[Photo by Umair Dingmar on Unsplash]
Trying Too Hard
I’ve never been afraid of working hard to be seen. As the youngest and only girl in my family, I grew up learning to raise my voice if I wanted to be taken seriously. One of my earliest memories is my brother blurting out, “I hate your guts,” when I was just three years old. Without hesitation, I shot back, “But you don’t even know my guts.” That moment became my first lesson in resilience — standing up for myself, even before I understood what resilience meant.
Even then, I wanted to be understood. That sense of needing to prove myself carried into school, where stereotypes only grew louder. I was labeled the “dumb blonde” before I had a chance to show what I could do, and quietly underestimated by adults who didn’t look past appearances. By second grade, I struggled with reading and was retained to repeat the year. At the time, it felt like proof I wasn’t smart enough — but in hindsight, it was an early lesson in how systems can mislabel potential.
Years later, when teachers suggested my daughter might need the same, I knew better. Instead of accepting the label, I pushed for solutions that highlighted her strengths. That experience taught me how to advocate, to reframe struggle as growth, and to make sure no one is underestimated the way I once was.
The Words Followed Me
That phrase — trying too hard — didn’t stay in childhood. It echoed back to me at different points in my life: from teachers, from colleagues, from people who didn’t know what else to make of my effort.
About four years ago, a new friend invited me to her regular hot yoga class. Midway through, the teacher called out, “Denisha’s friend, stop trying so hard.”
The words landed heavy — uncomfortably familiar. But this time, instead of letting them define me, I paused. I noticed the feeling, acknowledged it, and kept moving. It was a reminder that I can carry my story without letting it carry me.
The Lesson That Never Goes Away
The truth is, those words have followed me beyond childhood and yoga studios. In college and in the workplace, I heard the same message in different forms. I’ll never forget a coworker once telling me, “You’re making me look bad.” All I was doing was giving my best effort — and I realized not everyone is comfortable with that. But I also realized that’s not my burden to carry.
The irony is that I don’t feel good about myself unless I’m giving my all. I don’t know how to hold back or do something halfway. That’s not perfectionism — it’s presence. It’s caring enough to show up fully.
Even recently, at my son’s football team parent meeting, his coach told us they are teaching the players this lesson in everything they do — not just football. Sitting there, I couldn’t help but think: isn’t that the very lesson I’ve been living my whole life? The same thing I’ve been told was “too much” is exactly what we try to instill in our children as strength, discipline, and resilience.
Owning My Effort
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been told I try too hard. From being the youngest and only girl in my family, to struggling in school, to colleagues who felt threatened by my effort — those words have followed me. Even in yoga, even at work, even as a parent — the message has echoed.
But here’s what I know now: trying too hard is not a weakness. It’s presence. It’s caring. It’s showing up fully when it would be easier to hold back. It’s the same lesson my son’s coach is teaching his team — that effort is vital in everything you do, on and off the field.
So if “trying too hard” means giving my best, advocating for my children, supporting others through their most challenging moments, and pouring my energy into work that is meaningful — then I’ll keep trying too hard. Because to me, that’s not trying at all. That’s simply living with intention.
In the end, I see that my drive to belong has always been about more than fitting in. It’s about owning the effort, resilience, and intention that set me apart.