When Life Becomes Too Much

Why pushing yourself out of your comfort zone isn't always the answer

By Craig Fookes | The Mind Works

I'd like you to ask yourself a question. On a scale of 10 to minus 1, how do you feel right now? And I don't just mean whether you're happy or sad. I'd like you to imagine putting everything in your life together into one overall score. Your physical health. Your psychological wellbeing. Your energy and vitality. Your relationships. Your work, family and financial circumstances. The problems and challenges we all inevitably experience. The responsibilities you're carrying. And the pressure you might be putting on yourself to do better, achieve more or become the person you think you should be.

Everything. Put it all together and give yourself one number. I've asked this question countless times during my years working as a therapist. And there's one answer I've heard more often than almost any other. "I dunno, Craig. About a six?" Not terrible. Not particularly wonderful. Just somewhere around a six. Keep that number in mind. Because I want to tell you a story about my own comfort zone.

"Come on, Craig. Push yourself!"

During the earlier stages of what I've come to call my Happiness Project, I remember having a rather interesting conversation with myself. And I mean an actual conversation. Out loud. I was frustrated. I wasn't getting things done. I wasn't making the progress I wanted. I was struggling with things that I knew, intellectually at least, I was perfectly capable of doing. So I gave myself a familiar motivational talking-to.

"Come on, Craig. You've just got to push yourself out of your comfort zone!" I'd barely finished saying it when another response came. Also out loud.

But this time the voice was much quieter. More timid. Almost frightened. "I don't feel like I'm in much of a comfort zone right now." "I'm tired. I'm always tired." That second voice stopped me in my tracks. Two entirely different perspectives on exactly the same situation. One part of me was demanding greater effort, discipline and progress. Another was telling me that I was already struggling. And for once, I stopped long enough to consider something. What if the second voice was telling me something important? What if I wasn't comfortably sitting around avoiding the things I needed to do?

What if I was already operating at the limits of what I had available? And what if pushing myself harder was making things worse?

Welcome to the Tower Block

I'd already been developing a model within The Mind Works that I call the Tower Block. It's a metaphor for understanding how we experience ourselves and our lives at different levels of psychological, physiological and physical wellbeing. Imagine a tower with levels running from minus 1 at the very bottom to 10 at the top. The higher levels represent times when we're generally functioning well, have sufficient resources available and feel reasonably capable of engaging with life. The lower levels represent increasing difficulty.

But the important thing is that the experience of being on different levels isn't simply a matter of being happier or unhappier.

It can influence how we think, feel, behave and respond to the world. And importantly, what we're realistically capable of doing. The Tower Block is built around four interconnected Pillars of Health: Psychology, Physiology, Physical Health, and Environment & Relationships.

These are the foundations that influence how we function. Our thoughts, beliefs and emotional experiences matter. But so do our sleep, recovery, nourishment, nervous-system responses, physical health, relationships, financial circumstances and the demands we're living under. All of these can interact. A difficult relationship might affect our sleep. Poor sleep can reduce our energy and concentration.

Reduced energy can make everyday responsibilities more difficult. And struggling with those responsibilities might lead us to become increasingly critical of ourselves.

The result can be a cycle in which difficulties in one area place additional pressure on the others.

The Tower Block helps me think about what it's actually like to live within that interaction.

Level 6: The comfort zone

Remember that number I asked you to think about? Six. Within the Tower Block, Level 6 represents the Comfort Zone. And I think there's something rather revealing about that. We're constantly encouraged to push ourselves beyond our comfort zones. To challenge ourselves. To take risks. To do things that make us uncomfortable. And sometimes that's excellent advice. When we're reasonably healthy, supported, rested and have sufficient capacity available, challenging ourselves can be enormously beneficial. It can help us learn, develop confidence, discover new opportunities and grow.

But what if our comfort zone isn't actually very comfortable?

What if we're spending most of our time simply managing? Getting through the working week. Keeping up with responsibilities. Looking after everybody else. Trying to eat well, exercise, maintain relationships, manage our finances and somehow find time to enjoy ourselves. All while feeling that we ought to be doing more. Perhaps a six isn't necessarily a comfortable place to be.

