A good friend of mine recently had major surgery. I sent him a DoorDash gift card, hoping it would make things a little easier for him and his wife while he recovered, and I've followed the updates they've shared, but I haven't checked in nearly as much as I normally would. And I feel bad about that.
It's not that I think they're disappointed in me. I doubt they're keeping track of how often I reach out, and I know they have much bigger things on their minds. The problem is that I know myself. Under different circumstances, I would have checked in more often, probably found another way to help, and made a greater effort to support them through an incredibly difficult experience. Instead, I've been dealing with so much in my own life that I haven't had the capacity to do everything I would normally do.
I realize how that might sound. I sent a gift card, I've been keeping up with their recovery, and I'm obviously thinking about them. Why isn't that enough? It's a question I keep asking myself, and it goes much deeper than this one situation.
A standard I've carried since childhood
When I celebrated ten years in business in 2020, I wrote about an award I received at the end of sixth grade. My teacher, Mrs. Amy Charles, gave each student a homemade award, and mine was the "Goes Above and Beyond" award. I remember being disappointed because other students received awards like "Teacher's Helper" or "Peer Helper," and I wanted one of those instead. It took me years to recognize how accurately she had described something that would become such a defining part of my personality.
I've never been particularly satisfied with doing what's expected of me. Whether I'm working on a project, helping someone solve a problem, or planning a birthday surprise, I want to do something exceptional. I can trace some of that back to the expectations I grew up with. I remember bringing home report cards with four A's and a B, only to have the conversation focus on the B.
I don't know whether I was naturally wired to be an overachiever or whether those experiences made me one. I suspect both played a role. When doing well still invites questions about why you didn't do better, it's easy to believe that whatever you've accomplished could always be improved, and over time I became someone who set high expectations for myself even when nobody else was asking me to.
That is only one side of it. Not everything I do comes from pressure or a need to prove myself. A tremendous amount of satisfaction comes from doing something extraordinary, particularly when it benefits another person.
The satisfaction of doing something extraordinary
A few years ago, I arranged a massage for my hairdresser and friend, Krys, who does a great deal for others and who I wanted to feel appreciated. The massage was only part of the plan. I coordinated with the massage therapist to have a basket of gifts waiting when she finished, and I had asked about her family ahead of time so I could include thoughtful items for her husband and children, too. I was so excited that I recorded a video explaining what I had planned before it happened.
When Krys found the gifts, she was completely caught off guard. As she looked through everything and realized I had thought about her family, she became emotional and kept telling me how surprised and happy she was, eventually telling me how much she loved me.
I still remember that moment because it captures the pleasure I get from doing these things. I enjoy the planning, the attention to detail, and especially the chance to make someone feel special in a way they weren't expecting. Nobody asked me to do any of it, and I wasn't looking for anything in return. It simply made me happy. I love finding the extra touch that takes something from ordinary to memorable, whether it's a personal gesture or a professional project. The difficulty is that I've also come to expect that level of effort from myself, regardless of what else is happening in my life.
My hairdresser and friend, Krys, and I.
When the capacity isn't there
Over the past year, I've been through some of the most difficult changes of my adult life. My mom passed away, my business circumstances changed dramatically, I navigated a career transition, and my dad recently moved into our home. Those are substantial changes individually, and managing them together has required more from me than I anticipated. We now have seven cats between ours and Dad's, one of mine has been dealing with significant health issues, and my new job is demanding, particularly because I approach every assignment with the same determination I've always had.
None of this has changed my desire to do extraordinary things. What has changed is the capacity I have to do them. Last year I organized a surprise birthday dinner for a close friend and her family, the kind of thing I love to plan because I get to think about the details and create an experience someone will remember. This year, I'm giving her a gift card to a bowling alley.
I know there's nothing wrong with that gift, and I know she isn't evaluating our friendship based on whether I organize an elaborate celebration. Still, I can't help comparing it with what I would have done a year ago, when I had more room in my life for that kind of planning. I haven't stopped wanting to make people feel special, but I can't consistently do it at the level I once did.
The same tension exists professionally. I was recently talking to my therapist about how much pressure I've been feeling at work. My job is already intense, but I make it more demanding because I don't want to deliver something that's merely acceptable. She knows me well enough to recognize that I don't half-ass anything. What's funny is that my definition of half-assing something is probably another person's definition of doing a perfectly good job. I want to exceed expectations, and when I see an opportunity to make something better, it's difficult to ignore. That determination has served me well throughout my career, but it takes energy, and when I'm giving so much of myself to work and to responsibilities at home, there is less of me available for everything else.
