Stop Bringing Your Whole Self to Work

How mastering the art of transitions can help you do it all without burning out

For years, we’ve been told that we should bring our “whole self” to work.

But let me say something that may feel radical:

The “whole self at work” advice is a trap.

And worse… it often guilts ambitious people into thinking they’re failing.

Because let’s be honest: we all hold many different roles and identities and, often, they’re best kept separate.

The expectation that we bring all of ourselves into everything we do is burning us out.

Let me share a quick story…

Rewind to November 2017. It was a typical day in my NYC life, leading the brand marketing team at a public company and juggling three kids under the age of four.

I wake up at the crack of dawn and get dressed in my couldn’t-afford-it-if-my-life-depended-on-it Rent the Runway dress. After dropping my oldest child at her Upper West Side preschool (the other two at home with my sitter), I sprint to the subway, gulping my ordered-ahead Starbucks Venti Iced Latte, and arrive at my office in the financial district.

At the office, I run back and forth all day from the tiny closet-turned-lactation-room to meetings with engineers, product managers, and marketing and editorial teams, making sure we’re moving the roadmap forward while simultaneously collecting the only source of nourishment for my chubby ginger baby waiting for me at home. I’d finish pumping and go straight into a meeting with our lead male designer, laughing to myself that I was sitting tits out just a few seconds prior and now have to talk seriously about user journey maps.

I leave work at 5:00 p.m. to ensure I make it home for bedtime routine. My husband was once again on a business trip, so it’s on me to keep the three tiny humans alive, clean, fed, and put to sleep. It is now 6:00 p.m., sitter gone, alone with a 4 four-year- old, two-year-old, and five-month-old baby. I glance at the clock and realize I’ve got forty-five minutes before my home turns into a messy Bravo reality TV reunion where all humans involved are screaming, crying, or both (myself included).

Bathtime has begun. My brain is flooding with a list of to-dos from work, groceries that I need to order, wondering when I’m going to drop off my Rent-the-Runway dresses, and then I’m snapped back to the present moment, as my toddler starts shaking their naked butt at me. The bathroom starts to fill with splashes of water, and it’s time to get the kids out of the tub and ready for bed. After jammies, I wipe the sweat from the cleavage of my nursing bra, and I find myself snuggled on a bean bag, reading Goodnight Moon to the six eyes beside me.

I put the two larger and mobile babies in their cribs, sound machine on, lights off, and ventured to my bedroom to rock and nurse the baby to sleep. By now, I’m delirious. I can hear the older ones crying, which sends a feeling of pure adrenaline into my body, yet I must sit and rock and nurse.

Thirty minutes later, it’s finally quiet. I debate putting the sleeping baby in the crib, but he’s giving an almost weighted blanket level of tranquility to my soul, so I remain there and open the notes app on my phone.

You.

Can.

Have.

It.

All.

I type the five words in staccato sentences as if I’m starting a prolific haiku. I stare at the words, wondering where the friction is coming from.

You.

Which you? Is it the high achiever inside of me who doesn’t want to give up her career and leave every meeting ten minutes early to go stick her boob in a plastic funnel to be milked? She’s killing it, finally feeling confident in her skills and abilities to make an impact in the organization. Or is it the party girl and passionate lover of sex who has many other things she’d rather be doing with her boob? Or the mother who just wants to sit and rock the baby all night and forget every corporate and social responsibility given to her?

“You” feels like too many people for three little letters.

Who can have it all?

Which version?

For once, I could clearly see the various characters I was playing throughout my day and realized the more I tried to merge them into a singular human, the more chaos and guilt I felt inside.

You see, we’ve been taught that the goal is to align every part of our lives.

But here’s what I’ve learned with a 20-year career, 3 kids, and a divorce: Alignment isn’t always the answer.

Sometimes, the healthiest thing you can do is compartmentalize.

I’m not the same person when I’m negotiating a business deal as I am when I’m reading bedtime stories to my kids.

The version of me at work doesn’t love missing meetings to drive to karate. The version of me with my family doesn’t care about Slack messages and email notifications.

And neither of those versions of me has a high sex drive (if I’m being honest).

In Toxic Grit, I introduce Character Theory - a framework to help you navigate the different roles you play in your life and how to understand, honor, and separate them.

Each version of you has different needs, goals, and rules.

Trying to live one perfectly aligned life often means merging so many parts of you that don’t align. Instead, honor the role you’re in and learn to transition between them with intention. That’s how you can reclaim energy, joy, and clarity.

Ready to stop feeling like you are doing everything and succeeding at nothing?

It’s all about the ART of transitions.

You likely don’t have the luxury to do less….but you need to transition better. When you’re juggling roles (CEO, mom, partner, caregiver), the exhaustion often comes not from the tasks themselves, but from whiplash between identities. That’s where the ART of transition comes in.

A = Assess

Before you shift gears, take 30 seconds to ask: Who do I need to become next? What energy, mindset, or priorities will this version of me require? Going from boss to bedtime reader requires a different mental state than shifting from solo creative time to socializing. Recognizing the distance between the two roles helps you prepare, rather than abruptly snapping into the next thing and wondering why you feel off or drained.

R = Routine

Now that you know who you need to become, initiate a low-friction ritual to help your brain get there. This could be a walk, a change of clothes, a certain playlist, or even a quick snack or fun drink. The simpler and more consistent, the better. These rituals act like a Pavlovian switch, signaling: “Hey brain, it’s time to shift.”

For me, a Post Malone playlist and iced latte means I’m stepping into CEO mode. A glass of wine, bath, and Frank Ocean = date night energy. When I need to transition to parent mode I jump in the bath (there’s a theme here) and scroll funny cat videos.

Build a few repeatable cues per role you play, and you’ll reduce the mental load of shifting roles.

T = Transition

Last step: Say it out loud. Name the role you’re stepping into. This is the anchoring moment where you move with intention, not default. It could be as simple as, “Time to be mom now,” or “Let’s go, CEO mode activated.” This short phrase helps you let go of what came before, so you’re not half-in one world while pretending to show up in another. This is where character theory becomes embodied. You’re stepping into a new script, and that starts with naming your role.

If you’re exhausted from trying to “balance it all”...

If you’ve been chasing alignment but losing yourself in the process...

Toxic Grit was written for you.

This book will teach you how to:
✔️ Set guilt-free boundaries
✔️ Transition between your roles with clarity and grace
✔️ Let go of “balance” and embrace intentional imbalance

You can preorder the book here.

With you in the messy middle,
Amanda