Words by Megan Dalla-Camina // photograph by Dmitrii Shirnin
For most of my life, overachieving felt like a virtue. It looked like ambition, discipline, and drive. It earned praise and opened doors. It made me feel safe in a world that rewards women who are capable, reliable, and always “on top of things.” Being busy was proof that I mattered. Being needed was a kind of currency.
Until one day, it wasn’t.
When achievement stops feeling good
I didn’t burn out in a dramatic way.
There was no breakdown, no hospital stay, no moment where everything fell apart. Instead, it was quieter and harder to name. I felt constantly tired, even after rest. A little flat. Slightly disconnected from myself, as though I was moving through my days on autopilot.
I was still doing all the things: working, showing up, producing, leading. But the joy had thinned out. Rest felt uncomfortable, almost itchy. Stillness felt unproductive. Even my downtime had an edge of effort to it, as though I should be optimising it somehow.
That was my first real clue: when rest starts to feel like something you have to earn, something is off.
The hidden cost of always doing more
Overachieving is often celebrated, especially in women. We’re rewarded for carrying more, managing more, pushing through. We learn early that being capable keeps us valued, needed, and secure. So, we stretch. We adapt. We say yes. And we tell ourselves we’re fine. But there’s a cost when “doing more” becomes your default setting.
You start measuring your worth by output rather than presence. You override your body’s signals because there’s always something that feels more urgent. You ignore the quiet inner voice asking for space, ease, or a slower pace. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, your wellbeing becomes collateral damage in the pursuit of being “good enough.”
The moment I realised I couldn’t keep going like this
For me, the shift came when I realised I was excellent at meeting expectations — everyone else’s, including my own — but increasingly disconnected from how I actually felt. I could deliver. I could perform. I could hold it all together. But underneath, there was a growing sense that I was achieving, without truly inhabiting my life.
And that question landed hard and wouldn’t leave me alone: What’s the point of success if it costs you your health, your energy, your sense of self? It wasn’t that my life was wrong. It was that it no longer fit the woman I was becoming.
Learning to do less (without guilt)
Doing less doesn’t come naturally to overachievers.
At first, it feels irresponsible. Lazy. Like you’re letting something slip through the cracks.
There’s a nervous energy that comes with not filling every available space with effort or achievement.
But learning to do less isn’t about lowering your standards or giving up on your goals. It’s about becoming more discerning. About choosing what actually matters, rather than saying yes out of habit, fear, or a need to prove yourself.
I started small. One fewer commitment in the week. One unproductive afternoon without justification. One decision made from how my body felt, not what I thought I should do. It was uncomfortable. And deeply necessary.
Redefining success in a healthier way
The biggest shift wasn’t logistical. It was internal.
I had to redefine success away from constant motion and toward sustainability. Away from relentless striving and toward a life that could actually be lived, not just managed.
Success became:
– Having energy left at the end of the day
– Feeling present instead of perpetually rushed
– Saying no without over-explaining or apologising
– Trusting that my value isn’t tied to how much I produce
Ironically, when I stopped pushing so hard, my work improved. My thinking deepened. My creativity returned. My relationships softened. My body relaxed in ways I didn’t realise it had been holding itself tense.
What overachievers often forget
Overachievers are not weak.
They are often deeply committed, caring, intelligent women who learned early that effort equals safety. That excellence equals belonging. That being useful keeps you loved. But wellbeing doesn’t come from effort alone. It comes from listening. From rest. From knowing when enough is enough, and having the courage to stop before your body forces you to.
Doing less isn’t quitting. It’s recalibrating.
It’s choosing a pace that honours your nervous system, your health, and your long-term vitality — not just your short-term output.
If you’re feeling this too.
If you’re exhausted but still driven.
If rest feels unfamiliar or even unsettling.
If you’re quietly wondering whether the pace you’re keeping is sustainable.
I really want you to know this: You’re not broken. You’re not failing.
You might simply be ready for a new way of measuring success, one that includes your wellbeing, not at its expense. One that values presence as much as productivity, and ease as much as effort.
Sometimes the bravest achievement is learning to stop.
