There’s a common cultural thread that frames stress as the villain in the modern story of our lives. The thing we need to escape. The toxin we need to flush. The weight we need to unload. But that framing does more harm than good. Because the truth is – stress isn’t going anywhere. It’s stitched into our biology. It shows up at every transition point, in every ambition, around every change. And yet, it’s not inherently bad. In fact, some of it is essential. Some of it is even good.
Think about acute stress – that spike of energy before a presentation, that thump in your chest before making a tough decision, that heightened sense of awareness when you’re navigating unfamiliar ground. Acute stress is the body’s way of saying, “This matters.” It helps us focus. It sharpens memory, reaction time, performance. It prepares us to rise to a challenge. There’s a reason elite athletes, artists, and emergency responders don’t try to eliminate stress – they learn to harness it. They learn to interpret that signal not as danger, but as presence.
But when stress becomes chronic – when there’s no off switch, no pause, no recovery – that same signal begins to work against us. Chronic stress isn’t about a moment, it’s about a pattern. It creeps in quietly, disguising itself as “just a busy season,” “just a tough quarter,” “just the cost of ambition.” Left unmanaged, it seeps into our systems – mental, emotional, physical – and slowly corrodes our capacity to respond with clarity or care. The signal that once helped us tune in starts to drown everything out.
The key isn’t to aim for a stress-free life. That’s not just unrealistic – it’s unhelpful. The goal is to understand what kind of stress we’re in, and whether we’ve built ourselves enough space to metabolize it.
That space – literal and emotional – is the difference between being reactive and being responsive. And often, it’s not a sabbatical or a spa retreat. It’s the micro-moments. A breath before a reply. A five-minute walk between meetings. A calendar that actually has boundaries, not just boxes. It’s the discipline of checking in with yourself: What am I holding? What’s mine to solve? What’s just noise?
This is not soft work. It’s strategic. It’s leadership. It’s also a deeply personal practice – building the muscle to pause, to listen, to decide rather than default. For many of us, especially those in roles of responsibility, service, or creation, it can feel indulgent to step back. But the more we lead, the more we owe it to those around us to be discerning with our energy. Because people don’t just respond to what we say – they absorb what we carry.
This is where frameworks can help – not to complicate things, but to offer a lens. The Yerkes-Dodson Law, for example, maps performance against arousal (or stress) and shows how there’s a peak zone where stress actually enhances our output – before tipping over into overload. Knowing where you are on that curve can help you act intentionally instead of react instinctively.
We can also borrow from the concept of recovery cycles in high-performance environments. Elite performers, whether Olympic athletes or Navy SEALs, don’t train non-stop. They recover as hard as they push. The rest isn’t the reward for performance. It’s part of the performance. The same applies to knowledge work, caregiving, creative labour, and leadership. If you’re always “on,” you’re eventually going to short-circuit.
Stress, in its best form, is a signal that something is important. But when you don’t create the space to return to calm, your body starts to treat everything as urgent. That’s when burnout isn’t just possible – it’s predictable.
What’s sobering is that most people don’t realize they’re chronically stressed until something breaks. A relationship. A body part. A sense of joy. That’s why this conversation matters now – before it does.
Learning to manage stress isn’t just about self-care – it’s about self-leadership. It’s the practice of noticing what kind of signal you’re receiving and how you want to respond to it. It’s about not mistaking motion for progress. Not mistaking exhaustion for effectiveness. Not mistaking chaos for growth.
Stress is going to show up. That’s not the issue. The issue is whether we’ve taught ourselves to hear it as a warning or to use it as a guide.
So maybe the question is not, “How do I eliminate stress?”
Maybe the better question is, “What is my stress trying to tell me?”
And do I have the space – however small – to actually listen?