Each day, we spend ourselves in time, in energy, in commitments. Some of it feels worthwhile, but much of it slips away unnoticed, scattered across tasks that leave us drained.
Sitting in a coffee shop recently, I overheard two men at the next table. Leaning in, they rattled off packed schedules and endless obligations, their words carrying a practiced importance, as if proving how indispensable they were. Beneath it, I heard exhaustion. It wasn’t pride. It was survival.
The Quiet Cost of Yes
Each "yes" is a way of spending ourselves—a currency we can’t earn back. The request comes, and before we’ve had time to weigh it, the word slips out. "Yes" feels generous, cooperative, even necessary. But each agreement carries an unspoken cost—energy given away, time filled, space taken.
For years, I told myself that saying "yes" made me valuable, that being needed was proof of worth. It was a quick fix for the nagging fear of disappointing someone or falling short. But beneath each agreement was an unease I couldn’t name—a growing sense that I was running to stay ahead of my own self-doubt. When my confidence faltered, I ran faster, chasing validation in the form of approval. Each "yes" felt like striking another match, watching it flare briefly before flickering out, leaving me searching for the next source of light.
The more I gave, the emptier I felt. One evening, I turned to my journal, trying to make sense of the endless cycle of overwhelm. The words came quickly: I was "running on fumes." Seeing that phrase in my own handwriting felt like uncovering a truth I’d been carrying but couldn’t name. At the time, it felt like a small breakthrough. But the deeper truth—that I was trying to prove myself to me—didn’t come until much later, after more overcommitment and exhaustion pushed me to finally see it.
The Math of Purpose
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that energy is finite. Every choice we make—every task, relationship, or project we commit to—is an investment of that energy. And like any investment, some choices offer a return, while others quietly drain us.
I see this truth reflected in my friend Deb’s story. After losing her brother to ALS, she found purpose in supporting Hark, an organization that helps families navigate the disease’s emotional and financial toll. Her work there is deeply personal—a way to honor her brother’s legacy while providing others with the support she knows is vital.
She once told me about the families she helps, the quiet relief in their voices when they realize they’re not alone. Her days are full, but the time she gives to Hark doesn’t deplete her; it sustains her. Watching Deb, I’ve come to understand how purpose can transform what we give into something that fuels rather than drains us. It’s a reminder that tending the flame of purpose doesn’t just use energy—it renews it.
Letting Go to Make Space
In my early fifties, I said yes to almost every invitation to join a nonprofit board. It was always an honor, and the work was valuable, but I stretched myself too thin. I started to notice something: when I was fully aligned with an organization’s mission, I could throw myself into the work and feel recharged, even after long hours. But when the alignment wasn’t there, it felt different. I’d drag my feet on commitments, running on sheer obligation instead of purpose.
Eventually, I stepped back from one of the boards. Letting go was a strange mix of relief and guilt. At first, I paused to see if I would feel pulled back toward it, but I didn’t.
That decision taught me something invaluable. When I’m aligned, my energy doesn’t just sustain me—it grows. My productivity and creativity take off. When I’m not, even worthwhile work feels depleting.
Reclaiming energy isn’t about doing less; it’s about choosing differently. It means saying "no" more often than "yes," even when it feels uncomfortable. It means sitting with the space that remains, trusting that what grows there will be worth the wait.
Tending the Flame
The way we spend our energy is the way we spend our lives. This isn’t a lesson I learned all at once, but one that crept in quietly, each realization shaping the next. Like those two men I overheard, counting their obligations like currency, we often mistake activity for worth.
The way we spend our energy is the way we spend our lives… Energy isn’t infinite, but it is sacred.
Energy isn’t infinite, but it is sacred. When we protect it—when we align it with what truly matters—we find ourselves less scattered, more present. We’re able to show up fully, not just for the things we’ve chosen but for the moments that need us most.
The true cost of giving ourselves away isn’t exhaustion—it’s the loss of meaning. Like a flame that needs tending, our energy burns brightest when we guard it carefully, letting it illuminate what matters most. The space we create by saying "no" becomes the ground where purpose takes root, where what we give aligns with who we are—and what we truly value.