My friends are often surprised to learn that I haven’t worn a GPS watch on a training run in years. No heart rate monitor or pace alerts—just my favorite running shoes, the road, and whatever my body is telling me.

Some people might hear that and assume I’m doing this casually. Because, you know, it doesn’t really count if it isn’t logged. So says our metric-obsessed culture, after all!

I found that stripping data out of my runs has made me more consistent, more intuitive, and (honestly) more fun to be around after a workout. It might do the same for you.

One early morning a few years back was not going my way. It started with bickering kids, a disappointing run, and what felt like a million different tasks to do. I got to the office—barely had time to put my stuff down, let alone grab a cup of coffee—when it happened.

A well-intentioned colleague dropped criticism on me I was not prepared to handle.

You know that fight-or-flight feeling? When heat creeps up your neck and face, your pulse quickens, and you feel the instinct to bristle up and get defensive. Or worse, lash out at the perceived attacker.

Confession time: I’m not naturally good at rest.

That probably doesn't surprise you if you know me, and it probably doesn't surprise you because you’re in the same boat. High achievers tend to share a particular blind spot: great at doing hard things and terrible at doing nothing.

For a long time, my mindset was “busy is productive,” and “no pain, no gain.”

But at some point, that narrative fell out of sync with the results I was getting, and I had to sit with an uncomfortable question: was I actually performing, or was I just performing busyness?

For the most part, it was the latter. I was treating recovery as an optional afterthought rather than an important part of making progress.

Most high performers I know carry a badge of honor for being the person with all the answers. They’re always available, always ready to weigh in. Always on. It’s an easy identity to build when you’re good at what you do, and people keep coming to you for direction.

It feels great, until it doesn’t. That identity comes with a cost.

What I’ve found—through my career, raising five kids, running nonprofits, and logging miles—is that trying to be that person burns through your best cognitive resources. It burns through them so fast. And usually, I might add, on the wrong things. 

By the time a truly important decision lands on your desk, your brain is fried.