NOT ANOTHER NEW YEARS RESOLUTION PIECE

SURFACE MAINTENANCE VS. SYSTEM MAINTENANCE

The Visible Discipline

We are, most of us, remarkably disciplined when it comes to what can be seen.

We take care of the surface with intention: the hair appointment is booked in advance, and clothes are chosen with deliberation. We understand that how we present ourselves communicates something long before we say a word. This is not vanity. It’s a form of competence. It’s a signal to the world — and often to ourselves — that we are awake, capable, and in full control of our lives. It is the understanding of how presence works, socially, professionally, and psychologically.

In leadership and in life, that awareness is not accidental. We learn early on that appearing capable, composed, and steady carries weight. People read us before they listen to us. The room registers our energy before it registers our strategy. So we learn, early and often, to refine what people see: composure, clarity, steadiness, polish. We become fluent in the language of appearing well, even when the day is full, the calendar is merciless, and the demands are not particularly interested in our capacity.

And it works, at least on the surface. We can look “fine” while running on fumes. We can be admired for our presence while privately calculating how long we can maintain it. We can receive compliments and still feel strangely untouched by them, because some part of us knows the truth: the surface is maintained, but the system underneath is not necessarily restored.

Which raises an uncomfortable question, not about beauty, or professionalism, or standards, but about where our care actually goes first.

The Invisible Neglect

What tends to happen next is not anything dramatic. There is no collapse, no obvious neglect, no clear line where something goes wrong. Instead, attention simply shifts.

While the surface continues to be maintained, the internal systems are postponed. Not dismissed or even denied, they are just moved further down the list. Emotional regulation, fatigue, sadness, depletion, and that subtle loss of meaning, all of it remains present, but rarely urgent enough to interrupt functioning. There is always something else that needs to be handled first, something more important (or so we believe).

This postponement is often mistaken for resilience. We even pat ourselves on the back for our strength and happily tell ourselves that we will deal with it later, when things calm down, when the pressure eases, when there’s more time. Until then, we keep on going, we adapt, we compensate, we function.

And again, this isn’t a personal failure. It’s a learned response, and we often go on autopilot.

Our real inner state is invisible. It doesn’t show up on calendars. It doesn’t trigger external consequences right away. It is harder to measure, harder to explain, and far less responsive to quick fixes. So we treat it as secondary, not because it doesn’t matter, but because it is inconvenient in systems that reward output, composure, and reliability.

In leadership culture, especially, this becomes normalised. The ability to contain oneself is praised, even admired. Emotional steadiness is interpreted as strength. Fatigue is reframed as commitment. Over time, we become highly skilled at maintaining the surface while extensively borrowing from the system underneath.

None of this happens by accident. It’s conditioned. It’s reinforced. And it is often mistaken for professionalism.

When the Surface Holds — and the System Doesn’t

There was a time in my own life when this distinction became impossible to ignore.

From the outside, I looked exceptionally put together, energised, and healthy. I received more compliments than I had in years, on how radiant I looked, how strong, how composed. And yet internally, I was at my absolute lowest. I was in the middle of a burnout, not the fashionable kind, but the kind where functioning becomes an act of endurance. I denied it for much too long and paid dearly.

The contrast was almost absurd. The better I appeared, the less I was actually holding together.

That was the moment something became painfully clear to me: how easily we mistake visible coherence for inner stability. How readily we assume that what looks well must be well. And how rarely we question the cost of maintaining that illusion, even to ourselves. I tried to heal an open wound with a band-aid.

What had to shift wasn’t my appearance. It was my attention to the core of the matter.

Once I recognised what was happening, care had to move inward. Not just performatively but with deliberation. The work wasn’t about fixing how things looked. It was about restoring what had been neglected and depleted underneath.

That experience didn’t make me distrust the surface. It made me understand its limits.

The Point Where Appearance and Reality Diverge

The real cost of this confusion has a habit of not showing up immediately. It also rarely announces itself as a problem. Instead, it settles into the background and reshapes what we consider normal. We adapt without noticing it at first.

When visible coherence is rewarded more than internal stability, we begin to confuse functioning with well-being. We assume that someone who looks composed must be fine, that someone who keeps delivering must still have capacity, that someone who doesn’t complain cannot be struggling. Over time, this becomes a shared misreading of others, and of ourselves.

In professional environments, this misunderstanding is often reinforced. Reliability is praised. Emotional containment is admired. Endurance becomes a virtue. The ability to keep going is taken as evidence that everything underneath is holding, even when it isn’t.

What gets lost in this dynamic is not performance, but precision. We stop distinguishing between short-term output and long-term sustainability. We overlook the difference between resilience and depletion held together by nothing but discipline. And because the surface continues to function admirably, there is little to no incentive to question the system beneath it.

This is where many capable people begin to drift away from themselves. Not in dramatic ways, but incrementally. Attention moves outward. Signals are corrected. Symptoms are managed. The deeper work is postponed, again, because it doesn’t demand immediate action and rarely earns immediate recognition.

The irony is that the longer this goes unnoticed, the more impressive the surface can become. Competence sharpens. Presence solidifies. The outside looks increasingly convincing.

Until one day, it doesn’t.

From Maintenance to Care

At some point, the question is no longer whether we can keep the surface intact. Most capable people can, for a very long time. The more interesting question is whether we are willing to tend to the system underneath with the same seriousness, patience, and respect.

Internal care does not announce itself. It doesn’t come with visible markers or quick rewards, and it rarely earns applause. And yet, it is the difference between a life that merely holds together and one that actually has depth, capacity, and room to breathe and be.

This kind of care is not drastic. It doesn’t require reinvention, but it begins with attention, with noticing what has been postponed for too long, what has been normalised without being sustainable, and what asks for maintenance rather than endurance.

For many people, this realisation arrives not as a crisis, but usually begins as a subtle discomfort. A sense that something essential has been deferred, that the system has been running on credit. We suddenly realise that looking well on the outside is no longer enough.

If you recognise yourself anywhere in this, not as a problem to be fixed, but as a system that deserves care, consider this an opening, not an instruction. These are the conversations to work within. Slowly. Thoughtfully. Without pressure.

And whether you choose to act on it now or simply let it sit for a while, one question tends to linger:

What would change if you gave the same level of care to what sustains you on the inside as you do to what is visible on the outside?