The Curse of Competence: Confessions From a Recovering Overachiever
- Shelby Barillas
- May 1
- 19 min read
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Fuck. Again?
I’ve always considered myself highly capable and generally good at many things. I can pick up tasks swiftly, learn fast, and adapt to situations as quickly as chameleons can change color. You could call it a natural ability, or call it people-pleasing. Either way, I’ve been someone others can count on. A bit of a “jack of all trades,” master of multitasking, and queen of stepping up without being asked.
At some point, I became everyone’s go-to person. Efficient? Check. Dependable? Flexible? Check. Check. Creative? Check. Organized? Double Check. You already know, I was the one who could handle it, whatever “it” was, even if it wasn’t mine to handle, even if it drained me.
People know me for being incredibly responsible and highly adept, but somewhere along the way, my competence had become less of a strength and more of an expectation. Then it became my identity, and once something becomes part of who you are, it’s tough to unravel that and let it go, even if it hurts you.
For a while now, I’ve been doubting my competence and abilities. It’s been almost a year of pings, rejections, and lousy paychecks. My text messages and email inbox have unintentionally tag-teamed to send me updates that feel like they’re personally trying to ruin my week. At this point, every notification feels like a jump scare, and I can’t help but cringe at what message may be next.
I’d like to think of myself as optimistic; I shed a soft tear to a hopeful Phoebe Bridgers song like the best of us, but I’ve felt like more doors have been slammed shut in my face than opened. My self-esteem has taken a hit, my patience is running thin, and my motivation is…eh, under construction.
I don’t think I’ve felt this rejected since my senior year of high school, during college admission season (a trauma I absolutely will not revisit).
People keep telling me that my twenties are the “exploration years.” A time to discover, experiment, “fail forward,” try again, and do whatever I want under the justification that “I’m still young" and have an undeveloped prefrontal cortex.
Cool…but tell that to my bank account.
“Having fun” and experimenting don’t pay my bills.
I’ve received the usual advice from family members and friends in their 30s, which includes the notion that I “don’t need to have everything figured out” and “shouldn’t compare myself to others.”
But what do you do when you’re not comparing yourself to others? What if the person you’re comparing yourself to is…yourself?
The high-functioning version of me that used to win awards by day, tackle deadlines by night, and still showed up with homemade cookies and emotional support on speed dial. The girl boss who crushed every personal to-do list, worked multiple jobs, and attended school full-time. The chaos coordinator who would help edit a friend's resume, tutor and teach before dinner, vacuum the entire house, and still remember every birthday and celebration. The polished version of me, who wore competence like armor, juggling extra credit, group chats, calendar invites, and late-night therapy sessions with loved ones, as if it were an Olympic sport. The version that everyone could count on. The version that I could count on, too.
Lately, I feel like I’ve been falling short of her…
Early Upbringings
I have been a good noodle for as long as I can remember. Teacher's pet, validation-chasing valedictorian, overachieving try-hard, you name it, I probably color-coded it.
It was ingrained in me early on: if you’re going to do something, be the very best at it. Academics, hobbies, and talents came bundled with the unspoken (yet apparent) expectation to strive for greatness. While that kind of drive isn’t inherently bad, it planted the seed for some unrealistic standards I’d carry into adulthood.
I still remember the first time I came home with a C on my spelling test. The look on my mom's red-raged face could’ve powered a small town. “How is this possible? You’re so smart, you should know better!” Cue the immediate shame spiral. Anything less than average was unacceptable, and even when I did perform well, it was often followed by, “Well, you could’ve done better.”
When I was 15, I transferred to a freshly constructed charter high school where no one knew me. Until that point, I hadn’t taken my education very seriously. In my defense, I genuinely didn’t understand how watching Bill Nye science videos or running the Pacer Test would launch my future career. However, something shifted within me during my freshman year, and to compensate for my apathy, I swung the pendulum in the opposite direction. I had realized that everything from here on out would matter and shape the trajectory of my future, college, scholarships, the rest of my life (or so I thought). I made a vow to myself that I’d become the best version of me that ever was; motivated, disciplined, and probably over-caffinated.
Shelby 2.0, I called her.
I dipped my toe with two honors classes during my first semester, a manageable challenge. Once I found my footing, I joined the cheer team. Sophomore year? I added more honors classes, stayed on the cheer squad, and threw student council into the mix. By senior year, it was a full-blown juggling act: two APs, two honors classes, a pre-calc class (which is laughable now, considering I can barely do basic math), pep rallies, student council posters (which I practically hand-letted in my sleep), a part-time job as an intern at a tax office, and a growing pile of family and petty high school drama I tried to outrun by staying as busy as humanly possible.
