THE PERFORMANCE HANGOVER

ON APPETITE AND AFTERMATH

The Day After

Nothing went wrong.

The meeting landed. The conversation flowed. The room responded. You said what needed to be said, held the line, stayed present. From the outside, it looked like a good day. Productive. Successful. Exactly the kind of moment capable people are supposed to feel satisfied by.

And yet, the next day feels oddly flat.

Not dramatically. Not catastrophically. Just off. A low-grade irritability. A tiredness that doesn’t quite belong to your body. A sense of withdrawal that is hard to explain without sounding ungrateful. You are not exhausted in the obvious sense. You slept. You rested. Still, something has not quite come back online.

It’s confusing precisely because there is no clear cause. We are so used to tracing discomfort back to failure, conflict, or overload. But this didn’t come from any of those. It arrived after competence. After focus. After being fully there.

So most people simply brush it aside. They assume it will pass. They tell themselves it’s nothing. After all, everything went well.

That is usually where the story stalls. Not because there is no explanation, but because we often don’t have language for what comes after performance. We know how to prepare. We know how to deliver. We are far less articulate about the day that follows.
The performance hangover.

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Why Capable People Don’t See It Coming

Capable people are rarely surprised by pressure. They are used to responsibility, expectation, and complexity. They know how to marshal their attention, organise themselves, and show up when it counts. Difficulty is familiar territory. What catches them off guard is not strain, but timing.

We are taught to expect a cost when something goes badly. After conflict. After overload. After failure. We have language for that. We call it stress. Fatigue. Burnout. What we are far less prepared for is the delayed impact of things going well.

Performance has its own logic. While it is happening, the system narrows. Focus sharpens. Distractions fall away. You regulate yourself without thinking about it. There is clarity, momentum, and a sense of purpose that makes effort feel justified, even energising. In that state, there is no obvious signal to stop.

And because capable people associate depletion with mismanagement, they don’t look for cost after success. They assume that if they handled things well, nothing needs tending to afterwards. Rest becomes optional. Recovery is postponed. Attention moves on to the next thing.

This is why the aftermath feels so disorienting. The body registers a shift before the mind has a story for it. There is a drop in baseline that doesn’t match the narrative of competence and control. No alarm was raised during the performance itself, so the dip that follows, the hangover feeling, seems inexplicable, even inconvenient.

Most people interpret this as personal inconsistency. A mood. A lack of gratitude. Something to push through. They often don’t recognise it as a predictable consequence of sustained presence and self regulation. Not because they are inattentive, but because they have been trained to notice the cost of failure far more than the cost of success.

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The Invisible Labour of Being On

What often goes unnoticed is how much work goes into appearing effortless.

Being on is not just about showing up. It requires continuous adjustment. Attention held in the right place. Emotional tone calibrated to the room. Responses measured. Presence sustained. Even silence chosen deliberately. All of this happens in real time, often without conscious effort, because capable people have learned how to do it well, sometimes almost on autopilot.

This kind of labour rarely announces itself. It doesn’t feel heavy while it’s happening. In fact, it often feels purposeful, even absorbing. There is satisfaction in being useful, in being clear, in being someone others can rely on. The problem is not that this work is unpleasant. The problem is that it is constant and largely unacknowledged, especially by ourselves.

None of this shows up on a calendar. There is no line item for emotional regulation, situational awareness, or sustained presence. And because it doesn’t look like strain, it isn’t counted as expenditure. From the outside, it appears as competence. From the inside, it requires continuous self-management.

This is why people are often surprised by how depleted they feel afterwards. They didn’t overwork in the traditional sense. They didn’t push past obvious limits. They simply stayed constantly available. Attuned. Responsive. For longer than the system can do without consequence.

The more skilled you are, the easier it is to miss this cost. Experience makes the work smoother, but it does not make it free. In fact, mastery often increases the demand, because others expect you to carry more with less visible effort. You become the steady one. The composed one. The person who makes it look easy.

That appearance comes at a price. Not immediately, and not dramatically. But inevitably. And because the labour itself is invisible, the aftermath can feel personal rather than structural. As if something is wrong with you, rather than with the way effort is being counted.

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The High That Keeps You Coming Back

There is another reason the performance hangover is so easy to ignore. Performance does not just demand something of you. It gives something back.

In the moment, there is a particular kind of aliveness. Attention sharpens. Time compresses. You feel useful, needed, in flow. There is feedback, often subtle but unmistakable. People respond. Things move. You matter in a very concrete way. For people who care about quality and contribution, that state can feel deeply satisfying.

That satisfaction is not vanity. It is not ego. It is the nervous system responding to coherence and purpose. Everything lines up for a while, and the experience carries its own momentum. This is why performance can feel energising even when it is demanding. The body gives you what you need while you are in it.

The problem is not the high itself. The problem is the delay.

The uplift arrives first. The price is paid later. By the time the system registers what has been spent, the memory of how good it felt is already doing its work. You remember the clarity. The engagement. The sense of being fully yourself in motion. And so you agree again. You step in again. You stay available again.

