It’s 3:30 AM and you’re awake. Again.

One voice reviews today’s presentation—that wrong formatting on slide 23, did you fix it? Another analyzes your boss’s response in your 1:1 for the fifth time. The pause before “thanks.” What did that mean? A third catastrophizes about the quarterly review that’s still six weeks away.

And underneath all this noise, there’s this exhausted part whispering: Is this it? Is this what I worked so hard for?

Your partner sleeps beside you. Snoring. You look at your phone and count the hours before work begins and wonder how you’ll get through the day on so little sleep. You have everything—the career, the house, the life that looks perfect on paper. But here you are, awake and exhausted thanks to the committee meeting in your head, consumed by that familiar anxious swirl that no amount of success seems to ease.

What Shows Up in My Office

After fifteen thousand hours sitting with driven women, here’s what I’ve learned: The ones who stay late at the office while their personal life unravels aren’t broken. They learned early to be different people for different people. It kept them safe once. Now it’s exhausting them.

Take the attorney on my screen last Tuesday at 11 AM. She works in corporate law. Good at her job.

“But Annie,” she says, and I watch her shoulders climb toward her ears. “Last night my husband left his coffee mug on the counter.”

She pauses, almost embarrassed by what comes next.

“The dishwasher was right there. And I started screaming. Actually screaming. About a coffee mug.”

Another pause, then a bitter laugh.

“My team thinks I have it all together. They should see me crying in the Whole Foods parking lot for no reason I can name. Or losing it because my kids’ backpacks aren’t in the ‘right’ spot.”

This pattern—competent at work, falling apart at home—it’s what brings so many women to my office. They’re confused by the disconnect. How can they handle real pressure at work but lose it over “nothing” at home?

Here’s what’s happening.

At work, your manager parts are in their element. They know exactly what to do—scan for problems, perfect everything, keep everyone happy, control all variables. They’re built for that environment. But at home? Home is supposed to be where you can let down your guard. Except your manager parts don’t know how to turn off. They’re still scanning, controlling, perfecting. And when your partner leaves a coffee mug out—something that doesn’t actually matter—your managers see it as one more thing that’s out of control, one more failure to prevent. They’re exhausted from running all day, and this tiny thing becomes the last straw. The rage isn’t about the mug. It’s your manager parts screaming ‘I can’t control everything and I’m falling apart.’

When I sit with women like this, I’m not seeing dysfunction or Jekyll and Hyde. I’m seeing adaptation.

And here’s the thing—when you had to be perfect to be loved, when you had to manage Mom’s moods to keep the peace, when being “too much” meant Dad withdrew into his office, your mind did something brilliant. It split into different parts, each one handling what they could.

The part that kept Mom stable became your caretaker. The part that made Dad notice you became your achiever. And the part that made sure you never, ever became the problem—that became your controller.

These weren’t flaws. They were survival strategies.

And they’re still running. Every day. Every interaction.

Understanding Internal Family Systems

This is where Internal Family Systems becomes useful. IFS is a framework developed by Dr. Richard Schwartz in the 1980s that actually makes sense of these voices. It doesn’t say your drive is wrong. It doesn’t pathologize your ambition.

When it got official recognition as evidence-based therapy in 2015, more people started paying attention. That 2021 study showed 92% of people with PTSD improved significantly. In my practice, I’ve seen high-functioning adults with PTSD benefit from this—people who thought they were ‘fine’ until their bodies started keeping score in ways they couldn’t ignore.

Harvard studied online IFS groups—people actually stuck with it, 70% finished. That’s really remarkable for online therapy.

But numbers only tell part of the story.

What the research can’t capture is what I see in my office—that moment when a client realizes that the part of her doing everyone’s laundry at midnight while seething—folding his shirts with military precision while fantasizing about divorce—that part isn’t trying to torture her.

She’s nine years old on the school steps. Three hours waiting. Rain soaking through her backpack, learning that if you drop the ball, if you’re not perfect, if you need too much—you become invisible.

The thing is, you’ve probably been told you’re “too much” or “too intense” your whole life. But IFS says something radically different. All your parts have value. Every single one. The goal isn’t eliminating them. It’s letting your Self—capital-S Self, which basically means the real you underneath all the protection—lead sometimes.

Manager Parts: The Ones Running Your Life

So how does this actually show up in driven women? Let me walk you through what I see every week.

IFS calls them “manager parts”—the proactive protectors trying to control everything before it falls apart. And when researchers look at women with relational trauma, guess what they find? Manager parts work overtime.

Here are the manager parts I see most often:

• The Perfectionist Manager: Never allows “good enough” because good enough once meant losing love. She’s the one rewriting emails at midnight because the tone might be misinterpreted, checking your work three times because one mistake could unravel everything.
• The Anticipator Manager: Scans for problems like an emotional radar system. Because surprises once meant danger. She’s mentally running tomorrow’s meeting during your shower, imagining everything that could go wrong.
• The People-Pleaser Manager: Monitors everyone’s emotional weather. Because unhappy meant unsafe. She knows exactly who’s having relationship problems at work based on their “good morning” tone, adjusting constantly—peppy for one colleague, serious for another, invisible for the one who seems stressed.
• The Controller Manager: Handles every detail with color-coded, cross-referenced precision. Because chaos was catastrophic. She plans for every possible outcome.

