Part 1: The Hidden Fear Behind “I’m Just Doing My Job”
We don’t often recognize it, but exhaustion has two faces.
One shows up as over-doing — the one who steps in, steps up, and never steps away.
The other hides inside over-accommodating — the one who keeps the peace no matter what it costs.
Both are born from the same ache: loneliness.
The kind that comes when we stop trusting ourselves and start running on duty instead of connection.
This story explores the first face of that loneliness — the one who controls to feel safe.
Jake didn’t think of himself as controlling.
He thought of himself as dependable.
He was the kind of paramedic everyone wanted on scene — fast, sharp, calm under pressure.
He saw what others missed, anticipated needs, and carried the unspoken weight of holding the team together.
He called it professionalism. His crew called it pressure.
When a newer medic hesitated, Jake jumped in.
When someone missed a step, he corrected them — not to show them up, but to make sure no one got hurt.
And when the shift ended, he stayed behind to finish reports and “make sure the details were right.”
He wasn’t trying to make anyone feel small. He just couldn’t stand the idea of something slipping through the cracks.
Doing the right thing wasn’t optional — it was survival.
And when others didn’t share that urgency, it didn’t just frustrate him — it scared him.
He told himself it was leadership.
He told himself it was pride.
But if he was honest, it was fear.
Jake’s body had learned to live in overdrive — a constant state of readiness.
Control wasn’t about power; it was about staying one step ahead of chaos.
He wasn’t taking over because others couldn’t handle it.
He was taking over because he couldn’t bear watching anyone struggle — their mistakes felt like danger, and danger meant failure.
That’s how overdrive works: it confuses vigilance for love.
One night, after a long call, his partner looked at him and said quietly,
“Jake, you don’t have to hold all of this by yourself.”
The words landed harder than he expected.
He laughed it off, but the truth was, he didn’t know how not to.
On the drive home, his mind replayed the night — every near miss, every decision, every moment he’d taken control.
And beneath the tension in his chest, something else surfaced: loneliness.
He realized he was surrounded by people every day, but none of them really saw how heavy it was to be the one who never dropped the ball.
That night, Jake didn’t run through protocols before bed.
He didn’t check the gear list one more time.
He sat on the edge of his bed and felt the fatigue he usually outran.
He didn’t like it. But he stayed.
Beneath the noise, he heard something he hadn’t in years — quiet.
And under the quiet, a truth he almost didn’t recognize:
He didn’t need everyone else to be perfect before he could rest.
Reflection
Most first responders and caregivers carry this same pattern — the belief that peace will come after everyone else is safe.
But what if peace isn’t the reward for control?
What if control is just the nervous system’s way of outrunning uncertainty?
Take a moment to ask yourself:
What are you trying to control so that you can feel at peace?
And then ask the harder one:
What might happen if you trusted yourself enough to stop?
Grace begins in that pause — when we trade vigilance for trust.
If this story feels familiar, you’re not alone.
So many in care and service professions live in this invisible exhaustion — caught between duty and depletion. My new paper, The Invisible Exhaustion: Decision Fatigue, Disconnection, and the Path to Renewal, explores why this pattern runs so deep and how the return to self-trust restores clarity, calm, and connection.
