When the Mental (Over)load is Real
And you're tired of defending your capacity
Some days, I can’t get out of bed.
Not in a cozy, “Sunday morning, rain is falling” kind of way, where I’m too blissfully tangled in the sheets to care.
But because my nervous system is already fried before the day’s even started.
As soon as the alarm goes off, I reach for my phone.
Bleary-eyed, I blink at the time — 7:42. Already later than I’d hoped.
Below the time sit a flurry of notifications, all demanding a response. And instantly, the mental tabs begin to open in my brain:
→ Finish editing my video for socials today to market my business
→Figure out what to cook with the leftover zucchini and capsicum at the back of the fridge (remind Ben we need chicken)
→ Follow up with that lead
→ Write client’s sales page draft to be due end of week
→ Respond to Mum’s message about booking a Prague hotel in September (even though I’m struggling to plan beyond the next month)
→ Respond to DMs
→ Find somewhere to live because our sublet ends next week
→ Secure plans for the weekend because we’re supposed to be making the most of our new London lifestyle
→Don't forget my friend’s birthday
→ Don’t forget the invoice
→ Don’t forget to breathe
For a tiny moment of relief, I swipe away the notifications (out of sight, out of mind) until I can see my lock screen again: a soft pink background with the words: “You can.”
It’s a reminder I set for myself. One I try to believe when all my brain really wants to say is: “I really can’t.”
In an attempt to create more boundaries around work + life, I’ve turned off email notifications completely. But the second I open my inbox, I’m back in the vortex.
I want new opportunities. I want to be in demand. I want to make money.
But I also want a day where no one needs anything from me.
I close my eyes and wish I could sleep a little longer. Or forever. Just five more minutes where I don’t have to carry anything.
But then I hear my phone buzz to let me know the world needs something.
So I do what I always do when it feels like too much…
I channel my inner Meredith Grey.
And I triage.
What’s hemorrhaging right now?
What needs an immediate reply and what can wait till tomorrow — or honestly, till next week?
What’s the one thing I can do in the next hour to stabilise the patient…
...when the patient is me?
I chose this life.
Starting a copywriting business was one of the most pivotal decisions I’ve made. One I’d choose again and again.
I get paid to write for a living. I get to strategise with smart, brilliant creatives while wearing my happy pants. I get to show my inner child (and maybe one day, my future child) that being a creative *can* pay the bills.
And technically, I get to do all of it from a café in London or a courtyard in Spain.
I was sold on the freedom and flexibility.
What I didn’t expect was the 37 browser tabs forever open in my brain — and the exhausting mental load of being every department at once:
The creator. The strategist. The editor. The marketer. The back-end systems. The inbox. The energy. The money.
It’s all me. All the time. Trying to keep everything spinning. Making sure no balls drop on the ground.
(And yes, I know there are systems, automation, AI, zaps, that can help me. Pleaseeee don’t slide into my DMs with a Notion template. Implementing it would just be one more thing to carry. )
While the world sleeps, DMs pile in. Comments and emails roll through. Notifications ping from different time zones.
And I’m grateful, really.
Every like, share, and message is proof my writing’s sparking conversations, not just disappearing into the void. (More cynically, the algorithm depends on it. So does my visibility.)
In between wrapping up one project and trying to attract the next, I scroll.
To stay relevant.
To see what’s working.
To make sure I haven’t missed something that could affect a client’s launch… or mine.
My brain is always loading.
Always absorbing.
Always... on.
This morning, I’m writing from a café in East London.
As I sit near the window, soaking up the sun, I can’t help but watch the barista as she glides behind the counter.
She’s in her rhythm: pouring espresso into ceramic mugs, frothing milk till it’s the texture of seafoam, chatting with regulars. All with the smell of pancakes and frying eggs curling through the air.
(My friends and I often joke about what we’d be doing if we weren’t drawn to our businesses. And my response is probably this: working as a barista (ideally in a bookshop cafe) and writing about it, just like Jess Pan).
I find myself wondering what it’s like to have a job that you leave behind at 3pm.
Where you don’t take your customers’ needs home with you.
Where you’re not expected to be a thought leader and a service provider and a high-converting content machine.
She wipes the counter clean and starts again.
No content calendar. No launch plan. No pressure to perform online just to remind people you exist.
