Holding It All Was Never the Point

Inspired by Sali Hughes’ “The Myth of Having It All”

“Having it all.”
It’s a phrase that once felt aspirational to me—something we were supposed to aim for with polished certainty: the career, the family, the fulfillment, the freedom.
Sali Hughes’ essay The Myth of Having It All unpacks the burden behind that phrase with precision. She’s right. The myth is heavy. Relentless. Often cruel in its quiet implications.

But lately, I’ve been thinking about another myth — one that isn’t as loud, but maybe more corrosive:
The myth that I must hold it all — and hold it all together.

Hold the job.
Hold the family.
Hold the sadness.
Hold the smile.
Hold the perception of resilience while privately unraveling.
Hold the silence that says, “I’m fine,” when every cell is aching for someone to notice I’m not.

This isn’t about “having” anymore. It’s about holding.
And holding can be far more dangerous — because it’s invisible.
Because it looks like strength.
Because the world keeps applauding as long as nothing drops.

There are days I carry the weight so well even I forget it’s heavy.
That’s the most dangerous part.
When I start mistaking function for freedom.
When surviving wears the mask of thriving.
When I can’t tell the difference between coping and disappearing.

The collapse doesn’t always look like a breakdown.
Sometimes it’s just me — in my car, for ten quiet minutes —
trying to remember who I am before I step into the next demand.

And this is where The Fifth Why lives.
Not in the first question — “Why am I so tired?”
Not even the third — “Why do I keep going like this?”
But in the fifth:

Why do I believe I must hold this all — and who would I be if I didn’t?

That’s the one that shakes something loose in me.
That names the learned survival.
The unconscious belief that says:
To be loved, I must be useful.
To be safe, I must be strong.
To be worthy, I must be unwavering.

I don’t want to perform composure anymore.
I want to tell the truth.
That I can be good at many things and still feel like I’m drowning.
That I can hold space for others and still want someone to hold mine.
That I can be grateful and burnt out. Loving and at capacity. Whole and wholly undone.

Letting go of the myth doesn’t make me weak.
It makes me honest.

And maybe that’s the real “all” I want to have:
A life where I don’t have to perform my peace.
Where I can say, “This is heavy,”
and trust that wholeness doesn’t mean holding everything.
Sometimes, it means letting something fall.