and more clarity about who I am and what I offer than I've ever had before.
It didn't happen by accident. It happened because I finally stopped showing off for people who couldn't appreciate it, and started showing up for myself.
Remember who you are. Trust your intuition. Don't let the small moments brainwash you into thinking your way of seeing the world is wrong. Your sensitivity is a superpower. Your excellence is not a threat—it's a gift. And anyone who makes you feel otherwise doesn't deserve a front-row seat to your story.
Chapter 1 Reflection
Before moving forward, take a moment with these questions. Write in the margins. Use the notes section. Be honest—no one is reading over your shoulder.
1. What's your "stop showing off" moment? Think of a time when your excellence was treated as a problem rather than an asset. How did it make you feel? How did you respond?
2. Where are you "sucking it up" right now? What situations are you enduring that your body is telling you to question? What would change if you stopped pushing through and started paying attention?
3. What do you know about your work that no one else's opinion can change? What achievements are you genuinely proud of? What value do you bring that you'd defend even if no one else acknowledged it?
4. Who in your life believes in your work, even when you struggle to? Name them. Thank them. Let them remind you who you are when you forget.
5. If you gave yourself permission to want what you actually want, what would that look like? Forget what's "realistic" for a moment. What do you actually want from your career? From your life?