Not because you are unaware of the aftermath. But because it is abstract in comparison. The high is immediate. The depletion is deferred. If the order were reversed, the pattern would be easy to break. It never is.

Over time, this creates a strange loop. You may not even enjoy the comedown, but you recognise the lead up. You trust it. You know how to function there. The system learns that the way back to feeling alive runs through performance, even when it quietly erodes your baseline.

This is why telling people to slow down rarely works. It misunderstands what is being reinforced. What draws people back is not pressure or expectation. It is the memory of alignment. Of being switched on in a way that feels meaningful. Letting go of that is harder than admitting exhaustion.

The performance hangover is not just about depletion. It is about appetite. And about what happens when appetite goes unanswered, except by repeating the very pattern that created the aftermath in the first place.

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When You Don’t Know When to Slow Down or Stop

Most capable people are very good at starting. They know how to step in, take responsibility, and rise to what is needed. What they are far less practiced at is ending. Not ending projects or roles, but ending states. Knowing when to step out of performance before the system forces a correction.

Part of the difficulty is that performance does not come with a natural stopping point. There is always another meeting, another request, another moment where it would be useful to stay available a little longer. And because being on is rewarded, recognised, and often relied upon, there is no obvious signal that says enough. The system simply stays engaged.

For people who take pride in their reliability, slowing down can feel like withdrawal. Stopping can feel like failure. Not because it is, but because identity has become entangled with availability. Being the one who shows up, who holds the space, who keeps things moving becomes part of how value is measured, internally as much as externally.

This is where choice quietly erodes. Not in dramatic ways, but through small, repeated agreements. Just one more conversation. One more stretch of focus. One more instance of staying present past the point where presence is still sustainable. None of these moments feel significant on their own. Together, they create a pattern that is hard to interrupt.

What makes this especially difficult is that slowing down does not offer the same immediate reward as performance. There is no surge of aliveness, no feedback loop that says this was the right call. Often there is only a faint discomfort, a sense of absence where momentum used to be. For people accustomed to intensity and engagement, that can feel unsettling enough to avoid.

So the cycle continues. Not because people are reckless, but because they have not learned to recognise enough as a meaningful endpoint. Without that recognition, stopping feels arbitrary, even indulgent. And starting again feels familiar, purposeful, and justified.

Regaining choice does not mean rejecting performance. It means learning to distinguish between appetite and obligation. Between what energises in the moment and what can be sustained over time. That distinction is subtle. It does not announce itself. But without it, slowing down remains something that happens only after the price has already been paid.

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The Question of Enough

At some point, the issue is no longer whether you are capable of more. It is whether more is still the right measure.

For people accustomed to performance, the idea of enough can feel strangely elusive. Not because they are insatiable, but because they are responsive. They notice what is needed. They sense where they can contribute. And so the threshold keeps shifting. Enough becomes flexible. Provisional. Something to be reassessed later, usually after the next demand has been met.

The difficulty is that performance does not answer the question of enough on its own. It answers the question of what is possible. And possibility, once activated, has a tendency to expand. There is always room for one more effort, one more stretch of attention, one more moment of being useful. Without a counterweight, appetite tends to take over.

This is where the hangover begins to change character. It is no longer just a delayed reaction to intensity. It becomes a signal that something has been taken without being consciously agreed to. Not by others, necessarily, but by the pattern itself. You did not decide to exceed your limits. You simply never paused long enough to define them.

Enough is not a number. It is not a rule. It is a recognition. It emerges when you notice the difference between engagement that feels alive and engagement that feels obligatory. Between presence that nourishes and presence that depletes. That distinction is subtle, and it rarely announces itself loudly. It tends to appear at the edges, in the body, in mood, in a faint resistance that is easy to override if you are used to pushing through.

Learning to recognise enough is not about restraint for its own sake. It is about restoring authorship. When enough is named, choice returns. Performance becomes something you enter deliberately, not something you remain in by default. And the aftermath, when it comes, is no longer confusing or personal. It is simply part of a cycle you are consciously participating in.

That shift does not eliminate appetite. It clarifies it. And in doing so, it changes the meaning of the performance hangover. What was once an unpleasant surprise becomes information. Not a verdict, but feedback. An indication that something mattered, and that it also had a limit.

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🎶My Song for you

I chose a classic - I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For by U2

For more good music, go to this Spotify playlist where you can find all the songs from the Change & Evolve Letters!

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📚My Poem for you

Is by Jane Kenyon (1947-1995)

Otherwise

I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, ripe, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.
At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day.
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.

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The hangover isn’t the issue.
Missing the moment of enough is.
When did you last ignore that moment?

Wishing you a happy weekend, wherever it finds you.

Yours

Tanja

P.S. My podcast Change & Evolve is now available on Spotify if you’d like to explore these themes in another format.

If you’re exploring your next chapter in leadership, you can book a discovery session here: Change & Evolve - Book your conversation.