The expectations I don't apply to anyone else
One thing I've noticed is that I don't measure other people's generosity by the standards I apply to myself. My dad isn't someone who's going to plan an elaborate birthday surprise. That's simply not his personality, and I don't expect him to express his affection the way I do. When one of my cats recently needed veterinary care, he drove a considerable distance to take him to the appointment and pick him up afterward, and I appreciated that enormously because it was a meaningful way for him to help.
I've also been touched by the kindness people have shown me this year. Friends have sent cards, gifts and messages, sometimes when I least expected them, including one particularly meaningful birthday note recognizing how much I do for other people. Those gestures meant a great deal to me, not because of how elaborate they were, but because someone took the time to think about me.
So why can I appreciate the different ways other people show they care, yet feel like I'm falling short when my own gestures aren't as elaborate as they used to be?
I don't have a particularly satisfying answer, but I think part of it comes from knowing what I'm capable of under different circumstances. When you've spent decades trying to exceed expectations, you develop a clear picture of what your best looks like, and when your current efforts don't match that picture, it's hard not to feel disappointed. I also recognize that I'm comparing myself against circumstances that no longer exist.
I wonder how many of us do that without realizing it. We remember what we accomplished when our responsibilities were different, when we had more flexibility, or when life wasn't demanding quite so much from us. Then we hold ourselves to those same standards without fully accounting for what has changed.
Knowing your limits doesn't make them easier to accept
I've written recently about feeling like there simply aren't enough hours in the day, and I still believe that sometimes the problem isn't poor time management or a lack of focus. There are periods when too many important responsibilities are competing for the same limited amount of attention. What I'm describing here is something different.
Even when I recognize that I'm operating at capacity, I still want to do more. I still have ideas for thoughtful surprises, ways to make my work better, and things I'd like to do for the people I care about. The desire hasn't diminished just because my circumstances have changed, and I've reached a point where doing more often means sacrificing something else. Sometimes that means getting less sleep, cutting back on exercise, or giving up downtime that I genuinely need. Other times it means squeezing another task into an already demanding day, knowing that something else will probably get delayed. I've done plenty of that over the past year, and I can't pretend it hasn't taken a toll.
What makes it especially difficult is that I don't necessarily feel like I've done enough when I stop. I stop because doing more would come at the expense of something else that matters, which is not the same thing. For someone who has always taken pride in exceeding expectations, accepting that distinction isn't easy. I'm accustomed to finding a way, putting in additional effort, and figuring out how to make something happen, so it's uncomfortable to recognize that sometimes there simply isn't another reasonable way to stretch myself.
I've also had to acknowledge that some of the things I previously considered nonnegotiable were possible partly because my life allowed for them. When I had more control over my schedule, I could devote more time to exercise, personal routines, and the kinds of thoughtful gestures I enjoy. That doesn't mean I was more disciplined then or that I care less now. It means the circumstances were different.
I still believe deeply in discipline and consistency. Those qualities have helped me build a business, navigate personal challenges, and continue doing meaningful work even when life has been difficult. But I'm learning that being disciplined doesn't mean having unlimited capacity, and I don't want to confuse the two.
The standard hasn't changed, but my life has
When I wrote about my sixth-grade award six years ago, I was reflecting on how my drive to go above and beyond had shaped my first decade in business. I recognized both the advantages and drawbacks of being an overachiever, including the pressure that comes from continuously raising the bar. What I hadn't experienced to this degree was what happens when that drive remains just as strong, but life changes how much you're able to act on it.
I still want to be the person who finds unexpected ways to make somebody's day, delivers work that exceeds expectations, and puts something extraordinary into the world. Those aren't qualities I want to give up, and I don't think I should have to.
But I've come to recognize that some of the expectations I hold myself to were established when my circumstances were very different. I had more flexibility, more energy to devote to certain things, and fewer competing responsibilities. I've been judging what I can accomplish today against what I could accomplish then, without always accounting for how much my life has changed.
I'm learning to give myself a little grace, although that doesn't mean I'm suddenly comfortable with doing less. I still wish I'd checked in with my friend more often, and I still wish I'd had the capacity to plan a more elaborate birthday surprise. Those feelings don't disappear just because I understand the reasons behind them.
What I'm beginning to accept is that I can be disappointed by what I couldn't do without believing I've let someone down. I can still hold myself to high standards while recognizing that the circumstances in which I'm trying to meet them matter.
I don't know when life will settle down enough for me to return to some of the things I miss, or whether it ever will in quite the same way. But I don't think I need to redefine what going above and beyond means to me. I need to stop treating the capacity I once had as the measure of what I should always be able to give.
