“Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.” ~Ian Maclaren
A friend recently told me a story about her mother that stayed with me.
They walk together some evenings around her mom’s apartment building—part exercise, part ritual. Her mom doesn’t enjoy small talk. When they pass people in the building, she usually keeps her eyes forward. There’s one woman in particular who always says, “How are you?” Years ago, her mom would respond. Now she doesn’t. She keeps walking.
My friend felt conflicted. Part of her understood. Another part felt uncomfortable. She said, “Sometimes saying ‘I’m fine’ costs nothing. It’s just being cordial.”
Without really thinking, I replied, “It costs energy. And she’s tired.”
And then I heard myself. I wasn’t really talking about her mom. I was talking about me. I was tired.
Seeing Myself in the Story
As my friend continued talking and adding more context, I felt the realization land. I could see how much of myself I had projected onto her story.
Sometimes I don’t make eye contact with people when I’m out running—not because I’m unfriendly or above anyone, but because I want my body to move without being pulled outward. I want to stay inside myself.
Sometimes I’m short with a customer service representative on the phone—not because they’ve done anything wrong, but because I don’t have the capacity for the emotional padding. The small talk. The softening meant to help me take a “no” more easily. I don’t want to be buttered up. I want the information. I want to be done.
And sometimes—this is the part many middle-aged women who have always been caretakers feel ashamed to admit—I no longer want to keep doling out my energy like it’s candy. Energy is a commodity, just like money, and many of us are operating in a deficit. There is simply nothing left.
Energy Is Not Infinite—It Is Allocated
Energy is not infinite in any system—biological or otherwise.
In physics, energy is conserved, not endlessly generated, and in living systems it must be carefully allocated. The nervous system runs on finite resources, and prolonged emotional labor, vigilance, and over-responsibility draw from that same limited supply. When those reserves are overdrawn for too long, the body doesn’t ask permission before conserving; it simply does.
Social engagement, emotional buffering, and responsiveness are often the first things to be scaled back—not as a moral choice or relational statement, but as a biological necessity. Conservation in these moments isn’t selfishness; it’s the system obeying its limits.
For many of us, especially those with codependent caretaking patterns learned in childhood and reinforced by society, energy has often been spent reflexively rather than consciously. We learned early to scan, anticipate, soothe, and accommodate. We learned to say “I’m fine” even when we weren’t. We learned that being pleasant, responsive, and emotionally available helped keep things stable.
Over time, that adds up.
When you’ve spent years overfunctioning—emotionally, relationally, practically—even small interactions carry a cost. Eye contact. Tone modulation. Politeness rituals. Emotional buffering. These things aren’t wrong, but they aren’t free.
Eventually, the body starts making decisions before the mind fully understands what’s happening. And when that happens, people often mistake depletion for a personality change.
When Withholding Isn’t a Boundary—It’s Triage
Here’s an important nuance, especially for those of us who are used to giving.
This isn’t the polished, empowered version of boundaries we often talk about. This isn’t clarity born of abundance. This is triage. Sometimes saying no—energetically or emotionally—isn’t about preference. It’s about consequences that have finally caught up with the body, even if the mind has yet to follow.
If I don’t conserve, my health pays. My kids pay. My work pays. And the few people I’m closest to don’t get a full version of me.
Research on burnout shows that chronic emotional labor and over-responsibility often lead to emotional withdrawal as a protective response—not because people care less, but because their nervous systems are depleted (Maslach & Leiter, 2001).
If you’re in this place and you feel guilty, the choice you’re making to conserve is not wrong. It’s that the conditioning of your mind hasn’t caught up yet to what your heart and gut already know. For many women, giving once meant safety. Availability meant belonging. So even when the supply inside you is gone, the reflex remains. What you may not realize is that you’re trying to protect what’s left of yourself.
That doesn’t make you cold. It means your nervous system has reached its limit.
The Risk of Judging Character Instead of Capacity
When we judge someone’s character without accounting for their capacity, we miss what’s really happening. We moralize exhaustion and call it impolite, cold, selfish, or rude. We label survival responses as flaws. Not everyone who goes quiet is hardening. Not everyone who disengages is indifferent. Not everyone who stops performing is making a statement.
