Talent is Not a Renewable Resource

By: Kelli Knight

I used to believe that being recognized was the same as being valued.

That belief made sense to me. I have ADHD, and with it a constant awareness that momentum matters. Opportunities feel temporary. Attention feels scarce. When someone sees you, you move. You don’t hesitate. You don’t ask how long the door will stay open.

I learned early how to be self-directed. My parents worked constantly. My brothers were much older and already halfway out the door. Love was there, but time was limited. You adapt. You become capable. You learn that being good at things earns attention, and that being needed is a kind of safety.

That wiring doesn’t disappear in adulthood. It just becomes easier to mistake for ambition.

Over the years, my personal life unraveled in ways that were both dramatic and mundane. Divorce. Loss. Single parenthood. Grief that arrived on a schedule no one consulted me about. At the same time, work intensified. Expectations increased. My ability to “handle a lot” became a defining trait.

When someone with influence noticed me, really noticed me, it felt grounding. My instincts were affirmed. My focus was praised. My resilience was treated as proof that I could be trusted with more.

Often, the people doing the noticing weren’t malicious. They were impressive. Charismatic. Smart. Genuinely accomplished. They spoke fluently about values, equity, and collaboration. They told me I was exceptional. They told me I was essential.

What they didn’t say was that this recognition was conditional.

You matter as long as you produce.

What starts as mentorship can slowly turn into extraction. Not because anyone sets out to exploit another person, but because insecurity (individual and institutional) has a way of reframing admiration as entitlement.

This dynamic is frequently described using the language of narcissism, but that explanation is often too simple. Many of the people who behave this way are not narcissists. They are insecure, operating inside systems that reward output over sustainability and visibility over care. They need talented people around them to feel legitimate. They may genuinely believe what they say about your abilities, until your productivity falters.

For someone like me, this environment can feel stabilizing at first. Pressure sharpens focus. Urgency creates clarity. Giving more feels like control. Rest feels risky. You ignore early signs of depletion because slowing down feels like a threat.

Eventually, something gives. Productivity drops. Boundaries appear. Life intrudes. And when usefulness declines, attention often follows.

Praise turns into silence. Access disappears. The same people who once named your worth begin to treat it as situational, not intrinsic.

This is how harm often functions in progressive spaces, not through overt cruelty, but through withdrawal. Not through explicit punishment, but through the quiet implication that your value was always tied to what you could deliver.

When I stopped working, it wasn’t strategic. It was necessary. And it’s still new. I’m only a month into this recalibration, and I don’t yet know what it will lead to. What I do know is that I am more present with my kids, more patient, and more focused on goals that are actually mine, not just the ones rewarded by proximity to power. For now, that has been enough.

Empathy is not about excusing behavior. It is about understanding how power, insecurity, and unexamined incentives interact. It is about recognizing that some people, especially those shaped by neurodivergence, early responsibility, or repeated loss, are particularly vulnerable to environments that confuse appreciation with ownership.

Talent is not infinite. Resilience is not consent. Human beings are not renewable resources.

If we are serious about equity and sustainability, especially in spaces that claim progressive values, we need to rethink how we reward contribution. Recognition cannot expire the moment someone slows down. Leadership must account for grief, caregiving, rebuilding, and rest. Not as exceptions, but as realities.

Being seen is not the same as being held.

Empathy demands that we know the difference.