I know– it was excessive.
By the end of high school, I was running on fumes. Exhausted, burned out, and teetering on the edge of a breakdown. But when senior award night rolled around, I stood before my family with an armful of awards, certificates, a $5,000 scholarship, and a fancy cord around my neck. I felt proud, accomplished…for about 30 minutes, and then, almost immediately, my brain went: "Okay, what’s next? How do I get into my dream college?
Spoiler alert: I didn’t.
And I was devastated.
Still, I pivoted and prevailed, but the hustle never stopped; it just shape-shifted. College became high school on steroids: new deadlines, new group projects, new ways to overextend myself. Whether at home, in class, at work, or through volunteer projects, I filled in the gaps, solved problems, and picked up the slack, often without being asked. I was the “glue” who held things together.
On one hand, part of me took pride in being that person—the dependable one, the resourceful one, the one who got shit done, and made it look effortless. On the other hand, another part of me (one I tried to ignore) started to feel silently yet deeply stuck.
Fast-forward four years and a pandemic later, I graduated from Cal State Fullerton with a Bachelor’s in Graphic Design (and a commencement certificate I designed myself!). I walked across that stage knowing I’d made the most of where I landed and created lasting connections with professors and friends.
But by then, the pendulum had swung too far, and I realized that in trying to correct my once-indifferent self, I had overcorrected to the point that I’d built an identity entirely around achievement. Somewhere along the way, I forgot who I was without the accolades and gold stars.
Eventually, I started to ask myself: Am I doing this because I want to or because I can?
When Being Competent Becomes a Burden
After graduation, I expected to feel a sense of relief. Maybe even pride, and for a moment, I did, but underneath the cap and gown, something still didn't feel right. I had spent so long sprinting toward success that when I finally slowed down, I wasn’t sure who I was without a finish line in front of me. I had become so good at performing, producing, and problem-solving that I didn’t know how to simply exist. This is when I started to notice the emotional aftermath of my overcorrection.
I’ve found it incredibly difficult to articulate this weight to the people closest to me, especially when, from the outside, it looks like I’ve “done so much” and should be nothing but grateful. To be clear, I am thankful. I appreciate everything life has given me: wins, lessons, and setbacks. However, deep down, the pressure never stops. I can’t shake the fear that what I’ve done still isn’t enough; it lingers like a low hum beneath every new goal. I want more for myself, and I hate that wanting more makes me feel guilty, as if I’m being ungrateful for simply craving more than mere survival.
For a long time, I thought my insatiable hunger for success was a strength, a superpower. In many ways, it is, but when you're the person who makes things run smoothly, who always steps up, who gets it done without asking for help, it comes at a cost. People often don't notice how much you’re doing. People don’t think to ask what you want. They assume you can handle it. They believe you’ll manage just fine, even when you're stretched thin, barely keeping it together. People don’t see your efforts; they know the outcome and assume it was easy because you made it look easy. Eventually, you become known for your capability instead of your capacity.
People started to attach themselves to that version of me–the efficient one, the creative one, the self-starter, the “perfect candidate.” I leaned into that identity for a long time because I thought being needed was the same as being valued. I’ve learned the hard way that competence without boundaries leads to burnout, and burnout without reflection leads to quiet, growing resentment.
So, when I finally started setting boundaries, saying “no,” and choosing myself, some people didn’t like that. I’d disrupted the version of me they had come to expect: endlessly available, endlessly capable. I’ve lost friendships and severed familial relationships. I’ve had to distance myself to maintain sanity. I’ve had to mourn versions of myself built entirely around being helpful to others.
Over the past two years, that reckoning has become even clearer. I spent a significant portion of my life chasing goals that were expected of me: academic success, creative milestones, personal growth, and professional development. But when I finally sat still long enough to ask myself what I wanted, I was met with silence—just a fog of maybes, and I don’t know.
Sometimes, I wonder if my competence and high capability have made it harder for others to see that I’m still just someone trying to figure it all out. That I still need guidance, space, and care. That I’m not always okay just because I’ve made it look that way.
In trying to be everything for everyone, I lost sight of how to be someone for myself.
The Pressure of High Expectations
No one prepares you for the shadow side of being highly competent. People praise, reward, or even envy it, but they rarely discuss how it can silently evolve into something darker. It isn’t always the blessing it seems. At first, it feels like a gift, but then it becomes a haunting curse lurking in the shadows of your mind, not loud or obvious, but always there, whispering that whatever you do still isn’t enough.
