Why It’s Okay to Lower the Bar (on Purpose)

Anxiety and depression have always had a way of showing up during life’s biggest transitions. I’ve faced more than a few—there was the car accident I couldn’t control, with my three-year-old daughter in the backseat, the slow unraveling of a marriage I stayed in far too long, the loss of a parent, and losing a sense of financial security more than once, including right before the world shut down. There was even a season where everything I owned fit into six boxes, and I slept on an air mattress on a friend’s office floor. Life has been unpredictable, messy, and at times, painfully humbling—but it’s also shaped me. Over the years, I’ve learned how to keep going, even when I wasn’t sure how. And underneath it all, there’s been a truth I didn’t fully understand until much later: I’ve been anxious for as long as I can remember. Even as a child, that low—and sometimes not-so-low—hum of worry was always there, scanning, bracing, trying to stay one step ahead of whatever might come.

For most of my adult life, I’ve worn strength like armor. I took pride in “pushing through,” in showing up even when I felt completely drained inside. And to be honest, that trait has helped me survive more than once. But lately, I’ve been questioning whether pushing is always the answer. Whether constantly raising the bar for myself is a form of self-discipline—or a lack of self-compassion. Maybe being strong doesn’t always look like showing up. Maybe sometimes it looks like pausing. Like finally admitting, “I’m not okay right now. I feel disconnected. And I don’t know what I need.” And that kind of honesty? That is alignment. Not the polished, picture-perfect kind, but the raw, honest truth that lives beneath the surface—and that truth deserves way more credit than we usually give it.

Right now, I’m standing at another one of those familiar crossroads. On paper, things look good—I’m doing work I love. By day, I am a full-time art director, and on nights and weekends, I offer mediumship sessions that fill my heart and connect me to something greater. I’m in a relationship that feels steady, respectful, and loving—something I never thought I’d experience in such a grounded way. And yet, even with all of that, I’ve been feeling stuck. Not directionless exactly, just… heavy. That quiet voice inside that keeps asking, What’s next? It’s a familiar voice. And more often than not, it’s tied to the practical fears—the money, the future, the pressure to do more, save more, be more. It creeps in when I’m running on empty, when I’ve worked a full day, poured into everyone else but myself, and then collapsed into bed wondering if I’ve done “enough.”

And here’s what I’m finally starting to understand: I’m not going to find the whole path by burning myself out trying to chase it. I’m learning to lower the bar—on purpose. To stop treating self-care like a reward I have to earn and start seeing it as a necessary return to myself. Instead of trying to overhaul everything at once, I’ve started looking for the small sparks. The things that remind me I’m alive, even in the fog. A walk outside. A favorite song. A warm meal that I actually sit down to enjoy. Letting someone in, even when I don’t have the words to explain what’s wrong. These little things are not luxuries. They’re lifelines. And when everything feels unclear or too much, they are the gentle breadcrumbs that lead me back home.

So if you’re in that place right now—worn out, overwhelmed, wondering why you still feel lost even when you’re doing your best—please know this: you are not behind. You’re not failing. You’re not broken. You’re a beautifully sensitive, aware, soul navigating a very human experience. And alignment doesn’t always look like certainty. Sometimes it looks like being honest enough not to fake it. Sometimes it’s messy and uncomfortable. Sometimes it’s lying in bed and deciding that breathing and trying again tomorrow is more than enough. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the kind of alignment our souls were always asking for in the first place.