Some of us are simply protecting the last places where our energy still matters most.
So to the person who feels guilty even when they have nothing left—the one whose body has started saying no before their mind fully understands why, the one who has learned, often the hard way, that giving a little to everyone can mean being empty where it matters most—if this is you, you’re not failing at kindness. You’re not becoming someone unrecognizable.
You’re responding to years of overfunctioning with the only signal your system has left. And that deserves understanding, not judgment.
About Allison Briggs
Allison Jeanette Briggs is a therapist, writer, and speaker specializing in helping women heal from codependency, childhood trauma, and emotional neglect. She blends psychological insight with spiritual depth to guide clients and readers toward self-trust, boundaries, and authentic connection. Allison is the author of the upcoming memoir On Being Real: Healing the Codependent Heart of a Woman and shares reflections on healing, resilience, and inner freedom at on-being-real.com.
Though I run this site, it is not mine. It's ours. It's not about me. It's about us. Your stories and your wisdom are just as meaningful as mine.
Teaching rewards self-sacrifice and calls it passion. It quietly relies on people who learned early that their worth came from being useful.
I was one of those people.
I was parentified young — a carer before I even understood the word. Mum’s mental health meant I stepped into the gaps. I looked after my younger siblings. I managed emotions that weren’t mine. I learned early that people-pleasing kept things steady.
If I was useful, things didn’t fall apart.
If I was needed, I was safe.
So, of course I became a teacher.
In the classroom, that wiring looked like dedication. Staying late. Saying yes. Taking on more. Holding everything together. Being the reliable one. The steady one. The one who coped.
They called it diligence. I called it commitment. Underneath, it was the same old pattern:
Over-functioning. Over-giving. Overriding my own needs so everyone else could be okay.
I’m also neurodivergent.
Hyper-aware. Hyper-responsible. Masking constantly. Struggling to say no. Running on overdrive until I crashed.
I gave endlessly — until I suddenly couldn’t.
When I hit capacity, when my mask slipped, when I went quiet to regulate instead of performing warmth — that’s when I was called rude.
Distant.
Cold.
Unapproachable.
Not exhausted.
Not overloaded.
Not surviving.
Just “difficult.”
When my capacity finally ran out, it wasn’t a character flaw.
It wasn’t indifference.
It wasn’t selfishness.
It was a nervous system stretched too far for too long.
I didn’t leave teaching because I stopped caring. I left because I could no longer survive performing endless capacity.
I’m done confusing self-abandonment with dedication.
Care should not require self-erasure and my worth will no longer be measured by how much of myself I can give away.
I fully understand from where you’re coming , but surely , just 5 minutes ( or even less ) to return a greeting is not too much to ask . How would anyone feel if no one greeted them . Sometimes greeting another can take a great deal of risk and effort and remember, simply smiling at someone can make the one offering the smile feel so much better it really works both ways.
Sianelewis, I understand your point, but it assumes that a greeting is always effortless. For someone running on empty, that simply isn’t true. Even brief social exchanges require energy, and asking someone to give up even five minutes to make others comfortable can be too much when they have nothing left to give. The idea that “simply smiling at someone can make you feel better” is not universally true — for some people, it costs energy they don’t have and can feel like an additional burden rather than a boost. What feels restorative to one person can feel like an extra demand to someone who is depleted.
This isn’t about dismissing connection or kindness. It’s about recognising that capacity varies from person to person and no one should feel obligated to override their limits just to put others at ease.
Fair comment , BUT how will that person feel when no one wants to talk to THEM for fear of rebuff? Wheels have a habit of turning.
Sianelewis, do you really think every missed greeting is a personal rebuff, or is it possible to let someone simply be tired or low on energy? Assuming rejection every time — as if the “wheels have a habit of turning” — can actually create the distance you’re worried about. Understanding and patience are often what prevent that cycle.
Thank you.
I needed to read this. Currently signed off work after my system said no! Can relate to every single word. Thanks again 🤍