You’re great at lifting your team—but can you lift yourself?

I used to think motivation was something I could summon on command. I had done it so many times: just before a brutal investor pitch, during a product meltdown, when we lost our biggest client, and when payroll barely cleared. I’d dig deep, smile, get the team through the fog—and collapse privately after. You do this long enough, and it becomes second nature. You stop noticing the tradeoff.

It’s a strength, sure. But it’s also a mask. You learn to motivate everyone but yourself. And by the time that loss catches up to you, it’s hard to tell where the burnout ends and the self-deception begins. There’s something especially dangerous about this in early-stage founders. We get rewarded for our resilience, praised for being “always on,” admired for not flinching in public. But no one talks about what happens when the inside stops matching the outside.

That’s what this piece is about. I want to talk about what happens when the fire inside goes dim—and you’re too good at pretending to notice.

It usually starts quietly. You lose interest in something you used to love—maybe user interviews, design reviews, or board prep. You say you’re just “zoomed out” or “decompressing.” Then it spreads. You show up to meetings, but you’re not really present. You keep going, because that’s what leaders do. But the spark? Gone.

The worst part is, no one calls it out. Because you’re still performing. You still hit your deadlines. You still say the right things in the group chat. But your heart isn’t in it. And deep down, you know it.

What makes this hard to catch is how subtle the signs are. You’re not falling apart. You’re just fading. And you justify it in very reasonable ways: “I’m prioritizing the team now.” “It’s just a season.” “Once we raise, I’ll feel better.” So you give your last bit of energy to making others feel motivated—and wonder why you’re so hollow when the day ends.

I hit that wall last year. We had just launched our new vertical in Saudi. Everything was working. Retention was up. Partners were excited. Our headcount had doubled in five months. And I felt absolutely nothing.

At first, I told myself I was just tired. That maybe it was a post-launch slump. But then I started skipping one-on-ones. I stopped reviewing investor updates. I even dodged a speaking engagement I would’ve jumped at six months earlier. Something was off—and I didn’t want to look at it too closely. Until someone else did.

One of our junior PMs messaged me after I’d no-showed a check-in. She said, gently: “Just wanted to make sure you’re okay. You’ve been quieter lately.”

That one sentence hit me harder than any board critique ever had. Because she was right. I had gone quiet. Not publicly—but in the places that mattered. That’s when I realized I wasn’t just unmotivated. I was detached. And the detachment wasn’t accidental. It was self-protection. I had given everything I had to the team, the product, the story—and hadn’t left anything for myself. My only coping mechanism was withdrawal.

When I finally admitted this to my cofounder, I braced for disappointment. But instead, he nodded and said, “I figured something was up. You’re not showing up for the parts you usually care about. Let’s fix it.”

That conversation saved me. Because it reminded me that leadership isn’t just about being visible—it’s about being real. And if your motivation is gone, pretending only makes the cracks deeper. So I paused. Not for a vacation. Not for a digital detox. But for reflection.

I stepped back from day-to-day execution for two weeks. I told the team I needed space to reset—not to disappear, but to reconnect. And during that time, I did something I hadn’t done in months: I asked myself why I started all this in the first place. Not the pitch-deck reason. Not the impact story. The real one.

Here’s what I uncovered: I started this company because I wanted to solve a problem I knew too well. And somewhere along the way, I became the kind of founder I thought I had to be to “deserve” funding, press, and prestige. I turned my own fire into a performance. And I forgot that it used to come from something pure.

That realization didn’t fix everything. But it gave me something to rebuild from. I began with boundaries. No Slack before 10 a.m. No calendar fills without intention. No saying yes to things that didn’t energize me. I know that sounds basic, but when you’ve been in survival mode for two years, even the smallest act of self-preservation feels radical.

I also did something I’d never done before: I built a personal motivation map. It wasn’t a vision board. It was a list of things—small, daily, tangible—that made me feel alive in the work. Conversations with customers. Whiteboard sketches. Writing product copy. Coaching new hires. I made a rule: do at least one of those each day.

No matter what fires were burning, I had to light one of mine. And slowly, the spark returned. Not dramatically. Not with a bang. But steadily. The biggest shift, though, wasn’t in my routine. It was in my self-permission.

I stopped thinking of motivation as something I had to earn by first pushing everyone else forward. I started treating it as a resource that needed care—not extraction. Founders are taught to be infinite wells of energy. But we’re not. We’re systems. And like any system, we degrade if we’re not maintained.

What I learned is this: self-motivation isn’t a mindset. It’s a muscle. And it atrophies when all you do is flex for others.

So here’s what I’d say to any founder feeling numb right now:

Your team doesn’t need you to be superhuman. They need you to be present. And presence starts with honesty. If you’re struggling to get up in the morning, say so. Not to everyone. But to someone. Don’t wait for a breakdown to justify care.

And don’t confuse silence with stability. Just because you’re still showing up doesn’t mean you’re still leading.

Ask yourself: when was the last time I felt proud of my own work—not the team’s, not the company’s, but mine?

If the answer isn’t recent, don’t panic. But do pause. Get quiet. Not for optics. For truth. What part of the job are you avoiding? What used to make you feel capable that now feels burdensome? What would you do differently if motivation wasn’t something you had to ration?

You don’t have to overhaul your life to feel alive again. But you do have to notice what’s missing. That noticing is the beginning. It’s easy to glamorize grit. It’s harder to acknowledge when it becomes a mask.

I know now that my lowest motivation wasn’t a failure of willpower. It was a signal. A sign that I had been over-functioning for too long, without replenishment. And the solution wasn’t more hustle. It was less hiding. Let your motivation be seen. Let it be uneven. Let it need things. That’s not weakness. That’s sustainability.

The founders who last aren’t the ones who never burn out. They’re the ones who learn how to notice the early smoke—and choose not to wait for fire. So if you’re in that quiet fog now, unsure of why you feel so distant from the thing you built—know this: you’re not broken. You’re just out of sync. And sync can be restored. Slowly. Gently. Honestly.

Start small. Choose one thing that feels like yours again. Then guard it. Water it. Let it pull you back to yourself. Because at the end of the day, motivation isn’t something you give. It’s something you cultivate.

And it starts at home.