Maybe Doing Your Best Doesn't Mean Doing the Most

I spent this past weekend at Kripalu, a yoga center out in Western Massachusetts. I didn't go to work or to teach or to network. I went just for myself.

If you've ever been to Kripalu, you know it's the kind of place that invites reflection. There are trails to walk, a meditation maze, silent meals, yoga classes to attend, books to read, workshops to explore, conversations to have, and quiet corners where you can simply sit and think. It's also the kind of place where you become aware of how difficult it can be to simply be.

One of the things I kept noticing throughout the weekend was how quickly my mind wanted to turn rest into productivity. Was I making the most of my time? Should I be attending another class? Reading another book? Working on a blog post? Brainstorming a new offering for my business? Learning something? Accomplishing something?

Or in the yoga classes: am I doing this post right? am I getting enough out of this? I should do this more often. I should be more flexible.

Even in a place intentionally designed for slowing down, in classes designed to "listen to your body," even within the context of the work I do to help others divest from diet and hustle cultures, I could feel the pull toward doing more.

And it got me thinking about a phrase we hear all the time:

"Just do your best."

It sounds harmless enough. Encouraging, even. But I think many of us have internalized a very specific definition of what "doing your best" means. For me, at least, and most of my life, I interpreted "doing my best" as pushing harder, trying harder, doing more, leaving nothing on the table, giving 100% (or even more than that).

If I wasn't operating at maximum capacity, then maybe I wasn't really doing my best.

The problem is that this interpretation shows up everywhere. It's not just at work, but in our relationships, our parenting, our food choices, how we move our bodies, how we heal, how we recover, and the way we relate to our bodies.

We're often taught that the best version of ourselves is the one that is trying the hardest and doing the most. The "best" person is the one who is the most disciplined, who never misses a work out, who meal preps 'perfectly' every week, who pushes through exhaustion, who always says yes, who somehow juggles it all without ever dropping a ball, who leaves it all on the field.

But what is the actual cost of being this version of "best?"

I think this idea of "doing your best" shows up everywhere—not just in productivity/hustle culture. It shows up in diet culture, too.

Many of us have been taught that if a goal is good, then more effort toward that goal must be better. If this is true, then if eating vegetables is good, eating more vegetables at the exclusion of other foods is better. If 10,000 steps a day is good, then 15,000 a day is better. If protein is good, then proteinmaxxing is better.

And if a smaller body is valued and therefore "good", then shrinking ourselves must be worth whatever it takes to get there.

But again, I ask: what is the cost?

What is the cost of spending years at war with your hunger?

What is the cost of constantly monitoring food?

What is the cost of avoiding social events because you're worried about what will be served?

What is the cost of exercising through injury, illness, exhaustion, or burnout?

What is the cost of believing your body is always a project that needs improvement?

Because sometimes in our pursuit of this vision of health, we end up sacrificing many of the very things that actually support overall health and wellbeing.

One of the things I notice in conversations with patients is how narrowly many of us have been taught to define health. When people think about health, they often think about:

• what they eat

• how much they exercise

• their weight

• their lab work

  
  

And certainly, some of these things can matter. But they are only part of the picture.

We often forget to think about things like:

• stress levels

• sleep quality

• mental health

• social connection

• financial stability

• access to healthcare

• food security

• a sense of purpose

• spirituality or meaning-making

• relationships

• joy

These things impact our health, too. In fact, they often impact our health and wellbeing profoundly, and yet we rarely talk about them with the same urgency that we talk about calories, carbohydrates, workouts, or weight.

Sometimes I wonder if we've collectively mistaken a few pieces of health for the whole thing. And in doing so, we end up sacrificing sleep or social connection in order to exercise. We ignore hunger in pursuit of weight loss. We decline invitations and withdraw from connection because food feels stressful or our body feels inadequate.

We end up living in a chronic state of anxiety around doing health "correctly," about "trying our best," all in the pursuit of becoming "healthier."

Again, I come back to the same question:

What is the cost?

Because if achieving a particular body size or idealized version of health requires sacrificing your mental health, your relationships, your peace, your flexibility, your joy, or your ability to fully participate in your life, then I think it's worth asking whether that pursuit is serving you at all.

Not because health doesn't matter, but because health is bigger than we've been taught and because wellbeing was never meant to be measured by a single number, behavior, lab value, or body size.

Health is the sum of many interconnected parts, many of which we have little to no control over. Sometimes the healthiest thing we can do is stop demanding more from ourselves - stop "doing our best" - long enough to see the whole picture.

What I see in my work every day is that many people are already trying incredibly hard and still not getting where they want to go or feeling how they want to feel in their lives. When they seek support, often the answer they receive is simply "try harder," or "do your best."

What if that's not actually what we need? What if doing your best isn't about doing the most? What if doing your best means responding honestly to the reality of your life?

Capacity is not fixed. The version of you that exists after a full night's sleep, with support, resources, free time, and a regulated nervous system, is not the same version of you that exists when you're navigating grief, parenting challenges, financial stress, chronic illness, burnout, trauma, caregiving responsibilities, or simply a difficult season of life.

And yet so many of us compare ourselves to our ideal-capacity selves or the ideal-capacity selves of others. Then we wonder why we're struggling.

Maybe the problem isn't that you're failing. Maybe the problem is that you're measuring yourself against impossible conditions. Maybe the problem is the systems that we are caught within.

This is one of the reasons I think body trust and embodiment matter so much, because in order to know what your best actually looks like today, you have to be paying attention. You have to notice. You have to be in right relationship with yourself - and not the idealized version of yourself. The real one.

Body trust requires a different kind of honesty. An honesty that says:

Today, my best might be a home-cooked meal.

Or today, my best might be takeout because I need rest more than I need vegetables.

Today, my best might be a long run.

Or today, my best might be a nap.

Today, my best might be setting a boundary.

Or asking for help.

Or leaving something unfinished.

Or simply acknowledging that I'm at capacity.

None of those things is a failure.

They're responses to the information our bodies are handing us in real time.

The more I think about it, the more I wonder if we've confused effort with worthiness, as though our value is determined by how much we can produce, endure, optimize or accomplish.

But what if "doing your best" isn't about constantly proving yourself? What if it's about responding with honesty, compassion, and flexibility to the life you're actually living and the body you're actually living in?

I'm still sitting with that question. But it feels a lot more sustainable than spending the rest of my life trying to operate at 100% all the time.

So maybe the question isn't,"Did I do the most I possibly could today?"

Maybe the question is, "Did I respond honestly and compassionately to the reality of myself today?"

About the Author:

Rachel Caine, MS, RDN, LDN, is a registered dietitian based out of Watertown, MA, who specializes in trauma-informed nutrition care, intuitive eating, and building body trust and neutrality. Through her insurance-based private practice, Rachel helps clients reconnect with their physical selves and develop a more intuitive and compassionate relationship with food.