The Grief of Capacity

There is a particular kind of grief that comes with realizing our limitations. It is the grief of wanting to continue doing work that matters, work connected to our values, lived experience, and passion, while recognizing that our bodymind no longer has the capacity to sustain it. For those of us who are disabled, chronically ill, living with energy-limiting conditions, and/or neurodivergent, this grief can be especially complex. Our desire to contribute, create, and support others does not always align with the energy, health, or capacity we have available.

It is not the grief of losing interest or no longer caring. It is the grief of still having passion for the work while accepting that continuing in the same way is harming us. It is the grief of knowing we have meaningful things to offer while also recognizing that we cannot keep sacrificing ourselves in order to offer them.

I have known for a while that I have been living in burnout. Not the sudden kind, but the slow, steady kind that becomes a way of life. It has been years of nonstop work, holding multiple jobs while also trying to build my own offerings and heart-work. I have spent years pouring myself into supporting others, creating spaces for connection, and trying to contribute something meaningful.

My bodymind has reached a point where it is no longer asking me to slow down. It is demanding it. I am craving spaciousness, quiet, and time to exist without constantly moving toward the next obligation. I want less urgency, less proving, and less of my life being shaped by expectations that do not account for the realities of living in a disabled and neurodivergent body.

This time last year, I was contracted at multiple places. I facilitated multiple groups every week. I sat on two committees and one board. I was overwhelmed, exhausted, and stretched so thin that I could barely locate myself underneath all of the responsibilities I was carrying.

The hardest part of this transition is that I wanted to keep doing the work. I still care deeply about the people I have supported and the spaces I have helped create. There is grief in realizing that wanting something does not always mean we have the capacity to sustain it. My sensitivity allows me to connect deeply with others, but it also means that certain environments, expectations, and forms of emotional labor can take a significant toll on my health.

After I am done for the day, there is often no more me left for me. That is the truth I have had to accept. I cannot keep giving everything I have to the work I care about and have nothing remaining for my own life, rest, creativity, and healing.

This season has required me to let go of spaces I once thought I needed to remain connected to. I have stepped away from committees, my time with the board ended, and now I am leaving the last place where I contract. This has been a hard decision because I am not leaving because the work stopped mattering. I am leaving because I have accepted that the way I was doing the work was no longer sustainable.

I am learning that saying no is not failure. It is an act of honoring my limits. Stepping back is not defeat; it is devotion. It is choosing a way of working that recognizes my whole self instead of asking me to separate my gifts from my needs.

I am allowed to grieve the work I love. I am allowed to release what I cannot carry anymore. Sometimes the most loving thing we can do for ourselves and the work we care about is to stop offering ourselves as the sacrifice.