In the weeks before Christmas—like many, I’m sure—my to-do list suddenly piled up. There was gingerbread dough waiting in the fridge, I had to buy a gift for my daughter’s classmate whose name she drew from the hat, I needed to hand in my current work tasks, and I hadn’t even thought about what we’d have for dinner that night. My days turned into one long, never-ending checklist.
During the busiest days, I kept telling myself, "I just need to survive these few days." That once the holidays are over, everything will settle back to normal, and I’ll finally have some time to rest. That this is just an exception, a holiday rush, the year-end madness. Then suddenly, it hit me: I say the exact same thing in everyday life. Not with gingerbread and gift lists, but with deadlines, emails, logistics, and invisible mental loads—I’m just surviving.
An Endless Performance Test
How often do you barely finish your tasks? Get through the day only to collapse into bed, with energy left just to scroll your phone until you fall asleep? How often are you physically present but mentally already tackling the next task, spinning through the next problem, or adding to the "just one more thing" list? Like life isn’t made of moments, but an endless test of endurance.
When did we decide we have to cram as much as possible into each day? When did living at full throttle become the norm, and we had to pretend this is normal? When did rest become suspicious, fatigue something to explain, and admitting "this is too much" a sign of weakness?
There I was in the kitchen, about 250 freshly baked gingerbread cookies in front of me, a tub of icing beside them, when suddenly it became clear: I’ve been living in an illusion for years. Pretending it’s okay to push myself to the limit and that it’s my fault for getting exhausted. Acting like it’s natural to always be tense, on edge, telling myself, "I just have to get through this little bit more." But what if I didn’t want to just endure, survive, or suffer through life—but truly live it?
Riding that realization, I immediately crossed three items off the Christmas menu. It wasn’t a dramatic gesture, more a quiet rebellion. And I made another promise: next year will be different. I won’t pretend it’s normal to keep going until I collapse. I’ll say it when I’m tired. I’ll learn to say no to things that simply don’t fit into my life—even if "it’s expected," "it’s tradition," or "everyone else manages it."
Maybe next year we won’t have a special Easter door wreath. Maybe I won’t bake every weekend, and yes, maybe I’ll say no to some work. But in return, I’ll be present in the moments. I won’t just survive my days—I’ll live them. And perhaps most importantly: I won’t play along with the big social trick that convinces us it’s totally normal to burn ourselves out.
