From Burnout to Boundaries

Hi there,

I used to lie a lot. Almost constantly.

White lies. Black lies. Lies of all sizes.

They slipped out like breaths.

I lied about when I was available, about being “on another call,” about my Wi-Fi cutting out at a convenient moment.

I lied about having client meetings when I was just staring blankly at the ceiling, too drained to pretend I had energy left to give.

For a long time, I convinced myself that all this lying made me an untrustworthy person. A person people couldn’t count on.

But the truth was more complicated: I wasn’t a compulsive liar. I was a people pleaser who hated conflict.

And nothing brings out the worst version of a people pleaser like an overbearing boss.

The Job That Ate My Life

At first, I didn’t see the problem.

I don’t crumble under pressure. I’ve argued cases in courtrooms that could make grown men sweat. I’ve stood in war zones where bombs shook the ground beneath my feet. And yet, saying a two-letter word—'no'—felt more daunting than any of it.

It started with small moments. A few late-night emails. Then a “quick weekend call.” Then messages that buzzed through my phone like an EKG machine at all hours.

I brushed these off as quirks of being in a high-pressure job. And honestly, some part of me liked validation and the feeling of being needed.

But soon, the frequency increased. Every time I pondered saying “no” or “maybe later,” I felt the weight of disappointment and guilt. I began to convince myself that I wasn’t lying. I was just avoiding unnecessary drama.

One day, I was at dinner when my phone vibrated. I felt the familiar dread before I even checked the screen.

BOSS: “Hey, let’s jump on a call in a few mins. It won’t take long..”

… which is corporate for ‘hope you’re prepared because we’re about to trauma-bond over PowerPoint slides.’

I stared at it. I could have said no. I could have explained that I was at dinner, that this wasn’t urgent, that I had every right to enjoy an evening without my job breathing down my neck.

Instead, I typed:

“Sorry, phone is about to die. Will follow up in the morning.”

My phone was not about to die. It had 82% battery.

And that’s when I realized, I was pulling a Chandler and had dug myself into piles of lies that I didn’t know how to crawl back from.

I had said "yes" for so long, "no" wasn’t an option anymore.

A yes person doesn’t have boundaries, just well-crafted excuses.

So I did what all overworked, overwhelmed people-pleasers eventually do, I started lying on the regular to protect myself.

My laptop died. My “doctor’s appointment” ran late. I was “driving” and couldn’t take a call.

These weren’t just excuses, they were the only way to claw back stolen time.

But each lie also tightened the invisible chains, making it harder to trust my own boundaries.

The more I lied, the smaller I became.

I wasn’t setting boundaries. I was avoiding confrontation. Instead of saying I have needs, I made myself more palatable, more digestible, easier for others to accept.

The Weight of Constant Pleasing

It’s a slow erosion of self. A gradual bending until you break.

The more I gave, the more that was expected. I began to trade honesty for survival, my real needs muffled under layers of convenient falsehoods.

I stopped advocating for my time. I stopped pushing back. I let work take everything because I was too scared to disappoint anyone.

Until one night, after yet another bullshit “emergency” meeting, I shut my laptop, stared at my own reflection in the dark screen, and realized:

If I died tomorrow, my boss would still send me texts to 'circle back' when I get a chance, like I could reply from hell.

And that’s when I knew.

I had to stop lying. Not just to my boss, but to myself.

Finding My Voice

I wish I could say I marched into my boss’s office and demanded respect. That I dropped a speech about boundaries and self-worth. That I walked away, a beacon of empowerment.

But the truth?

I fumbled. I stuttered. I felt nauseous the first time I said, I’m not available after 6 PM. I over-explained myself when I refused an unreasonable deadline.

But I did it anyway. And the world did not end.

I started telling the truth, even when it hurt. I began with small, trembling admissions:

“I need some time off.”
“I’m done for the night.”
“I can’t always be on call.”

Saying these truths wasn’t just about preserving my energy. It was about reclaiming my identity.

The first time I pushed back, I braced for fallout. I said, "I’m not available tonight," and waited for the guilt to hit, for the backlash, for some passive-aggressive fallout. But it never came.

Instead, my boss just said, "Alright, let’s touch base tomorrow." That was it. No argument. No punishment. Just a casual acceptance of a boundary I had been too afraid to set. And that’s when i realized I’d been fighting a battle that didn’t even exist.

Each truth felt like rebuilding my integrity and self-trust. And at a time when trust in the world feels like it’s at an all-time low, the one place we need it most is within ourselves.

It isn’t easy, and the guilt still lingers sometimes. But every time I choose honesty over a convenient lie, I remind myself:

Honesty feels heavy at first. But so does a weight you’ve carried too long the moment you finally set it down.

READER POLL

Final Thought

I’ve learned that honesty isn’t just about telling the truth to others. It’s about telling the truth to yourself. And a commitment to honesty happens in excruciatingly small increments.

The people who claim they’re “miles ahead” in this struggle? They almost never are. The ones who stay quiet long enough to notice their own behavior? They’re the ones making real progress millimeter by millimeter.

Start saying no. Start telling the truth. Start valuing your time and space before someone else claims it as theirs.

Because if you don’t? They’ll take everything you give.

Not because they mean to. But because you taught them it was okay.

I don’t know if confession is good for the soul. But I do know shame thrives in secrecy. And sharing this—laying it bare—isn’t just about me.

It’s about letting light into the places we all keep hidden.

Maybe your story doesn’t look like mine. But we all carry something we’ve twisted, buried, or swallowed whole just to keep the peace.

Maybe the real work isn’t just telling the truth.

It’s learning how to live inside it.

At the end of the day, every truth you tell, no matter how small, pulls you back to yourself.

And if you don’t set your boundaries, at work or otherwise, someone else will.

Be well,

Shakila

P.S. Here’s the results of last week’s poll.