Lies My Brain Tells Me Part 4: “It’ll Be Too Hard”

I’ve been offered an opportunity to write something really important. Something that will help me professionally and start a really important conversation for those practicing medicine who struggle with prolonging life versus prolonging existence. And I just can’t bring myself to do it. At worst, it will take a lot of time, energy, and emotional bandwidth and fall flat, not making any sort of ripple in the literature. At “best,” it will catch like wildfire, and I’ll be at the center of inquiry and possibly bad press. Every time I pull up the document to take a crack at it, the cursor blinks mockingly on my laptop screen, a silent metronome keeping time of my mental “What ifs?” And there it was again, that familiar whisper: "It'll be too hard. Why bother?"

We've all heard this voice. For me, it arrives like an old, unwelcome friend who knows exactly when I'm most vulnerable. With difficult patients and families, during endless administrative tasks, or when contemplating contributions to the literature I've been postponing for years.

The voice sounds so reasonable, doesn't it? So practical. So caring, even—as if it's protecting us from inevitable disappointment.

But I've come to recognize this voice for what it truly is: the most persistent liar in my life.

The Anatomy of a Convenient Lie

As physicians, we've already done the impossible. We've memorized the incomprehensible, survived sleepless nights, and held hearts (literally and figuratively) in our hands. We've comforted the grieving and celebrated miraculous recoveries. We've proven our capacity for hard things countless times.

Yet somehow, when facing our deepest aspirations—writing that book, starting that clinic, pursuing that leadership position—our brains serve us this particular flavor of resistance.

Do you recognize your version of this lie? Mine typically emerges disguised as pragmatism: "You're already stretched too thin. You’ve never applied for an NIH grant before, and you’d slow down the rest of the team. The work would take years, and your clinical shifts are not getting any easier. Besides, by the time it’s done, who knows if it would even matter?"

The bitter irony? The same brain telling me something is "too hard" successfully navigated medical school, residency, two fellowships, a master’s, and two board certifications. It diagnoses complex conditions daily. It solves problems that seem unsolvable. It has already proven itself wrong.

What We're Really Afraid Of

Two years ago, after dragging my feet for three years, I finally applied for promotion to associate professor. Sitting at my computer and hitting “save” after putting all the necessary documents in my dossier, I realized something: I wasn't afraid it would be "too hard"—I was scared of what might happen if I succeeded.

Success would mean visibility. Responsibility. Potential criticism. Standing out can feel dangerous, especially for women physicians who've often been taught to be competent but not threatening, confident but not assertive.

Sometimes, "it'll be too hard" is simply code for "I'm terrified of being seen."

The Mathematics of Avoidance

Consider this peculiar calculation our exhausted minds make: we convince ourselves that pursuing our dreams requires impossible energy while simultaneously spending enormous psychological energy maintaining the status quo.

I’ve now spent three years not writing this really important thing. Yet during those same three years, I devoted countless hours to ruminating about not pursuing it, explaining to colleagues and family why I couldn't do it, and living with the low-grade disappointment of unrealized potential.

The math simply doesn't add up. The energy required to suppress our aspirations often exceeds what we'd need to pursue them.

Small Rebellions Against the Lie

The first step is recognizing how often my brain tells me a task is “too hard.” Making unconscious thoughts conscious is necessary if we’re going to start turning around actions that are driving us crazy. For the next month, I will listen for when my brain tells me something is too hard. And then I’m going to practice countering with: "Perhaps. But what if I just took one small, ridiculously easy step today?" Completely silencing the voice telling me something is too hard is impossible. The trick is acknowledging it and even thanking it for its service: "I hear you. Thank you for trying to protect me. But let's try this tiny thing today."

Some days, that tiny thing is simply opening the document. Reading one relevant article. Sending one email asking for help. The momentum from these small acts often carries me further than I expected.

The Timeline Distortion

Another aspect of this lie is how it warps our perception of time. "It'll take too long" is a close cousin to "It'll be too hard."

I remember lamenting to my coach about a goal it would take about a year and a half to complete.

"And how old will you be in a year and a half if you don't pursue it?" she asked simply. Well, shoot.

Time passes regardless of whether we pursue our dreams. We might as well move toward what matters to us, however incrementally.

Worth More Than We Realize

Perhaps what I find most insidious about this lie is how it diminishes our worth—suggesting that our deepest aspirations aren't valuable enough to warrant effort or discomfort.

As physicians, we readily accept discomfort when it serves our patients. We'll work impossible hours, master complex procedures, and navigate challenging systems—all for others. Yet when it comes to our own aspirations, we often question whether they're "worth it."

I have to believe they are.

Your vision for a more equitable healthcare system, that research question no one else is asking, the book only you can write, the policy only you can change—these aren't just pleasant additions to an already full life. They're potentially essential contributions that our broken healthcare system desperately needs.

A Different Question

I'm going to learn to replace "Won't it be too hard?" with a different question: "What might become possible if I tried?"

This isn't about adding more to your already overflowing plate. It's about recognizing the dreams that might energize rather than deplete you—the ones that might bring a sense of purpose and agency to counter the burnout that threatens to consume us.

The next time your brain whispers, "It'll be too hard," I hope you'll join me in a moment of gentle skepticism. We might respond: "Maybe so. But I've done hard things before, and I'll do hard things again. This particular hard thing might just be worth it."

What small step might you take today?