I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the sheer weight of expectation we place on people who "make it." We love a good underdog story, right? We see someone come from nothing, overcome incredible odds, cross oceans, and break into these hyper-competitive, high-stakes industries—whether it’s professional sports, tech, or high finance—and we treat them like living proof that the system works. We canonize them. We turn their journey into a blueprint for everyone else to follow.
But what happens when that person starts to unravel?
I was watching a documentary the other night about the psychological toll of elite performance, and it got me spiraling into this idea of the "fragile icon." We tend to view success as a shield. We assume that if you’ve reached the pinnacle of your field, you must have some sort of superhuman resilience or a rock-solid mental foundation. We think that because someone has conquered the external world—the physical demands, the travel, the fame, the intense scrutiny—they must be immune to the internal stuff. But that’s such a flawed way to look at human beings.
In reality, the very things that make someone capable of reaching the top—that hyper-focus, the intense drive, the ability to compartmentalize stress—are often the same traits that make them vulnerable to a total mental health collapse. When you are operating at 110% capacity just to stay relevant in a cutthroat environment, you aren't just "performing"; you are burning fuel at an unsustainable rate. And when that fuel runs out, there isn't always a soft place to land. Often, there's just a sudden, violent stop.
I see this pattern more and more in our culture. We celebrate the ascent, but we have absolutely no mechanism for dealing with the descent. When a person starts struggling—maybe they're dealing with trauma, or chemical dependency, or just a profound sense of isolation—society tends to pivot from "hero worship" to "disposable" almost overnight. We don't know how to handle the nuance of a person who is both a brilliant achiever and a struggling human being. We want them to be one or the other. If they aren't the "success," they become a "problem" to be solved or removed.
It makes me wonder about the systemic failures we ignore. We talk about immigration, or legal status, or professional conduct, and we treat them as isolated checkboxes. We look at a person’s "compliance" with rules as a measure of their character, often ignoring the underlying psychological crisis that might be driving their behavior. If someone is drowning mentally, they aren't going to be worried about the fine print of a visa or the social etiquette of their professional circle. They are just trying to keep their head above water.
And yet, we tend to use the most rigid, punitive tools available to deal with these situations. Instead of looking at the "why," we focus entirely on the "what." What did they do? What rule did they break? What is the easiest way to clear them from the ledger? It feels like we’ve traded empathy for efficiency, especially when it comes to people who have become "inconvenient" to the narrative of success we’ve built around them.
I’m curious to hear what you all think about this. When someone reaches a level of global or national prominence, do we have a moral obligation to provide a different kind of support system, or is it purely on the individual to manage their own stability once they've reached the top? Does the "hero" narrative actually make mental health struggles harder to manage because of the shame involved?
But what happens when that person starts to unravel?
I was watching a documentary the other night about the psychological toll of elite performance, and it got me spiraling into this idea of the "fragile icon." We tend to view success as a shield. We assume that if you’ve reached the pinnacle of your field, you must have some sort of superhuman resilience or a rock-solid mental foundation. We think that because someone has conquered the external world—the physical demands, the travel, the fame, the intense scrutiny—they must be immune to the internal stuff. But that’s such a flawed way to look at human beings.
In reality, the very things that make someone capable of reaching the top—that hyper-focus, the intense drive, the ability to compartmentalize stress—are often the same traits that make them vulnerable to a total mental health collapse. When you are operating at 110% capacity just to stay relevant in a cutthroat environment, you aren't just "performing"; you are burning fuel at an unsustainable rate. And when that fuel runs out, there isn't always a soft place to land. Often, there's just a sudden, violent stop.
I see this pattern more and more in our culture. We celebrate the ascent, but we have absolutely no mechanism for dealing with the descent. When a person starts struggling—maybe they're dealing with trauma, or chemical dependency, or just a profound sense of isolation—society tends to pivot from "hero worship" to "disposable" almost overnight. We don't know how to handle the nuance of a person who is both a brilliant achiever and a struggling human being. We want them to be one or the other. If they aren't the "success," they become a "problem" to be solved or removed.
It makes me wonder about the systemic failures we ignore. We talk about immigration, or legal status, or professional conduct, and we treat them as isolated checkboxes. We look at a person’s "compliance" with rules as a measure of their character, often ignoring the underlying psychological crisis that might be driving their behavior. If someone is drowning mentally, they aren't going to be worried about the fine print of a visa or the social etiquette of their professional circle. They are just trying to keep their head above water.
And yet, we tend to use the most rigid, punitive tools available to deal with these situations. Instead of looking at the "why," we focus entirely on the "what." What did they do? What rule did they break? What is the easiest way to clear them from the ledger? It feels like we’ve traded empathy for efficiency, especially when it comes to people who have become "inconvenient" to the narrative of success we’ve built around them.
I’m curious to hear what you all think about this. When someone reaches a level of global or national prominence, do we have a moral obligation to provide a different kind of support system, or is it purely on the individual to manage their own stability once they've reached the top? Does the "hero" narrative actually make mental health struggles harder to manage because of the shame involved?