V1L6 | I Thought I Had to Be Useful to Be Worthy

I didn’t think of myself as someone who tied her self-worth to productivity.

That always sounded dramatic.
Corporate.
Like a LinkedIn problem.

I just thought I was responsible.
Capable.
Someone who handled things.

I liked being the one who remembered.
The one who got it done.
The one who didn’t fall apart.

And when I was doing all of that?
I felt… okay.

Not happy.
Not peaceful.
Just acceptable.

But the moment I stopped?

Something uncomfortable crept in.

Rest didn’t feel like rest.
It felt like exposure.

Like if I wasn’t actively contributing, fixing, managing, producing something —
I might lose my place.

Motherhood made this sharper.

Because there is always something to do.
Someone to help.
A need to meet.
A mess to fix.
A problem to solve.

So being “useful” stopped being a role.
It became a requirement.

If I was moving, I was fine.
If I was helping, I was fine.
If I was needed, I was fine.

But the second I slowed down, a quieter fear showed up.

If I stop doing,
will they still need me?
Will they still want me?
If I’m no longer useful to them,
do I still matter here?

That’s hard to say out loud.
But it’s true.

I didn’t call this a self-worth issue at the time.

I called it being a good mom.
Being a good partner.
Being an adult who didn’t drop the ball.

But underneath all of it was the same fragile question —
whether my place was conditional.

And that belief didn’t come from nowhere.

A sense that rest had to be earned.

Motherhood just gave that belief more chances to prove itself.

Because the work never ends.
There’s no clear finish line.
No moment where someone says,
“Okay. You’ve done enough.”

No certificate.
No exit interview.
Just… more tomorrow.

So I kept going.

Kept proving.
Kept showing up in ways that looked functional on the outside.

And when I couldn’t keep up?

I didn’t think,
Of course I’m exhausted.

I thought,
What’s wrong with me?

I judged myself for needing breaks.
For wanting quiet.
For feeling resentful when the giving didn’t stop.

I didn’t see how cruel that was.

To live inside a body that was tired —
and then demand it perform worthiness on top of that.

I wasn’t driven.
I was afraid.

Afraid that if I slowed down,
if I rested without permission,
if I stopped being useful for even a moment —

there would be nothing underneath
that justified my place.

I didn’t fix this belief here.
I’m not resolving it.

But I did start to notice it.

And once I noticed that my worth seemed to come with conditions,
the guilt stopped sounding quite so convincing.

Not gone.
Just… questioned.