motivation – esterinaanderson.com

Last Friday was my birthday. Before the invention of Facebook and smartphones, my family would always call. I would get a few cards in the mail from family, in-laws, and old friends. It felt very special.

For the past 12 years or so, it has been an avalanche of birthday greetings on social media, text, and messenger apps. The calls and cards are nearly gone. Times have shifted. It is very nice, but it does not feel as authentic. Quantity does not trump quality.

Every handful of people takes some extra time to write a few lines about how happy they are for me, or how they see my pictures and it looks like I’m doing so well. It is kind of them to put in the effort to reach out and say something specific to me. However, I realized last week that they are only seeing the façade that social media unwittingly enforces.

We’ve all fallen prey to believing what we see, forgetting that as humans we aren’t capturing painful moments with our cameras or putting out the dirty laundry for the world to see. Social media platforms are full of the good times, the beautiful moments, platitudes of gratitude, showcasing political affiliations, reacting to articles, asking for prayers for a situation, etc.

But how many people are being truly real? How many people do you see wear their heart on their sleeves or share with the world how they are suffering with personal issues? Or tell the world their worries about their loved ones (outside of disease or death)?

I find it ironic that when I talk to people off of social media that I do not know too well, they will comment that I wouldn’t understand something they are telling me because I don’t have issues with my family, that my kids went to college, or that I have a healthy life. I question why they think this, but it’s obvious that they see my feed where it’s tulips and daisies.

I’ve used my blog in the past to communicate more heart-wrenching stories. Honest truths about things I suffer with and unpleasant things that have happened. Most who read it thank me for being open because it helps them realize we are all alike and suffer similarly. Some others question how I can possibly put it all out there. I’ve even been accused of being too negative on my blogs.

Yikes. You can’t win.

I don’t post or blog for anyone’s benefit. I don’t post to make people feel good or bad. I post and write from my heart about what I’m experiencing in that moment. Life’s moments are not all good. It’s just as normal to feel negative emotions as it is to feel positive ones. So why pretend we are always happy and that everything is great?

I’m day 18 into sobriety.

On February 8th, I had an alcohol-induced mental breakdown and went a bit crackers. It has resulted in a situation I never thought I would be in. It damaged relationships and my self-esteem.

I’m getting the level of help I never wanted to ask for because I saw such things as something only other people needed. I believed that only a failed, broken person needs that level of support. Where did those beliefs come from?

They came from my environment. From stigmas. From the false belief that something is wrong if you aren’t happy because, look around at everyone else—they are blissfully happy. Even though I share the ways in which I’m not happy, most people still see the tulips and daisies.

Human connection is at an all-time low. We have so many platforms and mechanisms to communicate, but they strip away authentic relationships. It’s easier than ever to show the world only what you want it to see. When everyone does that, everyone else thinks they are the only ones who suffer and feel more alone and ashamed than ever.

We end up trying to live up to unrealistic expectations of what it means to live out a human experience.

I don’t want to do that.

I have quit drinking for good. I have PTSD, and it affects the way I perceive situations. When I drink and my brain slows down bodily reactions, it also slows down my rational mind’s ability to recognize that what is happening around me is not what my body’s fight-or-flight response thinks it is.

I need help—help to stop drinking and help to process old trauma that surfaces because it wants to be released and finds opportunities when I’m not paying attention to burst out.

I’m getting help. I’m not perfect. Not getting help sooner has done a lot of damage. Some damage cannot be undone.

It takes a village for each individual to be the best version of themselves. If a village has no real connection and only facades of perfection, the result is that people feel damaged, alone, anxious, and depressed.

Being real is what makes life and relationships real. Without pain, there is no opportunity for growth or change. Pain is part of life too. It’s real, and no one among us is exempt from it.

I am asking anyone reading this who sees me in real life to honor the fact that I am no longer drinking. I’m asking anyone reading to be real with me about your life or anything I’ve done and how it has affected you, positively or negatively.

I’m real. I’m imperfect, angry, sad, hurt, and suffering from my past and from an unhealthy way of dealing with it (alcohol). I’ve hurt others because of this and because I tried to deny it about myself. But I’m also loving, funny, kind, creative, thoughtful, and friendly.

