Tag: Entrepreneurship

The Cost of Carrying Too Much

What People Pleasing Really Looks Like..

Caryn Clegg
, ,

My mom once said to me,
“I gave and I gave and I gave… until I was forced to slow down.”
And here’s the thing — her forced to slow down wasn’t some beautiful sabbatical or life-changing moment of clarity on a yoga mat.
It was stage four colon cancer.

Ten years, the doctors said. That’s probably how long it had been growing. Quietly. Slowly. While she kept showing up for everyone else.
And I remember. Years before the diagnosis, she’d talk about this tiredness. Not the kind of tired you fix with a good night’s sleep — but a deep, heavy kind of fog that just never lifted.
She’d say things like, “I’m just so tired,” or “I’m struggling a bit lately.”
But did we listen?
Like, really listen?
No. Because she was still doing all the things. The lifts. The grocery runs. The babysitting. The meals. The endless helping.
She still said yes. Still smiled. Still showed up.
We thanked her. Of course, we did. We said thank you, and we meant it.
But now I wonder — when someone is quietly disappearing behind their yeses… is thank you enough?

I grew up watching my mom live like that.
And she grew up watching her mom do the same.
Give, give, give.
Put everyone else first.
Show up. Smile. Keep going.
And so — without even realizing it — I became her.
I don’t know how to say no without guilt.
I carry the weight of everyone else’s needs before I even think about my own.
I show up even when I’m falling apart inside.
And the truth?
It’s catching up with me too.

Just the other day, my mom and I were walking in nature — one of the few things that still feels healing.
She’s years into remission now, but her body still carries the scars. The toll it took. The weight of years of self-sacrifice.
As we walked, I opened up to her. Told her how exhausted I’ve been. How my immune system’s wrecked. How my hair’s falling out in clumps, leaving bald patches on my scalp.
How I feel like I’m running on fumes but still carrying everything like it’s fine.
She looked at me and said softly, “You have to take care of yourself. You have to say no.”
And I looked at her and said, “But mom… I learnt it from you.”
I didn’t mean it as blame. Not even close.
It was just the truth.
What we model as mothers becomes our daughters’ belief systems.
I saw her give until there was nothing left — and somewhere along the line, I thought that’s what love looked like. What worthiness looked like. What womanhood looked like.

But It ends with me.
I won’t let my daughter grow up thinking her value is based on how much she can do or how many people she can please.
I’m trying — really trying — to break the cycle.
To stop saying yes when I mean no.
To stop offering up explanations for my boundaries.
To stop worrying if people will be disappointed in me for choosing rest.
But I won’t lie. It’s hard.
These patterns run deep. They’re stitched into how I was raised, what I saw, what I believed I needed to be to be loved.
And the truth?
Some people will take advantage of that kind of people pleasing — knowingly or not.
They’ll soak up your yeses. They’ll let you carry the load.
And when you start putting it down… they won’t like it.
But still, I’m learning.
Because every time I say no, I’m saying yes to me.
And that doesn’t make me selfish. It makes me human.

If you’re reading this and feeling that weight — that bone-deep exhaustion, that fog, that quiet ache of burnout from always being the one who holds it all…
Please hear me:
You don’t have to earn your worth by giving yourself away.
You are worthy.
Not because of what you do.
Not because of how strong you are.
Not because of how well you carry the load with a smile on your face.
You are worthy because you are here.
Full stop.
And the people who love you?
They’ll still love you when you rest.
When you say no.
When you finally put something down.
And if they don’t?
They were never your people.

And one more thing, before I go…
Pay attention to your friends.
To your sisters. Your moms. Your daughters.
To the ones who keep saying, “I’m so tired. I can’t do this anymore.”
That’s not drama. That’s not a mood. That’s a quiet scream.
That’s someone who’s drowning but still showing up with a smile.
Don’t be fooled by how well they carry it.
Don’t assume they’re okay because they haven’t collapsed yet.
Hold space. Make it safe to rest.
Don’t let your friendship be another place where they have to perform.
We all need a soft place to land.
Let’s be that for each other.
Let’s stop glorifying the giving and start honouring the being.
Because we deserve to rest.
And we deserve to be loved in our resting, too.

Spread the love and share this article with a friend.

If this article resonates, please drop me a comment, I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Leave a comment

The Messy Middle:

When everything shifts and nothing makes sense anymore..

Caryn Clegg
, ,

I don’t know if it’s the heaviness of the world lately… or maybe it’s just been building quietly inside me over the years. But somewhere between the heartbreaking headlines, the stories of real suffering we see play out in real time on the same phones we use to call our family, post cute reels, and text our friends – I felt something crack open.

It was subtle at first. Like a whisper inside me saying, This isn’t it anymore.

The business I’d built, the brand I’d poured into, the strategy I could do in my sleep – it suddenly felt so… hollow. Frivolous even. How was I supposed to care about engagement rates and launch calendars when people were burying their babies, losing their homes, living through war, famine, injustice?

I couldn’t shake it.

And I still haven’t.

I tried to carry on like nothing had changed, but I wasn’t fooling anyone – especially not myself. So, I burnt it all to the ground. Not in a dramatic, throw-my-laptop-out-the-window kind of way. But in a quiet, sacred kind of way. I let it die, slowly. I stopped pushing. I stopped trying to “pivot” or “rebrand.” I just stopped.

And then something beautiful happened.

I became a mama – through adoption.

I co-founded a nonprofit with my friend.

I started doing things that actually made my heart beat again.

But here’s the thing no one tells you about following what lights you up: you don’t always know where it’s leading.

And while that sounds poetic, it can also be really freaking terrifying.

Which brings me to my point:

So… what now?

What do you do when the life you had doesn’t fit anymore?

When the job title you used to say with pride now feels like wearing someone else’s clothes?

I had planned to take a year off to bond with my baby. That part? No regrets. She’s my miracle girl. But with that choice came a whole new identity crisis I didn’t expect.

Every time I met someone new, the question would come up: “So what do you do?”

Harmless, right? A basic get-to-know-you question.

But for me? It was layered.

“I’m a stay-at-home mom… with a nonprofit.”

And although my days were jam-packed – feeding, playing, rocking, comforting – I felt this tinge of shame. Like I had to justify my worth now that I wasn’t “working.” Like I was somehow less than, now that I didn’t have clients or a pitch deck.

I’m not the business and marketing consultant right now. Or maybe I still am. I don’t know.

I’m somewhere in-between.

The messy middle.

I’ve surrendered to it.

To not knowing.

To not having a five-year plan.

To letting the tears come when they need to.

To trusting that this version of me – raw, undone, redefined – is still worthy.

Becoming a mom, witnessing the pain in the world, it’s cracked me open in ways I’m still learning to hold.

I can’t pretend it’s business as usual.

Because nothing inside me feels usual anymore.

And here’s what I’ve learned:

Forcing clarity never brings peace.

Forcing creativity when your heart isn’t in it, is like yelling at a flower to bloom faster.

It doesn’t work.

It wilts you.

So instead, I’m pausing.

Slowing down.

Trusting that the next steps will reveal themselves in time.

Because they always do.

The other day, someone said to me, “But Caryn, you’re so good at marketing and business – don’t let that talent go to waste.”

And I just smiled and said, “It’s just not my season.”

And that’s okay.

Because some seasons aren’t about building.

They’re about becoming.

And that’s exactly where I am.

If you’re in your own messy middle, I see you. It’s not easy. But maybe – just maybe – it’s the space where the truest version of you begins to emerge.

If this resonated with you. Please drop me a comment, I’d love to hear from you.