There’s a unique kind of shame that hits when someone assumes you’re lazy, flakey, or unreliable — not because you’re incapable, but because you simply don’t have the capacity right now.
I’ve heard it all. The passive-aggressive “I thought you were good at this,” the loaded “But you said you could,” the classic “You used to do this all the time.” And yes, they’re technically right. I can do the thing. I’ve done it before. I’m probably even pretty good at it. That doesn’t mean I can do it today. Or tomorrow. Or within a window that’s convenient for you.
People love to treat capacity like a switch. If I was once able to lift it, carry it, manage it, organize it, or show up for it, I must always be able to. If I did it well, then anything less must be failure. If I decline, delay, or freeze, it’s not seen as protection or pacing — it’s seen as disappointing.
And the worst part? I internalize all of it.
I’m not just worried that I’ve let someone else down. I’m haunted by the version of myself who used to say yes, who used to manage full days and overflowing planners and entire goddamn emotional support empires. I get mad at her for setting the bar so high. I get mad at me for not clearing it now. I sit in this disgusting puddle of guilt and ego and want-to, knowing I could, but also knowing I won’t.
Because the truth is, capacity isn’t constant. It’s not a skillset. It’s not a promise. It’s a fluctuating meter that dips and spikes based on how loud the world is, how much I’ve had to mask, how recently I’ve slept or eaten or cried in a Kwik Trip bathroom stall.
Yes, I can show up hard when I have the energy. I can build things. I can design, write, hold space, be the version of me people want. But when the gauge is low? Everything breaks. My executive function taps out. My ability to regulate emotion slips. I start a hundred things and finish none. I over-commit out of habit, then crash out of necessity.
It’s hard to explain this to people who live in consistent cycles. Who function in predictable patterns. Who assume that because something is written down, it will happen. I envy those people. I also want to scream into their faces sometimes.
Because this isn’t about being disorganized or flakey. It’s about being aware of my actual limits and choosing not to grind my gears into the ground to meet someone else’s expectation of my “best.” My best isn’t sustainable if I burn for it every time.
But I still try to do it every time only to learn that I can't.
I have the capacity. Just not right now.
And no, that doesn’t mean I’m failing. It means I’m learning pacing. It means I’m protecting the small, fragile part of me that has burned out too many times for people who didn’t care how long it took me to recover. It means I’m learning the difference between what I can do and what I should do — and choosing not to trade my peace for someone else’s convenience.
It doesn’t feel good. It never does. The guilt still shows up. The shame still clings. But every time I speak it out loud, every time I choose honesty over performance, I get a little stronger. A little softer. A little more real.
Because I am not a machine. I am not your last-minute hero. I am not a resource to be mined until I crack. I am a whole, complicated, beautifully exhausted person who still wants to show up — just not always on demand.
