Try Harder? I’m Already at Max Capacity.
I probably should’ve canceled the appointment.
That day, I was already hanging on by a thread—on my period after over 100 days without one, cramping, bloated, tired. I looked so miserable that my boss told me to go home, and my team backed him up. I had that look, the one where your body is screaming for rest, and everyone can tell you’re not okay. And even though I felt like crap, I didn’t just go home to rest. No, I had a dietitian appointment I’d been dreading for days.
I’d already thought about canceling. My coworker reminded me the next day, “Didn’t she peeve you off last time too?” And yeah—she did. So why did I go?
I don’t know. Maybe because part of me still believed that showing up would mean progress. That I was doing the responsible thing. That I might finally feel like my body made sense again.
Instead, I walked out feeling like I was being gaslit by someone I’m paying to help me.
I told her, once again, that I’m gaining weight. That I feel like I’m doing everything right and still seeing no results. And her response?
“Don’t focus too much on the scale.”
“Even if it’s PCOS, it’s the same advice—eat whole foods, be mindful, eat enough.”
Okay… but I’ve been doing that. For seven months. With no changes. And when I told her that I’d gone to my doctor, that they did an ultrasound and found one polycystic ovary, she just handed me a generic handout. No real shift in strategy. Just more of the same:
“Eat healthier. Don’t stress. There’s no magic pill.”
But here’s the thing—if food alone was going to fix this, it would’ve by now. And what pissed me off more than anything was the way she said it. Like I was a burden for still struggling. Like I hadn’t tried hard enough.
And the truth is, I’m so tired of being made to feel like I’m not trying. Like I’m not doing enough. When I’m doing everything.
I’m working a toxic-ass job that has me clocking 50-hour weeks. I barely have time to cook, to clean, to do laundry. I’m dragging myself to the gym when I can. I’m trying to go on dates. I’m trying to keep up with friends.
And now I’m supposed to do therapy again, too?
Because yeah, I mentioned I’ve been stressed. That my gut health’s a mess, that I’m bloated all the time. And her solution was basically,
“That could be emotional. You should probably see a therapist.”
Cool. Let me just add that to the ever-growing list of things I’m supposed to do to be functional:
See a therapist once a week
Go to the gym five times a week
Cook clean, whole foods
Meal prep
Grocery shop
Heal
Date
Be social
Keep a clean house
Manage my career
Find a new job because this one is killing me
Oh—and look great while doing it.
It’s like... in what world? In what world do I have the time and energy to be the version of myself that everyone expects?
I’m not the problem. I know that. But I’m so fucking tired of being made to feel like I am.
So when my coworker said, “Maybe you should stop seeing her,” it didn’t just feel like a suggestion. It felt like permission.
Permission to stop handing my energy to people who treat it like a checklist.
Permission to stop performing wellness in a world that’s burning down.
Permission to say, No, actually, it’s not me. It’s everything else.
Because yeah, I have a good job. A nice apartment. Stability on paper. But behind the scenes, I’m barely hanging on. I’m skipping therapy not because I don’t want to grow—but because it’s expensive and I’m tired. And I said to my coworker the other day:
“Honestly? What am I healing for? The world’s going to shit.”
There’s political chaos. Climate collapse. Violence. Misery. And I’m sitting here crying in my car because someone told me to eat more spinach.
So maybe I will stop seeing her.
And maybe I’ll stop chasing fixes that come wrapped in wellness jargon and PDF printouts.
Because at this point, I’m not even sure what I’m healing for.
The system is cracked at every seam.
It’s laughable, really—if it didn’t feel so heavy.
If it didn’t cost so much.
Time. Energy. Hope.
I’m tired of trying to optimize my suffering.
Tired of pretending this burnout is a lifestyle problem.
Tired of being told to fix myself while everything else around me rots.
I don’t need to be fixed. I need a break.