Rethinking the Belief That Exhaustion Is the Price of Success

I grew up in the ’90s. It was the era of 90210, boy bands, LA Gear, hip-hop, Aqua Net, landlines and staying out until the streetlights came on. There was no internet, no social media, no cell phones and certainly no electric vehicles—those only existed on The Jetsons. 

We didn’t carry water bottles to school. Hydration meant a Cactus Cooler, the communal water fountain or a piping hot water hose on a scorching California summer day.

Like every generation, the times shaped how we lived. Back then, the words “self” and “care” were never seen side by side. While many things have improved since then, some norms we grew up with are now recognized as unhealthy. The absence of self-care was one of them.

In my single-parent Mexican American household, self-care simply wasn’t part of the conversation. My mother embodied the “nose to the grindstone” mentality. She rarely complained, but it was clear her plate was always full. For her, self-care looked like a glass of wine at the end of a long day. I watched her climb the corporate ladder while raising two children and trying to maintain a personal life.

As the oldest daughter, I became a mini parent to my younger brother, taking on responsibilities beyond my years. I learned to multitask, work hard, avoid complaining and prioritize achievement above all else. Self-care, in my mind, was for the weak.

When I began my career, I carried those same habits with me. Working for an under-resourced grassroots nonprofit, 12- to 14-hour workdays felt like proof of my commitment to the mission. It became a regular point of tension with my husband—then boyfriend—who saw how much I was sacrificing. 

At the time, I believed working harder meant caring more. I hadn’t yet learned the value of working smarter.

If I’m honest, that drive was rooted in fear: fear of not doing enough, of wasting opportunity, of letting people down. As the eldest daughter of a single mom, overfunctioning felt normal.

Seven years later, becoming a mother shifted everything. When my daughter Ale was born, it crystallized the importance of balance. I realized that if I wanted to model healthy behavior for her, I had to start by caring for myself.

My first step was making a career pivot. Determined to continue serving my community while creating a healthier balance, I found my way to Ronald McDonald House. There, I was able to thrive professionally while also investing in my family and personal passions.

Today, with two children and fuller schedules, my concept of wellness centers on time. Learning to say “no” has become my greatest challenge—and my most important form of self-care.

I don’t want my daughters to grow up believing exhaustion is a badge of honor. I want them to see that ambition and rest can coexist, and that sometimes the most powerful act of self-care is simply allowing ourselves to pause.