As an adult, I know I’m capable. I’ve done more than anyone ever expected from someone like me, a first-gen college student, a child of deaf adults, someone who’s been figuring it all out in real time. Statistically speaking, I shouldn’t be where I am now. I was a star student in high school, an award winner, and a scholarship recipient. I received a full ride (shoutout to FAFSA), earned my degree, moved across the country alone, and built an independent life without relying too heavily or burdening others.
From the outside, I look put together. Stable. Ambitious. Impressive.
I needed to believe that, too.
Here’s a truth I’ll never say out loud: despite my “successes,” my relentless commitment, and how much I’ve done, I still feel behind. Like I’m late to something undefined, like I’m competing with an invisible version of myself who’s always one step ahead. Graduation didn’t mark the end of the pressure; it just moved the goalpost. Now it’s “Well, you still need a job.” “What’s next?” “What are you doing with your life?”
Even after detaching myself from other people’s expectations, I still wrestle with my own. I rarely pause to look around or acknowledge what I’ve built. This garden of accomplishments I’ve spent my life tending. I never stop to smell the flowers; I just see the weeds and overgrown grass. I think, “What's so special about what you’ve done? Thousands of others have done more, better. You should be doing more.” There’s always another row to plant, another plant to prune, another benchmark to reach.
I keep chasing a moving finish line.
That’s the cruel irony of being known as “the capable one.” Competence becomes a double-edged sword. Once people grow used to you exceeding expectations, anything less than your usual behavior suddenly feels like less, not just to them but also to you. The bar keeps rising, so do the stakes, and suddenly, without you realizing it, you’ve fallen into the trap.
In my attempts to do it all, I internalized the belief that my worth was rooted in my utility. To be loved or respected, I had to be productive and say yes even when I wanted to say no. I convinced myself that being capable meant making few mistakes, never letting anyone down, and that “doing it all” was the only way to prove I deserved the space I took up.
A specific kind of exhaustion comes from being the reliable one, the go-to person, the jack-of-all-trades. You become the bridge, the fixer, the one who always shows up. The one who always delivers. The one who always says, “I’ve got it,” until one day you don’t. My entire world fractured that day, and I’m still picking up the pieces.
This pattern has followed me through every stage of my life, from school to work and creative projects. I take pride in being dependable, but it’s also an isolating role.
Underneath all the capability and reliability is the aching question: If I stop doing everything…will people see me?
How I’m Feeling Lately
It’s aggravating and deeply frustrating to feel like you're built to excel but have no idea where to go next. Even worse is the guilt of turning down opportunities others might dream of, because you know they’re not the right fit for you. But what might be the most painful thing of them all? Finally figuring out what you want, only to realize the key to entry is being held out of reach.
The internalized voice that once fueled my drive is now my harshest critic, screaming at me. “You’re the competent one, the achiever, the one who's supposed to make it happen.” When I fall short of the goals I’ve set for myself, it doesn’t just sting; it feels like failure at a cellular level.
It’s officially been a year since I graduated, and the feelings of inadequacy have reached an unprecedented high. Watching the fresh wave of grads on Instagram, caps in the air, shiny degree titles in their bios, feels like a knife in my chest. My eye twitches a little when I log onto LinkedIn and see someone post a “I’m so honored to say that I’ll be starting at [Company] as a [job position].” Repeatedly, I smile and support…and then quietly spiral.
The job market has been whooping my ass.
Despite my job experience, portfolio, and what I thought was an impressive resume, I’m somehow underqualified for most entry-level listings. Still, I throw my hat in the ring, hoping that this time, maybe, my application survives the ATS reaping. Again and again, I try. I’ve probably submitted over 100 applications by now, only to be ghosted by 80%, formally rejected by 19%, and, if the stars align, interviewed by the elusive 1%.
One interview went so well, I was sure an offer was coming. I left energized, hopeful, and confident that I was finally stepping into my “big girl” job. A week later, I opened my inbox to a familiar, soul-crushing taunt: “After careful consideration, we’ve decided to move forward with another candidate for this role.”
Insert raging scream here.
Trying to salvage some self-dignity (and sanity), I emailed my interviewer for feedback. They replied with glowing words about my work, energy, and potential. But still, no offer. Why? Because I was overqualified and hiring me would have “kept you stuck in place.”
What. The. Fuck.
Sobs in Silence
While I appreciated their kind words and constructive criticism, I never anticipated that being “too good” for a job would be my barrier to getting one. I thought being a graphic designer would offer me more job security than being a “starving artist.” Yet, here I am, definitely starving, only sort of an artist.
These past few months have brought to the surface feelings I’ve tried to outrun. Self-blame, frustration, anger, shame, and resentment all buzz in my head like static, loud enough to make me feel physically sick. I feel like I’ve let myself down. Like all the striving, all the proving, and all the planning still weren’t enough.