Perhaps it's simply the level we've become accustomed to living at. And perhaps we're using so much of our available energy maintaining that position that we haven't recognised how little we have left. That was certainly something I began to recognise in myself.

What happens when we drop below Level 6?

This is where the Tower Block started to become useful to me personally. When we start experiencing difficulties, it's natural to look for psychological explanations. Perhaps we're worrying too much. Perhaps we're procrastinating. Perhaps we're not motivated. Perhaps we lack confidence or have developed unhelpful beliefs about ourselves. And sometimes those things are relevant.

Our thoughts, expectations and learnt responses can influence how we experience situations and what we do next. We may need to become more aware of the pressure we're putting on ourselves. We may need to question some of the things we've come to believe.

We may need to understand why certain tasks, relationships or situations seem disproportionately threatening. But as we move further down the Tower Block, something else can become increasingly important. Our physiological and physical capacity. What happens when we genuinely don't have sufficient energy available? What happens when we're not sleeping properly? When our bodies aren't recovering? When we're managing persistent pain, illness, hormonal changes or prolonged stress?

What happens when we're so exhausted that even ordinary activities feel overwhelming?

During the period I described in my previous article, ASD, ADHD and Me, I was trying to understand why my ability to function could fluctuate so dramatically. I'd managed to run a marathon. Yet on other days, getting off the sofa could feel almost impossible.

Sometimes I could work with extraordinary intensity, concentrate for hours and achieve an enormous amount.

Other times, opening an email or dealing with a straightforward administrative task could feel unbearable.

I spent a long time trying to understand these differences through motivation, discipline and neurodivergence. But I began to realise that my available capacity was changing.

And that changed the questions I was asking. Instead of simply wondering why I couldn't make myself do something, I began considering what resources I actually had available to do it.

Because there's an important difference between being unwilling to do something and struggling because the demands exceed what we can currently manage. Of course, the two aren't always easy to distinguish.

But treating every difficulty as a problem of motivation can mean overlooking genuine exhaustion, illness or the effects of sustained pressure.

When trying harder makes everything worse

I think this is one of the more uncomfortable things I discovered about myself. I was putting an extraordinary amount of pressure on myself to improve my life. I wanted to work hard. Develop my business. Exercise regularly. Eat well. Maintain my relationships. Learn new things. Become more productive, positive and proactive. And, ideally, do all of those things consistently.

When things were going well, I felt fantastic. But when I couldn't maintain that pace, I started criticising myself. Why couldn't I just get on with things? Why was I wasting time? Why was I being so lazy?

Why couldn't I simply do the things I knew would help? And what was my solution?

Push harder. Set more goals. Become more disciplined. Try again tomorrow. The problem was that the pressure I was applying to improve my life had itself become part of what was making life difficult. I wasn't simply exhausted by everything I needed to do. I was exhausting myself further by criticising the fact that I couldn't do it.

And I began recognising the same pattern in some of the people I worked with.

People who were already managing considerable demands, yet believed they needed to become more organised, productive, resilient or motivated.

People who felt guilty for resting. People who were trying desperately to get back to being the person they used to be. People who seemed to be using every available ounce of energy simply to maintain their current circumstances.

Perhaps what they needed wasn't another motivational speech. Perhaps they needed a better understanding of why everything felt so difficult.

Which brought me to burnout

Burnout is a real and extensively discussed phenomenon.

It's most commonly studied in the context of work, where prolonged stress can be associated with exhaustion, growing distance or cynicism towards work, and reduced professional effectiveness.

And I can understand why. Work is a significant source of pressure for many people.

But something about that emphasis bothered me. Because I was trying to move away from a life in which productivity was the primary measure of whether I was doing well. There's more to life than being productive.

