The Poison of Perpetual Processing.

Nick Smith
Jul 24
4 min read

We're often told to constantly work on ourselves, relentlessly pursuing improvement. But what if the very drive to "fix" everything, even when you're not broken, is precisely what's breaking you?

I’ve lived that brokenness, immersed in this endless 'improvement' age where every quiet moment felt like a moral obligation. I felt I had to dig, process, and dissect everything.

It's exhausting, honestly.

And lately, I’m realizing it’s also… profoundly wrong.

Not entirely, of course. There are distinct parts of me, different voices in the cacophony. One, the part I’ve come to know and trust more and more, is incredibly peaceful, curious, loving, adventurous, and playful. When that part is at the helm, man, I feel Full Throttle. It's like I can do anything, create anything, and serve deeply, powerfully. The world just opens up, a boundless landscape.

But then there's the other part. He's serious and overly responsible. He just wants to understand, to feel safe and protected, and he'll fight hard for that. Even if it causes harm, because his only mission, learned in brutal, early lessons, was simply to survive. He taught me how to walk through fire, and I’m truly grateful for him. His hair trigger, though—something remotely smells like old pain, and he’s online, full force. His mission is to protect, at all costs.

And in those moments, I feel small, insecure, and anxious. Behaviors surface that damage my life, even though his intention is pure. They’re impactful; they can wreck a good thing in a heartbeat.

But here’s the key point: he’s not running all the time. He only shows up when the alarm bells ring.

It's exactly like cold medicine, you know? When you’re in the thick of it—feverish, snotty, body aching—that medicine is a godsend. It alleviates the symptoms, helping you get through. You absolutely lean on it and you take it.

However, imagine taking cold medicine every single day, even when you’re healthy, vibrant, and your system is humming. What would that do? It would cause damage to your liver, kidneys, and your entire system. It's just too much.

And yet, we do this with our personal development. We keep taking the metaphorical cold medicine even when the fever has broken. Even when we're healthy, even when we're at peace, we feel this duty, this almost punishing obligation, to process and to work on ourselves, constantly striving to be a "better man" always, relentlessly. Even in moments of peace.

The etymology here is key: Duty. It comes from the Old French duete, meaning "that which is due or owed"—a sense of obligation, a debt. While responsibility is critical, when it tips into a constant, self-inflicted duty to dissect every feeling, to always be “on” with our self-help tools… it becomes a cage, a self-made prison.

We miss the point, painfully.

My body, your body, our very existence, is designed for fluctuation, for waves. There are moments of intense struggle, yes, and moments of profound, expansive peace. When the waves roll in, when you spiral into a moment, when that old trigger gets activated—hell yes. Lean on every tool you’ve got. Take that metaphorical medicine. Do the work. Alleviate. Prevent. Care for yourself with everything you’ve learned. Be sick. Get well.

And then?

When you’re well, when the sun is shining in your inner world, when the creative, playful part of you is buzzing… you don't keep taking the medicine. You don't stay in the processing lab. Instead, you play. You have fun. You get irresponsible in the best possible way. You grow. You create. You bring something amazing into the world. Those are the times to feel love, to feel peace, and to feel like you can do anything.

If you consume those times with processing the difficult stuff, if you’re constantly analyzing, constantly digging, constantly in a state of self-development duty, you might actually cause damage. You might miss out on the very creation and growth you’re seeking. You might short-circuit the thriving.

I’m recognizing this now, deeply. There are days I feel that pull, that duty, believing I should be working on things and don't have time to play, that I should be overly responsible. But then the quiet voice, the wiser one, gently reminds me: Today, you literally need to do nothing. Today, you need to go do something irresponsible. Something fun. Playful. Something creative or growing.

It’s about titration. That word, from the Latin titulus, meaning a "label" or "inscription," evolved in chemistry to denote the precise measurement of a substance for a desired reaction. It's about finding the right amount, moderation in all things, even our striving, even our personal development.

Your body will always fluctuate, moving through moments of peace and moments of struggle. In the struggle, use the tools. In the peace, live, dance, love, and create.

The down times are as essential as the activated times. They truly are essential.

But I’m learning, painfully, that sometimes the most profound act of self-care is simply to stop. To breathe. To play. To simply exist.

What if your "healing" isn't about constant work, but about knowing when to simply put down the tools and be?

Follow along as I try to learn how to play again.

Ready to build a life that breathes, not just hustles?

Explore our approach at the link in bio.