I did my best until I couldn’t anymore and suddenly, one day, I stopped. I’m still recovering.

I spent a lifetime at my best. Ceaselessly pushing, holding myself up. Everything at its peak. Running on all cylinders, all the time. Nothing less.

I spent years on eggshells as I waited for my best to pay off. Which it did, sporadically. In fits and starts, depending on the mood of the room. And after it inevitably faded, I spent more time chasing that high, begging for it to come back.

I spent days upon days caffeinating through the exhaustion to which my best inevitably led.

At my best, I put more energy into how I was seen, how I presented, who was judging me, whether I was measuring up. Whether I was found wanting and by how much.

At my best, I replayed conversations, tweaked my responses, and cringed over what I should have said but didn’t.

Somehow, at my best, I was never enough.

When it all fell apart, it was sudden and awful.

My best was sucking me dry. As hard as I was working to live up to it, it always demanded more. Nothing was enough; it would never be satisfied. Finally, in one raw moment, I realized it and ripped my best off of me.

It was what you’d expect when you find yourself performing emergency emotional surgery. Blood all over myself from the sudden incision (unexpectedly deep). Wounds gaping, in shock over the trauma of it all. Watching my best bleed out of me.

Weeks, months, years went by. I was sure I had failed. I hadn’t been worthy of my best and now it was gone. Some days not getting out of bed; some days just going through the motions to try to appear normal. The regret, oh the regret – what had I done, what had I been thinking? How could I settle for anything less than my best?

But that passed, eventually. And I settled into a different state. One that, while not nearly as high-octane, didn’t constantly send me into a spiral of despair. One that is kinder, sometimes. Softer, sometimes. One that isn’t my best. One that is more me.

These days, I’m not often at my best anymore. It’s not something I can sustain. Sometimes we briefly reconnect, and there’s an old recognition- ah, I remember how this felt, I remember the adrenaline, the sparks and the chemistry. But I realize now that it can’t last. When it fades, instead of chasing that high, I let it go. I know now the price that comes from staying there too long. I know what my best costs me.

I did my best until I couldn’t anymore and suddenly, one day, I stopped. I’m still recovering. But I’m better now.