And surely people can become profoundly depleted without their difficulties originating primarily in paid employment? What about someone caring for a family member? Someone dealing with financial insecurity? A parent trying to manage work, children and the endless responsibilities of family life? Someone living with chronic pain or poor health? Or somebody whose own expectations have become so demanding that they never really allow themselves to recover?

These aren't all necessarily examples of burnout in its formal occupational sense. But the broader experiences of sustained overload, depletion and reduced capacity are worth understanding.

So I began exploring a wider formulation within The Mind Works.

Not to replace the established definition of occupational burnout, but to consider what happens when the combined demands of life exceed the resources we have available. And I kept coming back to three experiences.

Depletion, Doubt and Disconnection

I began recognising a pattern that could be described through three words.

Depletion. Doubt. Disconnection.

And what interested me was how closely these experiences related to the three areas I'd been exploring within my Nine Conditions for Contentment.

Depletion

Depletion is the experience of not having enough available. Not enough physical energy. Not enough mental capacity. Not enough emotional resources. Sometimes not enough time, money, support or opportunity to recover. It's the feeling of constantly running on empty. Of waking up tired. Of finding that ordinary activities require considerably more effort than they used to. And of having less and less left for the things we actually enjoy. Within the Nine Conditions for Contentment, I talked about Resources. Having sufficient time, energy and money to live. Depletion is what can happen when those resources become inadequate relative to the demands we're facing.

Doubt

As our capacity reduces, we may begin questioning ourselves. Why can't I cope? Why am I struggling with things that used to be easy? What's wrong with me? Why does everybody else seem to manage? Perhaps we begin doubting our abilities, our decisions, our future or our value. And sometimes that doubt becomes relentless self-criticism.

Instead of recognising that we're exhausted, we conclude that we're inadequate. Instead of recognising that life has become too demanding, we decide that we're not trying hard enough. This connects closely with Identity. Our understanding of who we are. Our acceptance of ourselves.

And what happens when our experiences don't match the expectations we've developed about the person we think we should be.

Disconnection

Then there's Disconnection. When we're exhausted and full of self-doubt, maintaining relationships can become increasingly difficult. We may withdraw from friends. Stop doing things we enjoy.

Find conversations more demanding. Become irritable or less emotionally available. We might feel disconnected from our partner, family or wider community. Or perhaps we begin feeling disconnected from ourselves. From the person we used to be. From the things that previously brought us enjoyment. From the life we thought we were building. Within the Nine Conditions for Contentment, I described Connection as one of the central experiences that can support a satisfying life.

Yet when we're struggling, connection can be among the first things to become more difficult to maintain. And that creates another problem. Because the relationships and experiences that might otherwise help sustain us can become less accessible just when we need them most.

The opposite of contentment?

I began to notice something interesting. The three broad areas I'd identified as supporting contentment were:

Connection. Resources. Identity.

And the experiences I was identifying in prolonged overload were: Disconnection. Depletion. Doubt. I'm not suggesting these are exact scientific opposites, or that everybody struggling with exhaustion will experience all three. But I do think the relationship is useful. When we're depleted, we may have fewer resources available to enjoy life. When we're full of doubt, our sense of identity and self-worth may become more fragile. And when we're disconnected, we may lose access to some of the relationships and experiences that ordinarily help us feel supported. These experiences can reinforce one another. And perhaps most importantly, they can change what we're capable of doing.

Which brings us back to the Tower Block.

Different levels need different responses

Imagine two people struggling to get something done. One is feeling reasonably well, has plenty of available energy, and is avoiding a task because they're worried about getting it wrong. The other is profoundly exhausted, sleeping badly, under enormous pressure and struggling to manage everyday responsibilities. Both might describe themselves as procrastinating. Both might feel frustrated. Both might say, "I just need to get on with it." But would we really expect the same advice to help them both? For the first person, exploring their thoughts, expectations and avoidance might be useful. Perhaps a little encouragement to take the next step would help.

But for the second person, demanding greater effort might simply increase the pressure on a system that's already struggling. They may need rest, recovery, practical support, reduced demands or appropriate healthcare.

Quite possibly several of those things at once.

