Why boundaries are like oxygen

For Christmas Rose asked for an aquarium. She’d been begging for pets for years, and now we’re back in Australia, we caved. Seven fish later, we had our little tank set up: one bigger fish (who came to be known as Big Lily) and six smaller ones, including a tiny one we hadn’t named yet, but who I always thought of as Littlest Fish.

Rose had worked hard getting the tank and water ready for weeks before the fish arrived.  So we were feeling pretty confident.  But the day after we put the fish in their new tank, we noticed Big Lily was acting oddly. She was slowing down, hovering near the surface, staying still more than usual. That was our first clue something wasn’t right.

After some frantic Googling and ChatGPT-ing (that AI has serious skills in fish care!), we tested the water. The ammonia and nitrite levels were super high. Turns out, a plant had been added with the agar still on the roots, which caused a bacterial imbalance and a toxic ammonia spike. The tank had become a chemical soup. Invisible, but deadly.

Rose was devastated. I was gutted. We did everything we could: water changes, gravel vacuums, sitting up late with a tiny torch to watch them breathe. And thanks to the angelic Mia at the local PetStock, we discovered Nitrozorb, an actual lifesaver that helped stabilise the water.

But here’s the thing.

Big Lily made it. She looked stressed, and because of that, she did the smart thing. She slowed right down. Took herself to the top of the tank where the oxygen concentration was highest. She rested.

The little ones? They didn’t show signs of stress at all. Especially Littlest Fish. He was still darting around at full speed, while we were panicking, he was out there trying to keep going, just like always.

Until he couldn’t.

The water was back to normal for two days.
But then, Littlest Fish started getting swept along in the current, and we knew something was wrong.
Some more frantic searching on ChatGPT told us to isolate the little guy. So we put him in a teacup and called it the ICU.

Rosie went to bed, terrified.
All I could promise was the hope that, “We’ll give it our best shot.”

He rested for two hours and looked like he’d rallied.
ChatGPT suggested he might have been missing out on food, so I fed him a tiny crumb from my fingertip. He ate it.

And then I went to bed.

I played a horrible game of Schrödinger’s Fish.
Was he alive or dead? I didn’t let myself look. It was just too stressful.

In the morning, it was clear, he hadn’t made it.

After a little fish funeral down at the river, I’ve been reflecting on it.
And now I can see it all so clearly. Big Lily slowed down under stress, so she had something in the tank for recovery.  Littlest Fish didn’t.

So many women I work with are Littlest Fish. Brilliant. High-performing. Constantly on the move. Handling it. Coping. Showing up. Until they can’t.

Because when we’re under pressure, we don’t always show it. We don’t slow down. We don’t pause. We don’t swim to the top for air. We keep going, because that’s what we’ve always done.

And from the outside, we seem fine.

But performance isn’t proof of health. It isn’t proof of wellbeing. And it certainly isn’t proof that everything’s okay.

We need to set boundaries. Like Big Lily.  And say “no, I will not be swimming to the bottom of the tank today”.  

So, I made something for the Littlest Fish among us.  To help us identify and set those boundaries.

It’s called: “The Capability Trap” How High-Functioning Burnout keeps smart women stuck in the Superwoman Myth… and how to escape.

Live Workshop with me, Dr Joanna Martin Feb 19th – 7:30pm London | Feb 20th – 6:30am Melbourne

£15 GBP / ~$30 AUD

Includes recording + powerful bonuses

Save Your Spot Here.

If you’re feeling the water shift around you, if you know something’s not right, even if no one else can see it,  this is your space to breathe. To get practical, guided support. To swim to the top.