What We're Holding Onto: Why We Can't Let Go

There's a quote from someone I respect a lot that I keep coming back to when I think about burnout:

We hold on. We grip. We clutch at things with everything we have, as if letting go would mean annihilation.

And often, the thing we're holding onto is the very thing that's depleting us.

The job we've invested years in. The career we fought to build. The business we started from nothing. The identity we've constructed around our work. The purpose we've attached to what we do.

These aren't trivial things. They're meaningful. They matter. And that's exactly why letting go feels impossible—even when the math has stopped working, even when the energy equation is draining us dry.

There's another quote that comes to mind:

Seven Years

I ran an e-commerce business for seven years.

It was the first business I ever started. I built it from nothing—no investors, no partners, just me figuring things out as I went. And for a long time, it worked. The business was profitable. It grew. It became something real.

But somewhere along the way, I made a series of decisions that seemed smart at the time.

I was pursuing profitability and efficiency at all costs. I looked at my cost structure and saw an opportunity: if I insourced my inventory and assembly instead of outsourcing it, I could cut costs nearly in half. Better margins. More control. It made perfect sense on paper.

So I did it. And it worked—for a while.

But I'd fundamentally changed the nature of what I was running. Suddenly I wasn't just managing an e-commerce operation. I was negotiating international manufacturing agreements. I was dealing with inventory turns measured in years to hit minimum quantity requirements at certain price points. I was managing a supply chain that spanned continents.

My Own Peter Principle

You've probably heard of the Peter Principle: people rise to the level of their own incompetence.

I'd done it to myself. I'd built my way to my own level of incompetence.

It wasn't that I couldn't learn how to manage this new complexity. I'm capable of learning. But after seven years of all the stress—making payroll, dealing with competitors, watching a single bad review feel like the end of the world—I had nothing left.

The tank was empty.

And it manifested in ways that surprised me.

I couldn't open my mail anymore. Not metaphorically—literally. The mail would pile up. Bills, notices, correspondence. I'd look at the stack and feel paralyzed. I simply could not make myself deal with it.

I sat down to write a newsletter or a blog post—things I'd done hundreds of times—and I had complete writer's block. Nothing. The words wouldn't come. The well was dry.

The Things We Can't Let Go

Why didn't I stop sooner?

I'd built this thing from nothing. It was mine. It represented years of work, countless sacrifices, everything I'd poured into it. Walking away felt like failure—like admitting that I couldn't handle it, that I wasn't good enough.

And beyond that, my identity was wrapped up in it. I was an entrepreneur. I was a business owner. I was someone who built things and made them work. That's who I was.

Letting go of the business meant letting go of that identity. And that felt like letting go of myself.

So I held on. Even as the math stopped working. Even as my capacity to function deteriorated. Even as I became unable to do basic tasks that had always been easy.

I held on with a death grip because I couldn't imagine who I'd be if I let go.

The Rigidity Is Ours

Here's what I've come to understand about burnout and holding on:

The rigidity is ours.

We think the situation is the problem. The job is too demanding. The business is too complex. The expectations are too high. If only the circumstances were different, we'd be fine.

But often, the problem isn't the situation. It's our unwillingness to look at ourselves. Our inability to entertain the possibility of something different. Our refusal to acknowledge that what we're doing isn't working anymore.

The rigidity is ours. The unwillingness to look at ourselves honestly—that's ours too.

When Love Isn't Enough

This is what makes burnout different from simply hating your job.

When you hate your job, the solution is relatively clear: find something you don't hate. The problem is the fit, and the answer is to find a better fit.

But burnout can happen even when you love what you're doing.

I loved running that business. I believed in what we were building. The work itself was meaningful to me. There were aspects of it that genuinely energized me.

And I still burned out.

Because love isn't the same as sustainable. Passion doesn't balance the energy equation. You can find deep purpose and meaning in something that's also slowly draining you dry.

What Are You Holding Onto?

If you're burning out, it's worth asking: what are you holding onto?

Not just what's demanding too much of you—that's the surface question. The deeper question is: what would you have to let go of if you made a change?

Is it the identity you've built around your work?

Is it the investment—the years, the sacrifices, the sunk costs?

Is it the meaning and purpose you've attached to what you do?

Is it the fear of not knowing what else you'd do?

Is it the expectation—from yourself or others—that you should be able to handle this?

Is it the community of close, meaningful relationships you have developed—a community you might have to disappoint and/or lose if you choose change?

These are the things that create the death grip. These are the reasons we stay in situations that are depleting us long after the math has stopped working.

And here's the uncomfortable truth: sometimes the thing we need to let go of is something we genuinely value. Something that matters to us. Something that's been a core part of who we are.

That's not a failure. That's just life. Things change. We change. What worked before might not work anymore.

The Shame of Burning Out

In Part 1, I mentioned the shame that comes with burning out from something you "should" be grateful for.

It's worth sitting with that for a moment, because shame keeps us silent. And silence keeps us stuck.

If you're burning out from a good job—one you worked hard to get, one that pays well, one that treats you decently—admitting that feels like ingratitude. Like you're spoiled. Like you don't know how good you have it.

If you're burning out from a mission you believe in—work that matters, that helps people, that aligns with your values—admitting that feels like betrayal. Like you don't really care. Like you're not committed enough.

If you're burning out from a business you built—something you created from nothing, something that represents everything you've worked for—admitting that feels like weakness. Like failure. Like you're not cut out for this.

And so we don't admit it. We push through. We tell ourselves it's temporary. We grip tighter.

But what if the shame is misplaced?

The Decision to Let Go

I eventually closed that business.

It was one of the hardest decisions I've ever made. After seven years of building, of struggling, of making it work—I shut it down.

Not because it failed. It was still profitable. But because I couldn't do it anymore. The math had stopped working. I was depleted beyond recovery.

And here's what I learned: the identity I was so afraid of losing? It didn't disappear. I'm still someone who builds things. I'm still an entrepreneur. That didn't go away when the business ended.

What went away was the suffering. What went away was the depletion. What came back was energy—slowly, gradually, then all at once.

The Question Underneath

If you're holding onto something that's depleting you, here's the question I'd invite you to sit with:

What would happen if you let go?

Not the catastrophic fantasy. Not the worst-case scenario your fear is generating. But actually—what would happen?

Would your identity really disappear? Or would you still be you, just doing something different?

Would all that investment really be wasted? Or would you carry what you learned into whatever comes next?

Would letting go really be failure? Or would it be the first honest acknowledgment that something needs to change?

The death grip feels like safety. It feels like commitment. It feels like the right thing to do.

But sometimes the death grip is just dragging you down. And the bravest thing you can do is open your hand.