The Competent Woman
How competence became my camouflage and nearly cost me everything.
Competence Can Become Camouflage: The Hidden Cost of Being the Woman Everyone Counts On
For most of my life, I have seen myself as competent, confident, and capable. I served in the U.S. Army, completed difficult missions, endured hardship, and accomplished things many people never imagined attempting. I learned how to work hard, solve problems, and keep moving when life became difficult.
I became an expert at organizing the chaos.
Competence Can Become Camouflage
What I did not always recognize was that competence can become camouflage. The more capable I appeared, the less likely anyone was to ask whether I was okay or whether I needed support. Many people saw my strength, but they did not always see the burden behind it.
Supporting others is not simply something I do. It is part of who I choose to be because it feeds my soul. Still, I eventually had to face a difficult truth: serving others and people-pleasing are not the same thing.
Service comes from purpose. People-pleasing often comes from fear.
One fills you. The other drains you.
That realization required honest reflection. I had intentionally built a life where showing up became part of my identity. I even left a higher-paying position in Washington, D.C., to accept a local government job that paid approximately $30,000 less because being closer to home mattered more to me than the additional salary.
Mom Would Be There
I wanted to give my sons a joyful childhood filled with traditions, encouragement, stability, and memories they could carry throughout their lives. Over time, they came to understand something simple and certain:
Mom would be there.
My oldest son volunteered me to be room mom without realizing he had signed me up for a nine-month commitment. Another son volunteered me to fry turkeys for his class Thanksgiving celebration without realizing one turkey would not be enough. My youngest son volunteered me to help organize and run his school's end-of-year festival, which became nearly two months of planning and preparation.
They never questioned whether Mom would show up. They simply knew I would.
Sometimes I arrived at their events still wearing a suit because I had come directly from the office. At football games, I wore the matching jersey with my son's name and number, rang the cowbell, waved the pom-pom, and was usually the loudest mother in the stands.
My sons would roll their eyes and say everyone knew I was there because they could hear me. But I knew there was affection underneath the complaint, especially because their friends noticed it too.
The Brysons Showed Up
When they were very little boys, our Christmas goodie tradition began. We spent several days making cookies and candies for teachers, coaches, neighbors, the mail carrier, and sanitation workers. Over time, the tradition expanded as we added teammates and friends.
We created more Christmas goodies, more memories, and more expectations. We embraced the reputation we earned:
The Brysons showed up.
We remembered people. We made them feel included. We brought them Christmas joy.
That reputation was built from love, sincerity, and purpose. It also became another standard I felt responsible for maintaining, even after my life changed. The more consistently I delivered, the more others expected me to continue delivering at that same level.
What the Superwoman Can Look Like
This is what the superwoman can look like.
She works a demanding full-time job, raises children, manages a household, volunteers, serves her community, solves problems, remembers the details, and keeps moving. From the outside, she looks organized, strong, and completely in control.
Behind closed doors, she may be anxious, exhausted, worried, and quietly crumbling.
Ironically, my overachievement is a running joke in my family. I completed my master's degree with a 4.0 GPA while attending school full-time, working 70-hour weeks, and raising three sons. I used that accomplishment to reinforce the lessons I wanted to instill: discipline, effort, sacrifice, and follow-through produce results and help us achieve our goals.
My sons heard that speech often enough that they still mimic it whenever I tell them to "just do it." They may joke about it, but the lesson was real.
What I did not recognize was that I had also normalized carrying too much.
My overachievement became both my strength and my blind spot.
That Blind Spot Became a Serious Health Crisis
Eventually, that blind spot became a serious health crisis. The weight of everything I was carrying brought me down twice in my adult life, each time requiring months of recovery.
The first time happened while I was working in law enforcement. Life was coming at me from every direction.
Within an eight-month period, my mother-in-law died, my stepfather died by suicide, and my mother died from a stroke. I was going through a divorce, leadership changes at work had dramatically increased my workload and responsibilities, and my oldest son, a Marine, was stationed overseas and participating in deployments whose locations he was not permitted to disclose.
Considering everything that was happening, I told myself anyone would have struggled under those circumstances. I certainly did not advertise my health crisis or the months I spent recovering, so many people had no idea I had crumbled under the weight of it all.
Of course, once I recovered, I got back up and returned to being the superwoman who handled everything. From the outside, it appeared as though nothing had happened.
But something had.
A decade later, when it happened again, my children were older and witnessed my health crisis firsthand. My middle son rushed me to the emergency room more than once, afraid I was having a heart attack.
Different job. Different season. Same result.
This time, I could not hide it from my children. I felt ashamed that my choices had placed that worry and fear in their hearts.
They witnessed the true cost of the standard I had modeled for years: overachievement without limits.
It taught all of us that carrying too much for too long can come at a price—one that is almost too high to pay.
I realized that for years, I had taught my sons that discipline, sacrifice, and follow-through led to accomplishment. That was true.
But now I had to teach them—and myself—that strength also requires limits.
My body had told me twice what I had refused to admit:
My energy was finite.
So were my time, patience, attention, and emotional capacity.
Competent Women Are Often the Last People Anyone Thinks to Check On
Competent women are often the last people anyone thinks to check on. We become so effective at managing crises, carrying the load, and reassuring everyone else that our performance hides our distress.
You may already know the answer to whether you're one of us:
You're the one people call.
The one who calms the room.
The one who remembers the details.
The one who figures out what happens next.
Competence was never about the title or the office. It was about being the person everyone could count on to hold the line.
That's exactly why it is so easy to disappear underneath it.
The woman who looks like she has everything under control does not need one more compliment about how strong she is.
She needs someone to ask:
"Where can I help?"
And she needs to ask herself the harder question:
"What am I still carrying that isn't mine anymore?"
Not a Warning, But a Mirror
I think about my middle son in that emergency room, checking my pulse instead of being at work.
That is the image I hold onto now—not as a warning, but as a mirror.
My sons never needed a superwoman.
They needed their mother, upright and well enough to be there for the ordinary days too.
If I still wear the jersey and ring the cowbell, it is not because I have to prove anything.
It is because I choose to.
There is a difference.
Learning that difference was the whole point.
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