When doing everything doesn't work

Welcome to Beyond Stability, where psychiatrist, social scientist and humanitarian adviser Dr. Suzan Song shares reflections about how we think, decide, and partner during uncertain times to find a sense of groundedness and joy.

Recently, I’ve been hearing a similar struggle, from corporate executives managing multi-billion dollar portfolios to stay-at-home parents trying to keep their children not just alive, but loved: Doubt.

More precisely, doubt mixed with guilt and fear. The quiet slide from not doing enough to not being enough.

These doers carry a heavy mental load. Some of it’s logistical (what’s for dinner?), some strategic (is this the right plan for the next three months?), some deeply personal (what does this say about me?), and some moral (am I acting in alignment with what I believe?)

Often, people are consumed with a high mental load. Not only tasks, but evaluation: Am I doing enough? Am I missing something? Should I be more present here, more decisive there? For some, this shows up at home. For others, it’s at work or in leadership roles where responsibility builds. The list is persistent and rarely feels finished.

Over time, a quiet—or sometimes very loud—resentment builds. Not because others aren’t helping, but because asking feels like another task to manage. We want people to see what needs to be done and step in without being told. 

We want to do right by the people or systems we’re responsible for—even when it costs us our own wellbeing. What’s ironic is that what others need from us, namely judgment, presence, and emotional steadiness, are often the first to erode under chronic overextension. So what is one to do? Are we doomed to martyrdom? 

Thankfully, no. Underneath this struggle is a story we rarely examine. Narratives about who we are, what we’re responsible for, and what it means to be “good enough” shape how we move through the world. We don’t control the stories that are told about us, but we do shape the ones we tell ourselves.  

The problem isn’t a lack of effort. It’s that most of us are operating inside identity scripts we’ve never questioned: I should be able to handle this. If I slow down, I’m failing. If I need help, I’m not doing it right. These scripts keep stability for those around us—until they don’t.

In one long-term study of professionals moving into leadership roles, researchers found something surprising: the people who struggled most weren’t the least capable. They were the ones most attached to who they’d been before.

They kept trying to “figure out” the right kind of leader to become. They reflected and analyzed and waited until they felt ready.

But the people who grew did something different. They experimented with trying to lead meetings differently or delegated sooner than felt comfortable. They took on responsibilities before they felt fully prepared. Over time, their sense of identity caught up with their actions—not the other way around.

We inherit ideas about who we’re supposed to be: the reliable one, the stabilizer, the person who doesn’t need much. These identities are socially reinforced and rarely questioned. We keep performing them long after they stop serving us, until exhaustion sets in and we quietly wonder why this feels so hard. When we stay locked in old scripts, even support can feel burdensome.

Often, these scripts aren’t just personal—they’re shaped by systems that quietly reward overextension and call it dedication. When that happens, what feels like individual failure is often a collective design problem.

So burnout isn’t just about doing too much. It’s often about carrying an identity that no longer fits, one that was shaped by expectations we didn’t choose. What looks like overwork is often a mismatch between the role we’re in and the self we feel compelled to perform.

If you’re stuck in that tension between competence and exhaustion, the work isn’t in trying to work harder. The key is to identify your narrative—what is the identity script you’ve been given that you’re playing out? 

Then try a different way. Sometimes that experiment is small. 

Not because you’ve figured it all out, but because you’re testing what happens when you stop performing the role you’ve always played. Growth comes from recognizing the story you’re living inside, then being willing to test a different one.

In my upcoming book, Why We Suffer and How We Heal (Penguin, 2026), I explore these dynamics across personal, organizational, and social contexts, drawing on science, clinical experience and real-world cases. 

You can find occasional longer reflections, media, and event information at www.suzansong.com

If this resonated, feel free to forward this to someone who could use a little support right now! And if this was forwarded to you, you can subscribe here. Life is hard. But it’s harder when we’re at it alone. 

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