“You’re So Driven” – The Backhanded Compliment That Almost Broke Me

The Compliment That Isn’t Always One

Before I had the business—when it was still just an idea—people would admire my ambition. My focus. The way I could articulate every detail of the plan like I’d already lived it.

Then, once I was running it, the praise shifted to my products, my dedication, my ability to do so much with so little. “You’re amazing,” they’d say. “You work so hard,” as if that was the highest thing I could be.

But when I closed it, the compliments turned into expectations. “We know you’ll start another one.” “You’re made for this.” “You’ll be back.”

And that’s the part that hurts most—because the truth is, I don’t know if I will. And more than that, I want to feel okay if I don’t.

I want to be seen as someone who can rest. Who gets to lie in. Who doesn’t have to turn every spark into a project, every passion into a business, every hobby into something “productive.” Because while the praise is lovely, it often feels like I’m being admired for never stopping. And honestly… I’d really like to stop sometimes.

2. The Pattern You Didn’t Notice At First

I didn’t really have to face it until recently, but looking back, I can see how deeply this has shaped my life. I’ve always been the “hard worker.” The one who gets things done. And I’ve always let other people’s comments steer me—sometimes without even realising it.

Especially when they come with assumptions.

Say you tell someone you go to the gym. Suddenly, they assume you eat a certain way, train a certain intensity, live a certain lifestyle. And instead of correcting that, I catch myself thinking, Well, I have to live up to that now… or I’m not doing it right.

And that’s where it creeps in—that quiet feeling that you’re only valid if you match the version of you that lives in other people’s heads.

Work ethic. Income. Fitness. Diet. How “productive” your days off are. How social you are. It all becomes a scoreboard. And no one asked you to play—but now you’re running to keep up with standards you didn’t even set.

What Burnout Really Looked Like

When I think about burnout, I always come back to one chapter of my life. It’s the one people seem most impressed by.

I’d just landed my first head chef job. It was also the first time I’d properly moved out after university—living fully independently, trying to prove I could handle it all.

Work was already taking everything I had. I gave 100%, every day.

Then I joined an MMA gym. It started with one class… and then I added kickboxing, jiu-jitsu, and Olympic-style weightlifting. I became a member at another gym too—doing daily cardio sessions between everything else. Soon I was running events at work, going for long runs with my MMA trainer before two-hour classes, and still trying to keep up appearances as if I was fine.

And with every new thing I added, people were more impressed. Not just impressed—jealous. And I hate to admit this now, but there was a part of me that liked that. That sense of superiority. Like I was achieving something others couldn’t.

But here’s the truth: I wasn’t stronger. I was breaking. Slowly, quietly, and completely.

Because burnout doesn’t always look like total collapse. Sometimes it looks like high achievement. Like you're thriving on the outside—but inside, you're eroding, little by little.

It shows up as fatigue that never really lifts. A quiet joylessness in things you used to love. Low-level resentment at everything and everyone. And guilt—deep guilt—for not being able to keep up with the version of yourself people admired so much.

The Problem With Praise

We’re all guilty of it. We see the surface, not what’s underneath.

Someone looks like they’re smashing it—so we applaud. We don’t pause to ask what it’s costing them to keep showing up like that.

And that’s one of the hardest parts: praise can feel like a trap. Because as much as people admire you for how much you do, they can just as easily swap that praise for concern when you stop.

“You used to be so sporty.” “You were the life of the party.” “You were always so driven.”

We celebrate someone when they lose weight, then whisper in worry when they put it back on. We admire someone for working 70-hour weeks, and then look surprised when they burn out. We say “You’re amazing!” when someone is drowning—because we don’t know how to say, “Are you okay?”

We’ve learned to reward survival. To romanticise the grind. To hold people up as inspirational for enduring things they should never have had to endure in the first place.

But admiration without awareness isn’t harmless. It reinforces the idea that you're only as valuable as your output. That stopping is failure. That softness is weakness. That rest is regression.

And when those ideas settle in, they’re hard to shake.

Reframing Success + Asking Hard Questions

Eventually, I started asking myself some hard questions.

Why do I need to be the one who suffers? Why can’t I be more like the people who praise me—taking days off, eating cake, letting themselves rest?

When someone says, “I wish I could be more like you,” I’ve started saying, No, you don’t. I wish I could be more like you.

A friend recently asked me something that stopped me in my tracks: Are you doing what makes you happy? Not Are you succeeding? Not Are you making people proud? Just—Are you happy?

And the thing is—this friend isn’t a business owner. He doesn’t work 60-hour weeks. In fact, he doesn’t even like his job. But his life outside of work? It’s full. Rich. His hobbies bring him joy, and he’s taken them to the next level—not for success, but for pleasure.

And that really shifted something in me. Why do we place so much value on hard work? Why do we celebrate endurance more than enjoyment?

Shouldn’t success be about fulfilment? Shouldn’t our admiration go to the people who live well—not just those who push through pain?

When we praise people for “getting through” impossible situations, are we just normalising the idea that those conditions are acceptable? Shouldn’t we be questioning why support isn’t better, why people are struggling in the first place?

It makes me think of those big fundraising campaigns—Children in Need, Comic Relief. Why do we rely on donations to support people with illness or poverty or disability? Why is care something that has to be earned through pity or entertainment?

More and more, I’ve been asking myself:

• What am I without all the output?

• Who benefits from my exhaustion?

• And is admiration really worth sacrificing my health?

The Role of the Right People

It’s not always easy to tell what someone really means when they praise you.

Sometimes, people admire you from a place of resentment—seeing your drive and holding it against themselves. Sometimes, they mean well but carry a quiet weight, feeling inadequate for not doing what you're doing, forgetting that they don’t have to.

Other times, the praise is fixated on the past or projected onto the future. “You ran a business in your twenties—that’s incredible.” “You’ll start something new again, I know it.” “You’ve always been so ambitious.”

And while those words sound kind, they’re not really about you, here and now. They’re about who you were. Or who they want you to become again.

But then there are the people who really see you. The ones who aren’t clinging to what you’ve done—or pushing you toward what you might do. They see the person in front of them.

They say things like: “You’re such a creative thinker.” “You make people feel at ease.” “You’re just a great human being.”

Not because you did something. Not because you’re achieving. Just… because you are.

And those are the voices that help you heal. The ones that remind you that your worth was never meant to be conditional

The Reflection: It’s No One’s Fault But Mine

The hardest and most freeing realisation? It’s on me.

As an adult, I have to take responsibility for how I interpret what people say. Yes, praise can feel heavy. Yes, it can come with conditions. But that doesn’t mean I have to carry those conditions with me.

No one compliments you with the intent to hurt. Most people are just trying to be kind—or to encourage you in the only way they know how. It’s not their words that damage me. It’s how I’ve used their words against myself.

If someone says I’m impressive, I’m the one who decides whether to see that as pressure or appreciation. If someone says I’m destined to do big things again, I get to choose whether I believe that’s an expectation—or just a belief in my potential.

When you become an adult, you also become the editor of your own narrative. And if I’ve turned compliments into metrics, if I’ve chased admiration at the cost of joy—that’s on me.

But that also means I can stop.

I can step back. I can say no. I can remind myself and others that overworking isn’t glamorous. That burnout shouldn’t be normal. That rest isn’t weakness—it’s wisdom.

And maybe, if I start living like that, it gives other people permission to do the same.