The High Cost of Being Capable
When high-performing women quietly unravel, and no one sees it coming
This is the first in a series of reflective pieces inside The Crossover, a space to explore the tension between strength and strain, and the stories modern women live but rarely name aloud.
There’s a version of womanhood that appears seamless.
She’s across it all, the school drop-off and the boardroom, the household and the inbox.
She contributes financially. She holds the relationship. She keeps the wheels turning.
She dreams of more, and even pursues it, but she’s learned to frame her ambition in a way others can accept.
And because she can carry a lot, she often does.
Until the weight becomes too much.
And even then, she rarely puts it down.
She just stops talking about it, not because it’s resolved, but because she’s learned what follows: discomfort, minimisation, or advice that misses the point.
When her struggle isn’t visible, because she’s still showing up, the world assumes she’s fine.
And because the world doesn’t create space to hold what it can’t see, she learns not to either.
She internalises that invisibility.
She stops expecting care.
She stops expressing need.
She keeps holding it, even as it begins to cost her
The world isn’t built to hold what it can’t see.
And so, neither is she.
This isn’t the fix, it’s the naming.
There’s no tidy resolution here.
No formula or five-step solution.
Because there’s nothing tidy about a system that relies on women’s strength, then questions it when it falters.
This is not about weakness.
It’s about proximity to the edge, and how long you’ve had to live there without acknowledgement.
This is the naming.
The holding up of a mirror.
The quiet recognition that:
High performance doesn’t guarantee high wellbeing.
Collapse doesn’t always look dramatic, it often arrives silently.
Being capable doesn’t mean you never needed care.
We were never meant to carry it all in silence.
We were never meant to disappear into our own competence.
We are not broken.
We are not behind.
We are not too much.
Some are just now recognising: this isn’t someone else’s story. It’s theirs.
Many are still carrying it quietly.
But the more we name it, the less alone it becomes.
If this met you in a place you’ve never quite named, let it stay with you.
You don’t need to explain.
This was written with you in mind.
