When Responsibility Replaces Passion: The Cognitive Cost of Doing It All

“Without passion, you don’t have energy; without energy, you have nothing.” — Warren Buffett

I’m writing this because, for the first time in over 14 years, I’m taking a month off between roles. A whole month. No onboarding decks. No Slack notifications masquerading as emergencies. No brand that needs thoughtful positioning while I quietly negotiate with my own nervous system.

If this post feels reflective and a little raw, that’s because it’s written by someone who has finally remembered what it’s like to slow down long enough to think. Or as my wonderful mentor, Emma Harris, would say, I’m off to “Slow the Fuck Down”

When Responsibility Quietly Takes Over

Becoming a single parent doesn’t come with a transition plan. There’s no handover period. One day life is shared, and the next you’re solely responsible for the logistics, the emotions, the finances, and the future, while still remembering it’s “crazy hair day” at school.

At the same time this happened, I stepped into the marketing of a public-facing brand. The kind where perception matters. Where tone matters. Where you are expected to be strategic, creative, emotionally intelligent, and reassuring, preferably before your first coffee.

So I did what many capable adults do: I prioritised responsibility. My passion, writing about mental wellbeing, workplace wellness, leadership, and strategy, was quietly sidelined. Not because it stopped mattering, but because it didn’t scream the loudest.

The Impact on the Kids (Because It Never Stops With You)

I have two children: a 9-year-old son and a 7-year-old daughter. They are resilient, funny, and far more perceptive than they should need to be, but they’ve also struggled mentally through the breakup in ways that don’t fit neatly into parenting books. Big feelings over small things. Emotional exhaustion disguised as stubbornness. Silence where chatter used to live.

Children don’t have the luxury of intellectualising pain. They feel it. And no matter how well you hold things together on the outside, with routines, reassurance, and bedtime stories, they sense the cracks.

Some days, the most demanding marketing I did wasn’t for a brand. It was for the idea that we were going to be okay.

Family, Responsibility, and Not Being Allowed to Falter

Around the same time, I moved into a new place with my sister, and honestly, that part was brilliant. She is brilliant. She supports my parenting in ways that feel like oxygen: practical, calm, and deeply grounding.

But she’s also not well. She lives with PBC – an autoimmune disorder that impacts the liver, and there were moments, some of them genuinely frightening, where my focus had to extend beyond my children and my work to making sure she was okay.

When someone you love is unwell, especially in unpredictable ways, you don’t get the option of falling apart. At the scariest moments for her, I couldn’t falter. I just tried to show up. Again and again.

Love does that to you. It strengthens you, but it also quietly drains your reserves.

The Cognitive Cost of Living in Survival Mode

Here’s what took me too long to realise: when passion is replaced entirely by responsibility, your cognitive function pays the price.

Creativity flattens. Strategic thinking becomes reactive. Focus splinters. You forget words mid-sentence, not impressive ones, just everyday vocabulary that has apparently decided to take annual leave.

This isn’t a personal failure. It’s neuroscience.

When you’re in prolonged survival mode, the brain reallocates resources. Reflection, creativity, and expansive thinking are deprioritised in favour of getting through the day. Passion projects, especially ones like writing that require depth and clarity, quietly disappear.

I thought that at my age, this was down to menopause. But it turns out now I’m resting, I didn’t lose my intelligence. I just lost my access to it.

Mental Wellness Isn’t a Side Project

Ironically, my passion has always been writing about mental wellbeing and workplace wellness, about leadership, strategy, and how people think, perform, and thrive under pressure.

At work, I was deeply focused on maintaining a healthy, happy team in an intense, fast-moving environment. I knew I needed to show up for them, not just to lead, but to create space for them to thrive. To protect energy. To model calm. To absorb pressure so they didn’t have to.

And I meant it.

But somewhere in the process, I treated my own mental wellness like a background task.

What keeps me steady isn’t complicated: yoga, exercise, and time spent in good company. Movement to reconnect with my body. Stillness to regulate my mind. People who remind me of who I am outside of responsibility.

These weren’t luxuries. They were survival tools.

Dopamine: Where I Could Find It

I still found sparks of joy where I could. I mentored young people in my industry. I went into schools to talk about neurodiversity, advocacy, and possibility. Those moments mattered; they still do.

They gave me dopamine hits of meaning and connection.

But what frustrated me deeply was the lack of headspace to write. To process what I was learning. To share the stories, insights, and lived experience that were piling up quietly in the background.

The passion was there. The capacity wasn’t.

A Month Off and the Return of Thought

This unexpected month between roles, the first in 14 years, is the only reason this piece exists.

Without constant urgency, my thinking expanded again. Writing returned. Strategy felt energising instead of draining. Humour resurfaced (a reliable indicator of mental health, in my experience).

I’m not suddenly fixed. I’m still a single parent. The kids still have hard days. Life is still full.

But I’ve been reminded of something essential: passion fuels cognition. It sharpens thinking, restores perspective, and makes responsibility feel sustainable instead of suffocating.

Why This Matters, Especially for High-Functioning Adults

If you’re reading this thinking, “This resonates, but I don’t have time,” you’re not alone.

But here’s the uncomfortable truth: when you remove what lights you up, everything else becomes heavier. Work costs more energy. Parenting costs more patience. Leadership costs more clarity.

And our children, especially those already navigating emotional upheaval, are watching how we live. They’re learning whether adulthood is about endurance or engagement.

So this is me, reclaiming a piece of myself. Writing again. Thinking again. Looking after my mental wellness with intention.

Because joy isn’t a reward for getting through life.

It’s fuel for doing it well.

I’m now off to volunteer walking my daughter and her class to a nursing home so they can sing Christmas carols, something I never normally have the time to help with, but now I have a little time on my hands… and I’m embracing it.