Diagnosing the Feelings
For most of my life, people have called me a “perfectionist.” For a while, I wore that title like a badge of honor. I mean, what’s so wrong about wanting to do things well? But when I looked up the definition, “a person who refuses to accept any standard short of perfection.” I realized how grim that description sounded. Upon closer examination, perfectionism is associated with unrealistically high standards, self-criticism, a fear of failure, a constant need for approval, and rigid all-or-nothing thinking. Yikes, tough lineup, but that didn’t feel like me.
Yes, I can be harsh on myself, but I don’t impose those standards on others. I’ve failed enough to know it’s part of the process. I strive for excellence, but I also know how to laugh at myself when things go awry. So, if I’m not a perfectionist…what am I?
Naturally, I went digging.
I turned to another term echoing in my mind: impostor syndrome. I consumed TED Talks, psychology blogs, and heart-to-heart conversations with close friends. The definition that stuck with me the most is that impostor syndrome is a persistent belief that you’re not as competent as people think, paired with the fear of being exposed as a fraud. It appears as self-sabotage, downplaying success, and attributing wins to luck.
Okay…now we’re getting warmer, but not quite there yet.
I then found an article from VeryWell Mind that categorized impostor syndrome into five types:
The Perfectionist (already ruled out)
The Expert (who doesn’t feel knowledgeable enough)
The Natural Genius (who equates struggle with failure)
The Soloist (who views asking for help as a weakness)
The Superperson (who ties worth to how hard they work)
The last one made my stomach clench, but after taking the assessment and reflecting, I realized that it still wasn’t it. I wasn’t sensitive to feedback, didn’t think I was faking anything, and didn’t chalk my wins up to luck. I like being good at what I do...I just don’t know how to feel good about it.
Like Goldilocks and her porridge, I was determined to find a title that was “just right”
I even considered burnout, something I’ve certainly experienced before, but mine felt different. Burnout never stopped me; if anything, it pushed me to go harder. I’d tell myself, “Sure, I’m exhausted, but if I keep going, I’ll get there and feel better.” It never made me feel better, but I continued, until recently. Now that old inner voice that whispered, just one more task, one more goal, then you can rest, isn’t whispering anymore. It’s hollow, tired, and frustrated.
I began to wonder if something was wrong with me. Was I just an overambitious, greedy goblin who wanted too much and couldn’t be satisfied with anything? I’d been trying to diagnose my self-imposed neurosis like it was the flu or a virus in a computer system.
And then, at 1 a.m., while doomscrolling social media and halfheartedly searching for a meditation video to calm my buzzing brain, I stumbled across a video by Chris Williamson titled "The Curse of Competence."
“The Curse of Competence… If you are good at things and have high standards, you assume that you should always do well. Which means that success isn’t a form of celebration, but it’s the minimum level of reasonable performance. Anything less than victory would be a failure, and victory itself becomes nothing more than acceptable. Congratulations. You might be very successful, you also might be miserable.”
Oh. Shit. I think I found my diagnosis.
Suddenly, everything I had been feeling—resentment, exhaustion, restlessness, and the ache of unfulfillment, despite trying my absolute hardest—had a name: The Curse of Competence, and it was delivered to me via a YouTube short, like a divine algorithmic intervention.
Finding this was both terrifying and reassuring. It was scary because it confirmed that there was something seriously wrong with me and that I was living in an endless cycle, but it was relieving because at least I wasn’t alone. Somewhere out there, people like me were unraveling their own invisible cages of capability.
I don't feel behind in life because I compare myself to others' success. I feel behind because I expect more from myself—always more. Good is expected, great is the baseline; anything less is failure, and success doesn’t bring joy - it feels like the bare minimum of compliance. It’s like I’m trapped in a video game, trying to level up after every challenge, but the game and its challenges never end, and I’m always fighting for the next step.
Celebrating myself feels awkward, like wearing shoes that don’t fit. I know I’m smart, so, of course, I was expected to get good grades, do well in school, and eventually attend college. I know I’m creative, so naturally, I should have been artistic and able to learn any new skill. I’m a leader, so I should be well-organized and figure things out, because people depend on me. I know I’m capable and qualified, so I should have already “made it.” By now, I should be a fully functioning adult with a full-time job, benefits, and a 5-year plan to climb the corporate ladder.
This persistent voice, which endlessly follows and nags me, makes it nearly impossible to celebrate my wins or even rest. It doesn’t offer compassion, just critique: more goals, more pressure, more guilt.
