How I’m learning to bend instead of brace

I love results. I always have. Not in a color-coded-planner, loses-it-when-things-go-sideways kind of way.
I’m actually pretty good at going with the flow. Plans change, I adapt. Something doesn’t work, I pivot.

But I do care about impact. I care about follow-through.I care about building things - in my work, in my relationships, in my life - that actually mean something.

For a long time, though, I think I confused caring deeply with staying braced. Like if I stayed a little tense, a little ahead, a little ready for what might go wrong, I’d be more resilient. Like bending was risky. Like the only safe option was holding myself stiff.

And if I’m honest, living alongside two cancer journeys quietly trained my nervous system to stay alert. Not in a dramatic way. Just in the background - always scanning, preparing, bracing for the next hard thing.

It made sense then. I just don’t want to live like that forever.

The cost of living braced

Here’s what I didn’t really notice I was doing. My breath disappearing in hard conversations. My brain quietly running worst-case scenarios in the background, just in case.

I told myself this was just how people who care operate. How high performers stay sharp. How you stay responsible and reliable and useful.

But somewhere along the way, my body stopped knowing the difference between important and unsafe. And I started living like every outcome was something I had to brace for.

The shift

Lately, something has been changing. In the moments where I normally tighten - fix, organize, jump straight to the solution - I’ve been catching myself, not doing that quite as fast.

Sometimes I pause. Not in a big, enlightened way. More like I notice my jaw and think, oh. That’s happening again.

I still want things to work. I still care about results. I’m just learning - very slowly - how to stay a little softer while I wait for them. To bend with what’s happening, instead of meeting every unknown like something I have to hold rigidly in place.

I still want the outcome. I just don’t need to turn my nervous system into the control panel for it. That part is new for me.

How change actually happens (when you’re already maxed out)

This didn’t happen because I suddenly had more time. Or because I fixed my schedule. Or went on a retreat. Or finally figured something out.

It happened in the in-between moments.

One time I noticed my shoulders were practically touching my ears and dropped them. One meeting where I took a breath before responding instead of immediately solving. One evening where I let something be unfinished and didn’t make it mean I was failing.

If you’re reading this thinking, I don’t have room for one more thing right now, I really get that. I’m not trying to add something. I’m learning how to carry what’s already here differently.

Because the load isn’t only the work. It’s the way I hold myself around it. And that’s where bending, instead of breaking, actually is.

What you can’t control (and what you can)

There is so much right now that just isn’t in our hands. Whether the people we love stay healthy. Whether systems that weren’t built with us in mind suddenly become kinder. Whether tomorrow’s news will land softer than today’s.

This week is World Cancer Day. And for me, that always brings things very close to the surface. It’s a quiet reminder of how much courage lives inside ordinary bodies. And how little certainty we truly get, no matter how prepared we try to be.

And somehow, we’re still expected to show up. To perform. To be present. To keep things moving.

What I’m learning, slowly, is this: I can’t control what happens. But I can notice when I’m abandoning myself while I wait for it.

What real control looks like for me lately

It’s not managing circumstances. It’s not forcing outcomes. It’s much quieter.

It’s noticing how harsh my inner voice gets when I feel scared. It’s letting myself ask for help instead of proving I can carry it alone. It’s putting my phone down when the scrolling stops being informative and starts being numbing. It’s resting without needing to justify it first. It’s unhooking my sense of being okay from whether today unfolds the way I hoped.

None of this fixes the big machinery. But it changes how I move inside it. And right now, that feels like the difference between bending and slowly wearing myself down.

What I keep coming back to

When I feel myself start to brace - shallow breath, tight chest, spinning mind - I ask one very simple question: what’s one thing I can tend right now? Not fix. Not solve. Just tend.

Sometimes it’s drinking water before opening my inbox, or stepping outside for thirty seconds, or texting a friend: You free to chat?

It doesn’t resolve what I’m worried about. But it reminds my body that I’m here, not just pushing through what’s next. And I’m starting to see how much easier it is to stay effective when I’m not fighting myself at the same time.

Why this matters to me

Because I don’t want to become less driven. I just don’t want to keep paying for my drive with my nervous system. Because caring deeply about outcomes doesn’t have to mean carrying them in my chest and shoulders and breath.

Because you can be ambitious. And results-oriented. And serious about impact. And still learn how to bend with uncertainty instead of meeting it like something you have to survive.

The truth about capacity

One last thing. If you’re already tired, really tired, you might be reading this thinking, this sounds lovely, but I truly don’t have bandwidth for personal growth right now.

I hear that. I’m not asking you to change anything. Just notice one moment today when you’re bracing. That’s it.

Tomorrow, maybe you notice and take one breath. The next day, maybe you drop your shoulders. Just to remind yourself that you’re here. That you can bend. That you don’t have to break to keep going.