The Over-Helper’s Guide to Finding Peace (Without Abandoning Love)

Image by MF Gallery from Pixabay

It’s easy to rush in, to take over, to do it all—especially when we love someone deeply and want to help them. But in doing that, we sometimes forget to ask ourselves: What example am I setting? What message am I sending to those around me—especially my children?

Lately, I’ve been sitting with this question in my own life. Between helping a loved one navigate unexpected legal complexities shortly after a health scare, managing family dynamics, and still trying to prioritise my writing, I’ve realised something important: when I dim my own light to handle everything, I may be showing my children that their light needs to be dimmed too.

I want them to sing loudly and be seen—on stage and in life. I don’t want them to shrink or soften themselves to make others more comfortable in their small, contracted selves. And yet, when I sacrifice my own wellbeing in the name of helping, when I spend hours tangled in other people’s stress, I have to be careful whether I’m modelling what I truly want them to learn.

Reclaiming My Energy: The Struggle to Stop Overfunctioning

For much of my life, I’ve carried the weight of responsibility for others—especially those I love. It’s been instinctive. Whether managing a household, helping others through turmoil, or pre-emptively trying to “fix” things, I’ve often been the one stepping in to hold everything together.

But this has come at a cost. Not just in hours spent coordinating, emailing, and strategising—but in the toll it takes on my wellbeing. My body, my mind, and my emotional reserves have all felt it.

Recently, a legal battle landed in the lap of someone close to me right on the cusp of a long holiday stretch, when many lawyers were unavailable. It was a perfect storm—complex legalities, emotional turmoil, and a sense of urgency that left no room to breathe. I’ve poured over 80 hours into researching, drafting, and advocating, trying to steady the ship and guide things into calmer waters.

Why me? Because I’ve dealt with these dynamics before. High pressure, incoherence, entitlement, manipulation—they’re familiar terrain for people like me, who are wired to maintain relationships at any cost, especially when dealing with people who prioritise their own needs over connection.

But here’s the problem: the deeper I go into “fixing” mode, the more I lose myself. The stress lodges in my shoulders. My focus drifts away from my children. My peace evaporates. Just because I’m the most capable person in the room doesn’t mean it’s mine to carry.

I can feel it in my body—the way my shoulders tense, my neck stiffens, the exhaustion that creeps in. It’s not just physical. It’s emotional too. The more I try to control what isn’t mine to control, the more drained I become. My body is speaking, urging me to step back, to trust that things can unfold without me clinging so tightly to the reins.

I used to believe I was simply being helpful—that tidying a space, offering advice, anticipating needs, was love in action. But I’ve come to realise that underneath that helpfulness is an old survival strategy. A way to manage the environment so I could feel safe.

And while that strategy once served me, it no longer does.

Learning to Let Go

Overfunctioning has long been my pattern. It shows up in co-parenting, in relationships, in my approach to parenting—anywhere I believe the outcome depends on me.

But when I overfunction, I’m not just doing more—I’m holding emotional weight that doesn’t belong to me. My body reflects it. My energy is sapped. My relationships skew out of balance.

Now, I’m learning to set boundaries—not just with others, but with myself. I’ve had to confront the guilt that creeps in when I’m not doing everything. But I’m beginning to see that stepping back is not abandonment—it’s self-respect. It’s trust. It’s allowing others to grow into their own power.

And while it’s painful to witness the lengths some people will go to sacrifice relationships in service of their own needs—and the pressure and injustice this places on the kinder, more generous givers—I have to remind myself: that’s not a reflection on me. It’s the disorienting, destabilising truth of certain dynamics within relationships. And when those dynamics surface, they rattle the nervous system. The imbalance between giver and taker becomes especially stark when boundaries are pushed too far. That’s why I stepped in: to steady the ground.

Because here’s another truth—having a title doesn’t make someone a life raft. Lawyers, judges, therapists—they’re human too. Some can be manipulated, some avoid conflict, some collapse under pressure, and others actively create conflict or manipulate. It’s a harsh lesson: just because someone looks official doesn’t mean they’re equipped to help.

I’ve been here before—only this time, I’m not the target. My nervous system isn’t hijacked by the injustice of it all. My emotions aren’t tripping me up or pulling me back into old beliefs. This time, I am the one steady at the helm, guiding the ship out of the storm—just as good friends and a calm, level-headed barrister once did for me.

One of the most liberating moments has been realising the swirl is finally settling. Others are beginning to gain clarity too. I don’t have to steer the ship or control every detail anymore. I can release my grip. I can trust that the direction is set, solid land is in sight, and the momentum I helped build will carry us forward—without my constant effort.

Choosing Myself, Again and Again

So I’m making conscious choices now. I’m investing in swimming, massage—anything that helps release the tension stored in my body. But just as importantly, I’m staying aware of the moments I’m tempted to dive back into the stress.

Emotionally, I’m practicing saying no. No to doing more. No to rescuing others. No to carrying burdens that don’t belong to me.

It’s not easy. But it’s worth it.

Because what I’m really doing is reclaiming my energy. My time. My joy. I’m choosing to be present with my children. I’m choosing to write again. I’m choosing to trust that life can unfold without me orchestrating every piece.

This isn’t about abandoning people. It’s about not abandoning myself.

We all know the golden rule: put on your own life jacket first. But how often do we actually do that?

A Living Example

If I don’t model this for my children, how will they learn to protect their own light? How will they know they don’t need to carry the weight of the world to be good, to be loved, to be enough?

So I’m letting go of over-functioning. I’m handing back responsibilities that are not mine to hold. And I’m making space—for creativity, for connection, for calm.

I don’t have it all figured out. But I’m aware and I’m taking small steps. I’m trusting that if I stand firm in my values, the right people will walk beside me. And I hope my children see that too: that they are allowed to shine, loudly and unapologetically, without guilt or fear.

Because we are not here to shrink. We are here to live, fully. And even when it feels hard, especially when it feels hard—we can still choose to shine.

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If you enjoyed this post, you might also like From Overwhelm to Empowerment - Healing Your Body, Mind, and Heart in Crisis, Are You Overly Responsible? Actually Seeing Yourself Through Fresh Eyes and How Childhood Imprints Shape Your Relationships (and How to Break Free).