Choosing Where to Give a F*ck

Recently, I clicked on an article about the biology behind why women going through perimenopause “stop giving a fuck.” The title pulled me in, but as I started to read, I felt myself frown.

No, that’s not it, I thought. It’s not that simple.

People talk about “not giving a fuck” like it’s some kind of radical unburdening—a glorious act of freedom. But that’s never felt true for me. Every time I tried on that all-or-nothing stance, it felt off. Sure, I could tap into my rebel side, mentally holding a picket sign that said, No fucks! But even that made my body feel strange.

On the other side was caring too much, a weight I couldn’t put down. My mind said, I don’t care what people think, but my body whispered something else: You do care. You care deeply. You always have.

It wasn’t that I needed to stop caring. It was that I cared about everything. And that took a toll.

I’m someone who doesn’t drop balls. Who doesn’t implode. I don’t disappear when things get hard. This has been hardwired in me since childhood, and in therapy I realized that falling apart has never been an option. Holding it together became my identity, not just a behavior—a responsibility I never chose, but one that was assumed.

In a recent session, I was doing Internal Family Systems (IFS) work. In it, “the Watcher” showed up. She was ancient. And tired. She had been with me for as long as I could remember. But she was also deeply reluctant to give up her post. She wanted a vacation, but she was terrified of what would happen if she took one.

Her feelings were shaped by two extremes: be vigilant and care about everything, or abandon myself and care about nothing. This false binary felt inevitable. When you care about everything, you overfunction. You get tired, burned out, and resentment builds. A long day at work with emotional clients, and then someone asks for something at home? You lose it. Then you berate yourself for the outburst.

And when that becomes too much, you throw in the towel. You shut down. Feel numb. No fucks left to give. This state terrified me far more than caring about everything, because it meant I couldn’t function. And not functioning was not an option. It was total collapse.

So the Watcher stood guard. But neither of those states felt like me. I’m coming to realize that burnout doesn’t lead to freedom. It leads to falling apart.

Then I realized there was another option. Choice.

Choice isn’t a life hack. It isn’t toxic positivity. It’s a physiological experience that you feel in your body. When we’re stuck in survival, our brains and bodies tell us everything is urgent. But when we feel regulated, the door to choice opens. Realizing we get to decide reduces threat. Restores agency. Makes things feel less urgent. Instead of spiraling into past regrets or future anxieties, it brings us back to the present.

Choice is the middle path between panic and apathy.

So how do we choose?

First, we have to realize that choice exists in the first place. Then, with that awareness, we move forward. Choosing might mean saying yes to one thing while letting other things wait. It might mean you’re happy with yourself while someone else is not. It can be both liberating and unbelievably painful. Because choosing always means letting something go. And that involves grief. Because not everything gets carried anymore.

In this season of my life, I’m realizing my focus is shifting more toward me. Even writing those words brings a pang—of freedom, of selfishness, of self-judgment, of fear. Focusing on my writing, my voice, my creativity, my work feels like time away from everything I’ve poured myself into over the past twenty years. And I have to remind myself it’s not one or the other. Not all me and no one else. It’s moving the needle toward myself while still caring for my family, my clients, my partnerships. Not abandoning them, but no longer organizing my life around everyone else’s needs.

While that sounds like freedom, it also sounds like grief. And the weight of that realization is heavy. Fear of what will happen and what others will think. Guilt over not showing up in the ways I always have. Anger at having to choose and not choosing this sooner. Unfamiliarity. Awkwardness. Not knowing what comes next.

And the truth is this:

This is the first time since I was about twelve that my life feels oriented toward me.

I still care deeply. I still have a lot of fucks left to give.
But now, I’m choosing where to give them.

I don’t need to carry everything anymore just because I always have. I’m learning that responsibility and self-abandonment are not the same thing. And maybe most importantly, these lessons don’t weaken the people around me.

They show them what’s possible.