From Breaking Points to Breakthroughs - Finding the Strength to Rebuild

The overload didn’t hit me all at once. It showed up in breadcrumbs — tiny disappointments I didn’t always have the space to grieve. At the time, I called it “balance.” In hindsight, I know better. It was survival.

One of those breadcrumbs happened on a crisp New England fall day. I had just wrapped a long day at work — one of those days where you don’t stop to eat lunch and only notice it’s dark outside when your screen reflects your own tired face. I was so ready to scoop up my baby girl, head home, and shift into mom mode.

When I walked into the daycare, her teacher turned to me, smiling. “We didn’t know Paige had started walking!”

I froze.

“I didn’t know either,” I said.

Her face fell instantly. She brought her hands to her mouth, realizing what she had just revealed. I smiled — probably too quickly — and said something to make her feel better. I think I even whispered, “It’s okay. It’s probably not the only thing I’ll miss.”

And I was right.

It wasn’t that I chose work over her. It was that I carried the weight of being the primary provider — and that shaped what I could show up for. What I could be present for. What I had to quietly let go of.

Birthdays.  Dance Recitals.  Art Shows.  Soccer Games. Not because I didn’t care. But because I was making sure we stayed afloat.  

Naming the Invisible Load

In biotech, pharma, and healthcare, we’re wired to think in systems — treatment pathways, org charts, SOPs. But no one gives you the blueprint for the system women operate within every day. Especially working mothers. Especially when you're the one holding the financial line.

My then-husband worked evenings — 3 p.m. to midnight — while I held a demanding 8-to-5 job. We were like two ships passing in a fog, barely connecting. And when I got home after work, my shift wasn’t over. That’s when the real work began.

I’d pick up our daughter, prep dinner, clean up, wrangle bath time, and brace myself for bedtime — a battle I never seemed to win. She never wanted to go down for me. And I understood why. She had barely seen me. And I had nothing left in the tank.

Weekends weren’t better. He worked Saturdays and Sundays, so the “break” that so many other parents counted on? That didn’t exist for me. There was no time to recharge. No handing off the baton.

And still, the message I got at home — consistently, relentlessly — was that I wasn’t doing enough. I didn’t show enough love. I wasn’t affectionate enough. Not attentive. Not soft enough. It didn’t matter that I worked full-time, cleaned the house, did the shopping, handled the bills, maintained the property — sometimes while he drank beer and played video games. I felt like I was raising a second child.

It wasn’t just exhausting. It was eroding. Quietly, over time.

The Discrepancy No One Talks About

At work, people saw a woman who had it all together. The nice house. The car. The well-behaved kid. The polished outfits and steady smile. I looked like I was thriving.

But underneath? I was struggling.

Still, I’ll admit something that many women won’t say out loud:
I loved going to work.

Because at work, I didn’t have to care for anyone.  No diaper bags. No tantrums. No bedtime routines. No one asking me what was for dinner. 

At work, I felt powerful. Admired. Hell — even sexy. I wore heels. I had colleagues who respected me. Friends who made me laugh. I could go out for lunch and actually have an adult conversation that didn’t involve snack cups or nap schedules.

Work became a kind of sanctuary — a space where I could access the version of myself I had started to miss. 
The “old” me. 
The sharp, witty, fully-formed woman who hadn’t yet been flattened by the weight of caregiving and unmet expectations.

So I leaned into work. Because there, I could be excellent. There, I felt in control. And for a few hours each day, I could put down the invisible load — or at least pretend I wasn’t carrying it.

But pretending only works for so long.

I had perfected the art of being high-functioning while soul-tired. I had become so good at holding everything together that no one — not even me — noticed how close I was to breaking.

Because here’s the thing about the invisible load: it doesn’t announce itself. It creeps in through the cracks. It convinces you to keep going. To hold on just a little longer. To smile through the sting.

Until one day, you look in the mirror and wonder where you went.

The Opportunity That Got Away

Another breadcrumb: When my daughter turned four, I had started exploring what could come next for me professionally. I was working with a boss — someone who became a lifelong mentor — and together, we identified the right MBA program and began navigating corporate tuition coverage at the Fortune 100 company I so proudly worked for.

