A New Week | June 23rd, 2024
The shitty weeks aka when The Hero is tired
When the Hero Is Tired
When you’re the strong one — the capable one — the one who always knows what to say — who holds you when you’re tired?
I’m writing this today because I recently had to cancel a session with a group of women in one of the leadership circles. It’s a group that has been meeting for over a year, and we care about each other deeply. But we had a death in our family. And even though we knew it was coming, it brought that heavy, quiet grief that makes you want to unplug from life’s busyness and sit still with what hurts.
Instead of hero-ing my way through it — instead of pretending my mind and heart could show up fully while I was guiding my kids through their first family death — I chose to pause. To be human first. To let the people I serve see that leaders, too, have limits and losses.
Because shitty weeks can feel so isolating. It’s like you’re the only one suffering, locked in a tug-of-war with your mind, your body, your partner, your choices, your life.
And then come the endless negotiations with your nervous system about who gets to go first:
The to-do list.
The summer camp sign-ups for the kids.
The meetings stacked back to back.
Or your body’s quiet, pleading wish for just one guilt-free cup of tea in the sun. Or under a cloud. Not even picky here. Just feel your own heart for a moment to let the heaviness not go unnoticed.
Shitty weeks are shitty because the constant switching costs — from carpool lines to client calls — drain the last drop of you. On a normal day, you’d shrug and say “Just busy.” But on a bad week, the ordinary weight of life somehow swells into something enormous. We can’t really put a finger on it, because we’re also not really allowing ourselves to truly feel and be a witness of the load we’re carrying. So when the final drop spills your already overdrawn emotional bucket, we just call it a “shitty day“. Yet again.
This isn’t one of those neat little essays that ends with “It’s okay to have bad days.”
Let’s be honest: sometimes it’s not okay — not when people rely on you to keep the whole show running.
The reason our mental health rides such a brutal rollercoaster is because our hearts are so hopeful — so convinced that we can hold it all. Not because we take such pride in it (sometimes though), but also because we love our people, and our work. We are determined, driven, and passionate. We deeply, deeply care. And somehow our body learned to associate all of these things with “more“, not with less but more intentionally. If I can just help one more person, cook one more healthy dinner, smooth over one more tense meeting — maybe tomorrow will be lighter.
But here’s what happens:
People learn we’re the soft landing for their hard days. So they keep coming. The people. And the hard days. We’re not rising collectively. The collective wellbeing rises with one person rising. And this is not sustainable.
I know this because I’ve done it. In my family. In previous companies I built.
I’ve smiled on Zoom while wanting to cry under my desk, leaving me unable to say what needs to be said. Creating a culture of conflict minimization and sacrifice optimization.
I’ve hidden in my bathroom with the door locked so I could drink my tea before bedtime stories.
I’ve swallowed my own tears to stay strong.
We teach people how to treat us, every single day.
If we’re not awake to the ways we enable what exhausts us, we are just as responsible as the colleague asking for our “quick help” for the fiftieth time this week.
So, how does this keep happening?
Let me show you a rude but life-saving little map:
The Drama Triangle.
Three roles. All equally sticky:
👉 The Victim — “Why does this always happen to me?”
👉 The Villain — “It’s your fault. Never mine.”
👉 The Hero — “Don’t worry. I’ll fix it. I’ve got you.”
Round and round we go: blame, rescue, resentment. On the surface, it looks like help. Underneath? We’re all stuck.
And if you’re anything like me — high-capacity, big-hearted, the unspoken emotional first responder at home and at work (to be fair - my husband and I both are) — you probably built your identity around the Hero.
Because helping feels good. Needed feels good.
The rush of “I saved the day” can feel like proof that we matter.
But here’s the truth I wish someone had whispered to me sooner or a parent has offered me as part of his or her daily parenting and embodiment:
The day rarely gets saved. Not for long.
It just resets tomorrow with a fresh new crisis.
Meanwhile, the Hero slowly turns into the Martyr: exhausted, under-acknowledged, and over-relied on. No medal. No happy ending. :)
The Hero doesn’t need to work harder, what we’re being asked is for our Inner Hero to evolve.
And that evolution looks like becoming the Coach.
The Coach does not plug holes in sinking boats, but instead the Coach teaches people to spot the leak before it floods the house.
When my son forgets his homework, the Hero does it for him at midnight.
The Coach sits beside him the next morning and helps him own the mistake.
Same love. More courage.
The Coach doesn’t hover to prevent every fall. They stand near enough to say, “You’ve got this — even if you wobble.”
This is how you step off the rollercoaster.
You trade the Hero’s adrenaline for the Coach’s quiet power: the power to build real capacity around you, not dependency. What I am not saying is that it’s easy. It’s courageous, because for many (including a past version of me) was so shaped and defined by. So much so, that I would’ve called it part of my character.
How does that sit with you? How do you get in you own way on/in shitty days and weeks?
When you let go of saving everyone, you don’t become cold or uncaring. You become someone whose care teaches others to stand on their own feet.
Where in your body do you have access to a version of you that can create guidance based on everything you’ve done?
This shift is uncomfortable at first. You’ll want to jump in. You’ll hear that old whisper — “Just this once, I’ll handle it.” But every time you resist that reflex, you show the people you love how capable they really are.
You stop plugging holes and start teaching people to build stronger boats. You stop carrying what was never yours to carry, and you begin to create space for others to rise.
Of course it doesn’t mean you never help. Especially in moments when it’s truly needed - at home or in your org. But you’re newly aware of the balance you’re striking. You become aware of the mental and emotional costs associated with saving vs leading others through the wobblyness — over time it means you help differently: by staying close enough for them to wobble, learn, and find steadiness through their own missteps. Suggest, direct, and meet them with poignant questions where they’re at so they can meet themselves.
And in doing so, you reclaim your own steadiness too. You remember that you, too, deserve an unbothered cup of tea in the sun — without feeling like the world might collapse if you pause to breathe.
You don’t need to abandon your big heart.
You just need to let it beat inside a body that’s no longer drowning in other people’s emergencies.
This won’t solve all of our shitty days. But for many humans who read these essays regularly, I know it will. It’s beautifully human.
We’ll explore the villain and victim soon :)
Until then, here is a document I created for the female leaders in my somatic leadership circle. It includes more meat around the drama triangle concept, and some prompts for you to reflect upon.
The conversations with women who are interested in the next women’s leadership circle have started. Please reach out to us, if you would like to meet me personally, and find out if this is something that moves you inward and forward too.
All the love, all the power,
Franzi
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