Hello and welcome back to The Happya Life Podcast. I’m Clare Deacon.

In the last episode, we talked about permission or more accurately, why so many capable, intelligent people feel like they need permission to choose themselves at all.

Today, I want to take that conversation a step further, because there’s something that almost always sits underneath that hesitation, and it’s rarely named out loud.

The hidden cost of always holding it all together.

Not the obvious cost not tiredness, not stress, not the kind of exhaustion that a few days off or an early night might fix.

I mean the quieter cost.
 The psychological cost.
 The nervous-system cost.
 The cost to who you are, not just how you function.

If you’re someone people describe as “strong”, “resilient”, “the one who copes”, this episode is very likely about you.

Because holding it all together doesn’t just happen by accident. It becomes a role. And roles always come with consequences, whether we acknowledge them or not.

Many of you listening have spent a long time being the steady one.

The one who doesn’t fall apart.
 The one who keeps going when things get messy.
 The one who can be relied upon when decisions need to be made, when emotions are running high, when something has to be handled.

You’re often the person others come to because you’re calm, capable, measured even when things are objectively hard.

And for most people, that role didn’t start because they wanted admiration or recognition.

It started because it was necessary.

At some point in your life, holding it together became the safest option available. Maybe it kept the household functioning. Maybe it allowed you to succeed in environments that rewarded composure over authenticity. Maybe it protected your children, your team, your reputation, or your own sense of control when everything else felt unpredictable.

Whatever the origin, it worked.

It worked so well that it became normal.

Until it didn’t.

What I see again and again both personally and professionally is that people who hold it all together for long periods don’t suddenly break.

They thin out.

They flatten.
 They lose texture.
 They lose access to parts of themselves that don’t fit the role.

And because they’re still functioning, this loss often goes unnoticed even by them.

Life carries on. Meetings happen. Responsibilities are met. Other people are supported.

But internally, something essential is being quietly rationed.

From a nervous system perspective, this makes complete sense.

When you are in environments emotional, relational, professional where expression feels risky, inconvenient, or simply not allowed, the nervous system adapts by prioritising containment.

Containment is not the same as regulation.

Containment is about holding things in so that nothing spills.
 Regulation is about allowing movement, processing, and recovery.

If you’ve spent years containing emotions, reactions, needs, or uncertainty, your system becomes very good at it. It learns how to suppress, how to override, how to keep things neat and manageable.

But what gets contained doesn’t disappear.

It gets stored.

Stored in the body.
 Stored in tension patterns.
 Stored in hyper-vigilance.
 Stored in a baseline level of effort that becomes so familiar you stop noticing it.

This is often where people say things like, “I don’t feel particularly stressed, but I’m exhausted,” or “Nothing is really wrong, but I feel flat,” or “I can’t remember the last time I felt properly like myself.”

That’s not weakness.

That’s wear and tear.

One of the most misunderstood things about high-functioning people is that functioning well is often mistaken for being well.

From a positive psychology perspective, wellbeing is not just the absence of distress. It’s about vitality, meaning, engagement, and psychological flexibility.

You can be highly functional and deeply depleted at the same time.

You can meet expectations, hit targets, keep everything running and still be quietly disconnected from your own internal world.

In fact, people who “hold it all together” are often the last to notice the cost, because self-monitoring has been outsourced to performance.

As long as things are working, it must be fine.
 As long as nobody else is struggling, it must be manageable.
 As long as I’m coping, there’s no reason to look any deeper.

But coping is not neutral.

Coping requires energy.
 Coping requires inhibition.
 Coping requires you to override signals that are asking for attention.

And over time, that override becomes automatic.

This is where identity becomes part of the picture.

When you are consistently rewarded explicitly or implicitly for being the strong one, the reliable one, the one who doesn’t need much, that role becomes more than something you do.

It becomes who you are.

And once something is embedded in identity, questioning it doesn’t feel like a practical adjustment it feels existential.

If I’m not the one who holds it all together, then who am I?
 What happens if I stop?
 Who carries it then?
 What do I risk losing?

These are not abstract questions. They’re lived ones.

I know this personally.

For a long time, holding it together wasn’t a choice for me it was survival.

It was how I navigated a corporate world that rewarded composure and performance.
 It was how I functioned through grief, responsibility, and loss.
 It was how I protected my children.
 It was how I kept moving when stopping didn’t feel like an option.

And for a long time, that strength was absolutely necessary.

But what no one tells you is that strength, when it becomes chronic, stops being strength.

It becomes armour.

And armour is heavy.

The nervous system doesn’t distinguish between “I’m holding it together because I need to” and “I’m holding it together because I don’t know how to stop.”

It just knows effort.

Over time, that effort shows up in subtle ways.

A reduced tolerance for noise, demands, or emotional complexity.
 A tendency to withdraw rather than engage.
 A sharpness or irritability that doesn’t feel like you.
 A growing gap between how you appear and how you actually feel.

This is often when people start questioning themselves.

Why am I less patient than I used to be?
 Why do I feel numb rather than emotional?
 Why does everything feel like hard work?

Nothing has gone wrong.

Your system is tired.

From a psychological standpoint, always holding it together limits emotional range and not just the difficult emotions.

Joy, spontaneity, playfulness, creativity, curiosity all of these require a sense of internal safety and flexibility.

If your baseline state is containment, those experiences become harder to access.

This is why people who hold it together often describe feeling flat rather than sad, disconnected rather than overwhelmed, bored rather than distressed.

Flatness isn’t the absence of feeling. It’s the absence of movement.

And movement is essential for wellbeing.

This is where nervous system science and positive psychology align beautifully.

Thriving requires not just stability, but flexibility.
 Not just control, but responsiveness.
 Not just coping, but capacity.

Psychological wellbeing is supported by autonomy, meaning, and the ability to respond to life rather than endure it.

If your system has been organised around holding it all together, choosing yourself even in small ways can feel surprisingly threatening.

Because it disrupts the role.

You might notice guilt when you rest.
 Anxiety when you say no.
 A strong urge to explain, justify, or minimise your needs.

This doesn’t mean you’re regressing or becoming selfish.

It means your nervous system has learned that your value is tied to your capacity.

Unpicking that belief is not quick work.

And it doesn’t start with “letting go” in some dramatic sense.

It starts with noticing.

Noticing how much effort it takes to stay composed.
 Noticing where your body tenses automatically.
 Noticing how often you override yourself without thinking.

Awareness always comes before change.

If, as you’re listening, you feel a heaviness, a lump in your throat, or a quiet emotional response, let that be there.

Nothing here needs fixing today.
 Nothing needs solving.

This isn’t about stopping everything or redefining yourself overnight.

It’s about understanding the cost of the role you’ve been playing and recognising that it made sense, even if it’s no longer sustainable.

One of the most powerful shifts I see is when people stop asking, “Why can’t I cope like I used to?” and start asking, “What has it cost me to cope like this for so long?”

That question reframes exhaustion as information, not inadequacy.

If you want to explore this further, there are resources on my website focused on identity, self-worth, and how you show up in your life particularly if you’re used to being the strong one. You can find those at happyacoach.com/explore/self.

And as we continue this series, we’ll be talking more about how to soften without collapsing, how to rest without guilt, and how to build a sense of self that isn’t dependent on holding everything together.

Until next time, take care of yourself not by doing more, but by noticing what you’ve been carrying.