I brought him course catalogs, enrollment forms, and a shortlist of top programs. One day, he looked at me and said gently, “I think you should aim higher.”

At first, I laughed. I *was* already aiming high — I had my sights set on top 20 programs that felt like a stretch. But he saw something in me I hadn’t yet owned: ambition, intelligence, drive. I saw a tired woman with too many responsibilities and not enough margin. Still, I listened. And I went for it.

That Christmas, the acceptance letter arrived. Brown University’s Executive MBA — a prestigious global program accepting just 20 students that year. I had earned it.

And for a moment, I let myself breathe differently. I imagined what it would feel like to walk into that first session, to stretch my mind in ways I hadn’t since college, to finally invest in myself as much as I’d been pouring into everyone else. I pictured my daughter watching me walk across that stage years later, showing her that women don’t stop growing, even when life feels impossibly full.

But within a week, the shine dulled. The company had hit tough financial headwinds, and the funding fell through. At home, there was no lifeline. No, “We’ll figure this out together.” No conversation about how my husband might step up so I could step forward. Just the quiet, familiar assumption: I would carry it all. And I did.

That’s the thing about the invisible load: it doesn’t always look like burnout. Sometimes, it looks like ambition — quietly folded up and packed away, one compromise at a time.

My POV: Reclaiming the Energy

It’s taken me nearly 30 years to loosen the grip of expectations — some imposed, some self-inflicted. I spent years believing that if I didn’t hit every mark on my ever-growing list, I’d fall behind. Or fall apart. Or worse — become invisible. 

I thought I could outwork the pressure. That with enough performance, I could make it all fit — family, career, perfection.  Back then, I truly thought I was doing what was best — pushing through, staying strong, holding it all together.  Moving ahead.

At the time, I didn’t call it burnout. I called it discipline.                                       

Eventually, I had to admit: the life I was building looked successful, but didn’t feel sustainable.

So, I made the hard, necessary choices.

I ended a marriage I had quietly endured. There was no rupture — just a slow erosion of self. Staying meant sacrificing peace. Leaving meant reclaiming it. Not because it was easy, but because I finally believed I deserved more.

I recalibrated my career for purpose, not just prestige. I said yes to growth that stretched me. No to roles that diminished me. And when the Executive MBA fell through, I didn’t just pivot — I wrote a new path: self-funded, self-directed, self-approved.

Do I sometimes miss the shine of an Ivy League credential? Yes. There’s power in that recognition — the kind that can change the way people see you before you’ve even said a word. And losing that chance still feels heavy sometimes.

But what I built in its place matters too. I built confidence that isn’t tied to anyone’s approval. A career fueled by curiosity — about leadership, human behavior, and the hidden weight women carry every day.

Letting go of what I thought success should look like wasn’t quitting. It was redefining it — this time with space for the woman I wanted to become, not just the one who could hold it all together.

And truthfully? Releasing what no longer serves me is still a muscle I flex daily.

Redirect Your Power — Permission to Set It Down

Here’s what I know now: just because you can carry it all doesn’t mean you should.

We walk through life with invisible backpacks — filled with other people’s expectations, our own perfectionism, and the belief that worthiness is earned through exhaustion. We don’t ask for help, not because we don’t need it, but because we’ve been praised for not needing anything at all.

I used to believe my value was in how much I could carry. The more I held, the more I proved. The more I pushed, the more I belonged. But I’ve learned that peace isn’t something you earn after burnout — it’s something you can choose before it. And choosing it doesn’t make you less ambitious, less capable, or less worthy. It makes you stronger.

My daughter sees me not just as someone who survived breaking points but as someone who turned them into breakthroughs. And that’s the legacy I want to leave: not the woman who could do it all, but the one who showed what’s possible when you stop living to meet everyone else’s expectations and start leading your own life. A woman who works hard, yes — but also one who knows her worth, her limits, and her power.

And that’s what I want for every woman reading this: a life and career that doesn’t just look successful, but feels sustainable. One that brings peace in whichever way you define it.