Advice that makes sense when we're functioning well can be completely inappropriate when we're already overwhelmed. And I think this is something we need to consider much more carefully.

Not everybody needs to push themselves out of their comfort zone. Sometimes we need to recognise just how far we've already been pushed. And how far we are away from some sort of comfort zone.

Modern life is rubbish

There, I've said it.

Although perhaps it's not modern life itself that's rubbish, but some of the nonsense we're told about how to live it.

We're surrounded by advice about how to live better. Set goals. Think positively. Work harder. Exercise more. Eat better. Be more disciplined. Build better habits. Push yourself out of your comfort zone. Become the best version of yourself. And none of those things is inherently wrong

But what happens when all that advice becomes another set of demands?

What happens when we're already exhausted, struggling financially, dealing with health difficulties or trying to manage relationships and responsibilities that feel overwhelming?

Are we really helping people by giving them another list of things they should be doing? Or are we sometimes making them feel even worse about the fact that they're struggling?

I don't think the answer is to abandon goals, self-improvement or personal responsibility. Quite the opposite. But I think we need to become much better at understanding what is realistically available to us at any particular time. What we're carrying. What we need. What we're capable of. And what might help us move towards a more comfortable and sustainable way of living. Because sometimes meaningful progress doesn't look like achieving more.

Sometimes it looks like finally giving ourselves permission to do less.

And so we find ways to cope

Of course, life doesn't simply stop when we're exhausted or overwhelmed.

Responsibilities continue. Bills need paying. People still need us. And we still want to feel better. So we find ways to manage how we're feeling. Sometimes those things are helpful. We rest. Spend time with people we love. Go for a walk. Enjoy a hobby. Ask for support.

But sometimes we turn towards things that offer more immediate relief.

Food. Alcohol. Scrolling through our phones. Avoiding things that feel difficult. Withdrawing from people. Or finding something that distracts us from everything we don't want to think about.

Within The Mind Works, I've become increasingly interested in understanding these as potentially protective responses. Not necessarily good or bad in themselves, but things we may do to manage difficult experiences. Sometimes they provide genuine comfort or enjoyment. Sometimes they help us get through a difficult period.

And sometimes the relief comes with consequences that make things harder in the longer term. I think this is especially interesting when we consider our relationship with food.

For years, comfort eating and weight management were subjects I discussed regularly in my therapeutic work. But those conversations have changed considerably with the arrival of GLP-1 medications.

And that raises some fascinating questions. If a medication changes our appetite, cravings or relationship with food, what happens to the other things we may have been using food to manage? And how might we understand the psychological, physiological and behavioural aspects of weight management alongside one another?

That's something I'd like to explore in the next article.

Back to Level 6

Before we finish, I'd like to return to that original question. On a scale of 10 to minus 1, how do you feel right now? Perhaps you said six. Perhaps you said something much higher. Or perhaps you're having a particularly difficult time and your answer was considerably lower. Whatever your answer, I'd encourage you to consider something. What is that number actually telling you? Are you feeling reasonably comfortable with your life? Or are you working extraordinarily hard simply to maintain where you are? Are there things you'd like to change but feel unable to?

And if so, have you considered whether the difficulty is really a lack of motivation, or whether something else might be influencing your capacity?

I still think about that conversation I had with myself. The confident, impatient voice telling me to push harder. And the quieter, frightened voice saying that it was tired. For a long time, I suspect I would have listened to the first voice and tried to silence the second. But I've come to think that the second voice had something rather important to say. It wasn't necessarily telling me to give up.

It wasn't telling me that I was incapable of change. Perhaps it was simply asking me to understand what was happening before demanding any more of myself. And perhaps that was a much better place to begin.

Craig Fookes

Clinical Hypnotherapist | Founder of The Mind Works

Explore more from The Mind Works

Previously: ASD, ADHD and Me

Read: The Nine Conditions for Contentment

Coming next: Comfort Eating, Weight Management and GLP-1

Explore: The Mind Works Personal Insight Assessment