ISSUE 84
14 MAY 2026 | READ ONLINE
Hi Reader,
On Monday morning, I made a hot chocolate and forgot to drink it.
Twenty minutes later, I was still standing in my kitchen in a hoodie and yoga pants (my Seattle uniform), holding a cup that had gone cold in my hand. I had not moved. My body felt tight. My brain was scanning for what was next. Half-loaded smile already in place, even though there was no one in the room.
For the first time in three weeks, nothing was being asked of me that required a performance. And my body, which had been holding itself together by sheer momentum, finally caught up with me.
Let me back up.
The last time we talked properly was in Issue 83, when I wrote about choosing 15 people for a leadership cohort I have been building and about how a yes is also a wall. I stand by every word of that.
What I didn’t tell you, because I didn’t fully know it yet, is what happens after you walk through the door.
In the three weeks since I wrote that letter, I have been on the road. Keynotes. Running workshops. Pennsylvania. Banff. Baltimore. Hotel rooms that I couldn’t tell apart by the third one. Airport lounges where I drafted talks I’d give six hours later. Speaker dinners where I was still on. Always on.
And then I came home.
For three days, I kept moving like I was still on tour. Up early. Inbox first. Replies sent. Body taut, mind cataloging every next thing.
It took until Monday morning, standing motionless with that cold drink in my hand, for the migration to actually register. And when it did, my system finally exhaled. The exhale was bigger than I expected. It carried three weeks of holding it together with it.
Here’s what nobody warns you about.
We treat this like a weakness. The post-event crash. The “why am I exhausted now that I’m finally home” feeling. We use the language of “bouncing back” as though recovery is a small inconvenience between the things that matter.
But the recovery is the thing.
A study published in Frontiers in Public Health found that sleep quality and psychological detachment from work are core to how high performers sustain engagement under demand. The body cannot stay “on” indefinitely. It can compensate for a while. It can wear armor. But the bill comes due.
This is what Brené Brown has been writing about for years in books like Dare to Lead: armor. Perfectionism. Overcontrol. People-pleasing. The whole performance suit we put on to get through the high-stakes thing. The problem isn’t that we wear the armor. It’s that we forget to take it off.
But people are tired of armor. Yours and mine. (Worth noting: Harvard Business Review’s 9 Trends Shaping Work in 2026 lands at the same place: that human adaptability is the last real edge.)
This Saturday, I fly to San Diego for my eldest’s college graduation. He’ll walk across a stage in cap and gown, smiling at his family and friends, and a stadium of people. And he, too, will be doing a small version of what I just did: performing a moment that matters.
What I want him to know (what I want you to know) is that the moment after matters just as much. The release. The arrival. The version of you that gets to walk back into your own life on a Monday and be off duty.
So here are some options for you to try this week. Let me know how they work for you.
Two Options for This Week
Option A: Plan your arrival. Most of us plan the event. We forget to plan the recovery. If something big is on your calendar (a launch, a presentation, a difficult conversation, a trip), schedule the landing the same way you scheduled the event. What will your body need on the other side? Put that on the calendar before you need it.
Option B: Take off one piece of armor. What did you wear to get through the last hard thing? The over-prepared deck. The fake calm. The “I’m fine” smile. The “let me just answer this one more email.” Choose one piece. Take it off this week. Notice what happens.
See you next week (promise),
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