And I think:
God, that sounds peaceful.
Me?
I close my laptop and I’m still thinking about the email I forgot to send.
Still beating myself up for not posting enough.
Still questioning if I’ve done “enough” to justify rest.
Moving abroad only added weight.
Back in Melbourne, we had a roof over our head, our support system was a car ride away, and we had a sense of safety that hummed in the background like white noise. The type you don’t notice till it’s gone.
But being in my 20s, I craved adventure! Spontaneity! The kind of chaos you can talk about at dinner parties, and stories you can pull out to prove to your future kids that yes, Mum & Dad were cool once upon a time.
And the Universe delivered.
Just…not in the packaging I expected.
It took longer than we’d hoped for my husband to secure a job — which meant I became the sole breadwinner (I thought I’d love that title. Just... not like this.)
Without a proper job contract, we couldn’t sign a lease.
So every few months, the rug slipped out from under us again as we jumped from sublet to sublet.
By the last two weeks of April, I didn’t need an alarm to wake me up.
Anxiety had that covered.
Each morning, I’d scroll SpareRoom listings trying to find a place that wasn’t falling apart, semi-affordable, and wouldn’t come with mould or mystery stains (harder than you’d think, folks).
I kept thinking about Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs and how safety, shelter, and stability form the foundation.
And I realised: Ohhh, no wonder my nervous system feels like a balloon about to explode.
And yet, I kept working. Kept posting. Kept delivering.
Because what’s the alternative?
I get irrationally frustrated at Google Chrome when it takes longer than 0.05 seconds to load.
Which is rich because I’ve got soo many tabs open, they’re each squished into teeny squares.
Even my high-tech laptop needs me to close a few things, clear the cache, and let it breathe before it can function again.
So why do I expect myself to keep running at full capacity… with 47 mental tabs open, notifications buzzing, and no real off switch?
Why do I beat myself up for being “lazy” or “inconsistent” or “too quiet” — when what I really am… is overloaded?
My mentor likes to remind me: You don’t have to carry what’s not yours.
Not your clients’ results if they didn’t implement your recommendations.
Not someone’s hurt feelings if they misread your silence.
Not the weight of every unsent text, unanswered email, or unmet expectation.
And yet…
People don’t always make that easy.
They assume slowness means selfishness.
That quiet means careless.
That boundaries means betrayal.
And instead of asking what you’re carrying — they just toss you more emotional labour to carry.
When I’m neck-deep in the overwhelm, I’ve become especially grateful for the people who get it.
The ones who know that self-employed doesn’t mean “available anytime.”
That moving abroad is beautiful AND also destabilising.
That showing up online doesn’t mean you’re not quietly unravelling offline.
They know how to loosen the knot in my chest without having to fix a thing:
Inviting me for prosecco in the sun where we tear up about work and family, and then cackle over unhinged Hinge messages.
Giving me a couch to crumple on and a gentle hand on my knee as they comfort me: “this is all normal.”
They remind me there are still good things in life beyond work, performance, and productivity.
And through that, I realise:
Shaming has never worked. And neither has pushing myself harder.
But being met with softness and compassion — that’s what keeps me going.
If you’ve ever felt like your brain is glitching under the weight of 50 open tabs…
If you’re carrying everything in pursuit of a dream people don’t understand or can’t see yet…
If you’re tired of defending your capacity to people who only criticise your slowness, not the weight you’re carrying underneath it…
This one’s for you.
You’re not lazy, unprofessional, or broken for needing space.
You’re a human being — trying to create, show up, and stay upright in a world that rarely makes space for how heavy it all feels sometimes.
Right now, you might not have the luxury of dropping a ball. Or outsourcing it.
Maybe you’re still holding it all, even though no one sees the load
But here’s what I hope you know:
You’re allowed to slow down, lower the bar, and give your nervous system compassion, not criticism.
You’re allowed to choose preservation over performance and know that the right people will still give you grace and welcome you back.
If that looks like disappearing from stories for a while…
Letting a message sit unanswered…
Showing up softer, smaller, or not at all — for now…
That’s okay.
You’re carrying a lot. More than people know. And even if it doesn’t feel like it…
You’re doing better than you think.
This is so relatable. The busyness and mental overload is real but bringing awareness
Oops bringing awareness is gold. Such a wonderful read.