Sunday morning therapy. I’ve got my vanilla latte in hand—because let’s not be heathens here—and

’ line, “$150 a week on therapy,” is ringing in my ears as I stroll in, ready to dive into the mess of me. This week’s mess? I go cold on people. I ghost. There, I said it. Texts unanswered, voicemails ignored, lunch dates followed by silence. Yikes. Still stings to admit. And here’s the kicker: it’s the very thing I complain about when others do it to me.

For me, it happens like this: I’m having a lovely time—fully present, laughing, connecting—and then, out of nowhere, the clock strikes midnight. Just like Cinderella, the magic wears off. One second I’m all in; the next I’m itching to leave. My back aches, my legs twitch, the noise feels unbearable. I can’t track the conversation anymore. The engagement pill has worn off. And then the shame stories start: You’re old. You’re unfun. You’re weak. You’re rude. I panic, desperate to escape, but terrified of hurting feelings.

Lately, I’ve been trying something different: listening for the compassionate voice inside me. She sounds like this: Oh my sweets. I see you’ve had enough. You’ve played your heart out today. It’s time to tuck you in. Let’s get you into your cool, quiet room, lights low, book in hand. I’ll hold you while you drift off. You’ve done great. And I see—it’s enough. That voice changes everything.

My circle, my loves: I haven’t been the best at budgeting my heartbeats. I’ve had two speeds—full on or full off. I know you’ve felt the magic when I’m lit up, and I know you’ve felt the sting when I disappear. It’s not because I don’t care. It’s because I’ve overspent myself—spent every last drop of energy—and I’m broke. I’ve been too embarrassed to admit I’m tired, too afraid of hurting your feelings, so I vanish instead. I want to do this differently. I want to be honest about what I can and cannot give. For some of you, this rhythm will work. For others, it won’t. I understand. I honor that. But I want to try.

Here’s the metaphor that won’t let me go: fighting sleep at the wheel. Windows down, cold air blasting, coffee and Red Bull in hand. Anything to stay awake. And then—the terrifying jolt of nodding off for half a second. It’s scary. It’s dangerous. And so many of us have done it. We recognize it in the airplane passenger whose head keeps jerking forward as they nod off, snapping themselves awake again and again. We see it in the kid passed out in the backseat after a playdate. We know the pain of being at a baseball game or a dinner party, silently begging for it to end, but staying anyway because leaving feels rude. How many times have we done this emotionally? Forcing ourselves to stay “on” when we’re overstimulated, exhausted, irritable—pushing past our body’s clear “enough”? We drink caffeine to keep going. Booze to tolerate the noise. We nod off at the wheel of our own lives.

There’s a scene in Regarding Henry that captures this perfectly. After a gunshot wound, Henry is re-learning the basics of being human. His secretary pours cream into his coffee and tells him to say “when.” Such a simple thing—something every child knows. But Henry struggles. By the end of the movie, Henry uses the same phrase to quit his high-powered law career. This time he says: “I had enough, so I said when.” His secretary replies, “Good for you.”

What once looked childlike—even stupid—becomes the ultimate wisdom. He learns what so many of us never do: to notice when he’s had enough, and to honor it.

What if we treated our capacity like that? What if we could say “when” without shame? What if honoring our limits wasn’t weakness, but wisdom? I’m learning to say when. To coffee, to noisy restaurants, to too many texts, to toxic relationships, to lives that ask too much. I had enough. So I said when.

✨ If you go hot and cold, too—you’re not alone. Maybe we can learn to budget our heartbeats together. Maybe we can practice saying when.