I started reading more about this “curse.” What stood out was how competent people are rewarded with more responsibility, not because they want it, but because they are capable of handling it. An example of this I found from the Michigan Bar Journal explains it best, “The cliché example would be asking a lawyer to fix the fax machine, but a more common trap seems to befall those with a talent for public speaking: ‘Hey we loved your presentation so much today that we’d like you to speak about (something tangentially related) … are you available to come out in (a laughably short timeframe)?’ ”
Yep, that sounds familiar. Because you’re capable, you’re expected to be fully on at all times. Consistently delivering, always saying yes, and when you inevitably falter or say no (because you’re not a robot), people don’t always understand because you’ve done it before and made it look effortless.
The curse of competence isn’t about faking it; that's impostor syndrome. It’s an invisible weight you carry for being so good at what you do that people forget you’re just human, and eventually you forget too.
Navigating the Curse
I don’t want to feel this way.
While watching Chris Williamson’s video, he says, “You don't get to live the comfortable life with recognition and progress AND ALSO switch off from that…whenever you want.”
Okay, true, but rude. You didn’t have to call me out like that.
More recently, I’ve been working on deconstructing these false narratives I’ve told myself for so long. I’m learning (slowly and painfully) that being competent doesn’t have to mean being a hyper-productive machine 24/7. I’m trying to unlearn the belief that my value is tied to the praise I earn, lists I tick off, or the goals I achieve. I’m teaching myself that my true worth comes from my fierce fearlessness and courage to keep showing up, even when I’m exhausted, unsure, or swimming neck-deep in the sea of what now.
Instead of asking myself, “How can I do more?” I’m slowly pivoting my mindset to “How can I feel more whole?”
I’m making an effort, or at least trying, to release the need to prove myself constantly through productivity. I’ve started asking myself: What would I choose if I didn’t feel obligated to succeed? What would I create if no one were watching?
Let me tell you, it's hard…like really fucking hard!
Sometimes, I still say yes to projects just to quiet the voice that tells me I need to be “doing something.” Sometimes I still agree to things I don’t want to do out of fear of being seen as lazy, ungrateful, or not pulling my weight.
But I’m learning.
I'm learning that rest is not laziness, mediocrity is not failure, and just because I’m good at something doesn’t mean I have to do it. Saying no doesn’t make me less ambitious. It makes me honest.
Somewhere in this muddled and uncomfortable process of unlearning, I’ve started to glimpse something more subtle and sincere. Beneath the creative chaos and self-imposed pressure, I'm trying to uncover my actual purpose. It’s not clear, but it feels more mine.
One thing that’s helped is keeping a list of “small wins” in my journal. I add to it throughout the year, such as achieving a gym goal, becoming more comfortable in front of the camera, and writing another blog post. These entries have become a gentle reminder that I have accomplished a great deal, that I should celebrate the little moments as much as the bigger ones, and that not all progress has to be loud. Quiet growth counts, too.
If you’ve made it this far and this resonates with you, here are a few other things I’ve been learning while trying to get a grip on this so-called curse:
Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should. You’re allowed to turn down opportunities that don’t align with your values, goals, or energy (even if you’d be great at them).
Identify what energizes you. Reflect on what brings you joy, not just what you’re good at. Competence without passion is a fast track to burnout.
Set boundaries (even with yourself). The hardest person to say “no” to is often the version of you who always wants to exceed expectations. Allow yourself to rest, unplug, and be a little more at ease sometimes.
Ask for support, especially when it’s scary. You’re not meant to carry everything alone. The more you open up about your experience, the more likely others are to understand, connect, and possibly even relate. It’s part of the healing process.
Final Thoughts
I don’t have all the answers and probably never will.
But here is what I do know:
I am more than my productivity.
I am allowed to want things just because they bring me joy.
And I don’t have to earn my place in every room by overachieving my way through the door.
Being competent isn’t always a curse; it can be a gift. It opens doors, builds trust, and demonstrates to people that they can count on you. But like all gifts, it comes with responsibility: to protect your boundaries, energy, time, and sense of self. You’ll disappoint others by choosing yourself sometimes, and that's okay. You’re not supposed to be everything for everyone.
Right now, my bank account is still crying, I’m still (technically) jobless, and I’m surviving off of delusion and silly little dopamine treats. But I’m also profoundly grateful for this beautifully weird life I get to live despite all this uncertainty.
If you’ve ever felt crushed under the weight of your ability, know that you’re not broken or alone. You deserve fulfillment, and you’re not here to juggle a million tasks at once; you’re here to live, feel, mess up, try again, and grow.
(Yes, Shelby, I’m talking to you.)
Till next time,
Your local Creative Chaos Coordinator 💌
– now accepting iced lattes, freelance gigs, and inner peace.
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