I wrote a blog not too long ago about embracing your shadow self. We all have one. So let’s all embrace our own and learn to live with it, and forgive others for their shadow sides as we would like to be forgiven.

I’m asking to be a part of a real village, even if I have to create it myself 🙂

Peace

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I’ve lost my mojo at work.

I’ve known it for a while, but this morning it really hit me. I was standing in my closet, wrapped in this oversized gray robe I bought on a whim at Target. It was warm. Comfortable. Easy. And getting dressed for work felt like effort I didn’t have.

My clothes—once something I took pride in—just hung there. Waiting. They suddenly felt stiff. Confining. They represented something I was starting to resist.

Work.

I’ve always loved work. I’ve always taken pride in what I do—whether it was scooping ice cream, solving a customer issue, or building dashboards. I’ve always wanted to make things better. To go above and beyond. To leave people better than I found them.

I didn’t need recognition. I got enough satisfaction from doing things well.

Looking back, I was deeply self-motivated. I built my education piece by piece—CLEP exams, online courses, degrees—while raising kids and working. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but it took drive. A lot of it.

And for over two decades, I brought that same energy to my work.

Not because I wanted to climb the ladder. I didn’t. I never aspired to senior leadership. I wanted balance. I wanted to be present for my kids. I wanted to do meaningful work from whatever seat I was in—and then go home and live my life.

And for a long time, that worked.

Until it didn’t.

A couple of years ago, I took a new role. It was a chance to grow, to build something new. There was no clear structure, no defined path—but I saw potential. So I created direction. I built a small, motivated team. I floated ideas, got approval, and we moved forward.

But over time, something became clear.

The support wasn’t real.

The ideas were approved—but not understood. And when challenges came, the support disappeared. Decisions were reversed. Priorities shifted. Conversations that needed to happen never did.

I wasn’t growing anymore. I was managing noise.

And for the first time in my life, I started to dread going to work.

It felt… pointless.

Waking up tired. Getting dressed in clothes that didn’t feel like me. Driving in to sit at a desk and move things around without actually moving anything forward.

Meanwhile, my life outside of work was getting fuller and more demanding. A blended family. Four teenagers. Real life.

So I asked a simple question:

Could I work part-time?

The answer came quickly: “Absolutely. We’d do anything to keep you.”

But then… nothing.

Weeks turned into months. Promises were made, then quietly undone. I adjusted my schedule, continued delivering, met every request—and still, no real answer.

If I had been told upfront that it wasn’t possible, I would have made a different decision. Instead, I stayed in limbo.

And something in me shut down.

Motivation doesn’t disappear overnight. It erodes.

Not too long ago, I couldn’t understand how people became disengaged at work. I saw colleagues who seemed checked out, counting down to retirement, and I didn’t get it.

Now I do.

It’s not laziness.

It’s what happens when effort and impact become disconnected. When leadership lacks clarity, consistency, or follow-through. When people who care stop seeing a reason to.

All the things I studied—leadership, motivation, organizational development—they’re not abstract concepts. They matter. A lot.

The right people in the right roles. Clear communication. Follow-through. Support.

Without those, even the most motivated people start to disengage.

And once that happens, it’s hard to get back.

At some point, I realized something else:

It’s not just about the organization.

It’s about fit.

I’m no longer a good fit here.

And that’s okay—but it also means something needs to change.

Because sitting in a role where I feel like an observer instead of a contributor isn’t sustainable. Not for my mental health. Not for my sense of purpose.

I don’t need perfection. I don’t need constant praise.

But I do need to feel like what I’m doing matters.

Right now, it doesn’t.

And that’s the hardest part.

How do you squash a motivated employee?

Ask them to do as you say, not as you do.
Ignore their track record when they make a reasonable request.
Avoid real conversations about expectations.
Give them goals they’ve already surpassed.
Approve ideas, then withdraw support when it matters.
Don’t follow up. Don’t engage. Don’t lead.
Take everything they’re willing to give.
Give nothing in return.

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