Understanding Your Self

The key to IFS is understanding that underneath all these parts is your Self—capital-S Self. Think of it like this: your parts are sitting in a boardroom, all talking at once, all trying to run the show. Your Self is the actual leader who’s supposed to be running the meeting.

When you’re leading from Self, you have what IFS calls the eight Cs: calm, curiosity, clarity, compassion, confidence, courage, creativity, and connectedness. Not all at once, not perfectly, but these qualities are there.

The work is about getting to know each part—what they have to say, what they fear, what they want—and letting Self hold the microphone to facilitate dialogue. Your Perfectionist manager might say she’s terrified of criticism. Your firefighter might admit she’s just trying to make the pain stop. Your exile might whisper she just wanted to be loved for who she was.

When Self leads these internal meetings, something shifts. The parts don’t disappear. They’re still in the room. But they’re not all grabbing for the microphone at once.

But understanding this intellectually is one thing. Living it is another. Let me show you how this actually unfolds in therapy.

These manager parts aren’t abstract concepts. Let me tell you about Olivia (I’ve changed identifying details, but her story is true—and it’s one I’ve heard in dozens of iterations). She’s a doctor at a community hospital who came to therapy feeling empty despite having everything she’d worked for.

She joined our first session via telehealth from her car in the hospital parking lot. I could see the exhaustion in her face before she even spoke.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

No hello, no preamble. Just exhaustion.

“Yesterday I had a patient with clear neurological symptoms—weakness, numbness, the works. Needed an MRI. I spent two hours on the phone fighting insurance for basic imaging. The reviewer—some twenty-something—asks if we tried physical therapy first.”

Her voice cracks.

“Physical therapy.”

I watch her face as she says this. Her Perfectionist manager is failing to provide perfect care. Her Controller can’t control the system. They’re all in overdrive and getting nowhere.

She looks at me through the screen, looking exhausted.

“Two hours on hold while my patient’s terrified. Then ninety minutes documenting why obvious care is necessary. Meanwhile, I’m getting emails about seeing more patients in the same time slots.”

This is classic manager part overload—she’s trying to control a system that can’t be controlled, and it’s breaking her.

When Manager Parts Can’t Manage

As we continued meeting, I watched Olivia’s manager parts escalate their efforts.

Early in our work together, she told me: “I know I already reviewed everything, but this voice in my head keeps saying ‘what if?’ So I check again. And again.”

She’s brushing her teeth while mentally running through tomorrow’s cases, imagining everything going wrong. She adjusts her entire presentation style for each colleague—enthusiastic for the one who needs energy, serious for the one who hates small talk, practically invisible for the one who’s overwhelmed.

“Where do you think this started?” I ask.

“My father.” No hesitation. “Also a doctor. Department head at his hospital. I existed when I achieved. A’s meant dinner conversation. B meant silence. Less than perfect meant I might as well have been furniture.”

She pauses, and something shifts in her face.

“And Mom needed me to be perfect so she could pretend our family was fine. So she could post the Christmas card photos and tell her friends about her successful daughter while ignoring that Dad was never home and she was drinking wine by 3 PM.”

So there it was—the origin story of her manager parts. They formed to navigate an impossible situation.

A few months in, she video-called from her home office, all those diplomas arranged perfectly behind her like evidence of her worth.

“I need to tell you something.” She won’t look at the camera. “I’m drinking more.”

“Wine when I get home. Just to turn off the noise in my head. Then more with dinner. Sometimes… sometimes I drink half the bottle.”

When manager parts can’t hold it together anymore, that’s when the firefighters show up.

And this is what IFS calls a “firefighter part”—the reactive protector that jumps in when managers fail. When the pain breaks through all that perfect control, firefighters numb, distract, or help you escape by any means necessary.

“Last night I gave a patient a twenty-minute lecture about stress management and self-care. Went home. Had three glasses of wine while watching Netflix until I could finally fall asleep.”

“That firefighter part with the wine,” I say gently, “isn’t trying to hurt you. She’s trying to stop pain she doesn’t know how else to handle. She’s putting out a fire the only way she knows how.”

Once we understood her managers trying to control everything and her firefighters numbing the pain, the question became: What were they all working so hard to protect?

Finding the Exiles

In another session, we went deeper to find what all these parts were protecting.

“If it feels safe, close your eyes. See if you can find that exhausted part—the one that’s so tired of managing everything.”

Long pause. I watch her face soften, then crumple.

“She’s seven. In my childhood bedroom.”

“What’s happening?”

“Report card day. Straight A’s, like always. I waited by the door for two hours for Dad to come home. Finally showed him.”

She’s crying now, really crying.

“He barely looked at it. Just said ‘Good. Keep it up.’ Went to his study. I stood there holding my report card, feeling invisible.”

This seven-year-old part of her—this exile—had been hidden under all those manager parts for decades.

This seven-year-old—what IFS calls an “exile part.” Exiles are the young, vulnerable parts carrying our wounds, our unmet needs, our original hopes before they got buried under all that protection. Manager parts work overtime keeping these exiles locked away. Firefighter parts jump in when an exile’s pain breaks through anyway.

The thing is: That seven-year-old Olivia? She’s holding everything—the loneliness, the exhaustion of never being enough. But also? She’s holding her original love of medicine, before it got tangled up with earning the right to exist. She remembers when bodies were fascinating puzzles, not performance metrics.

Now that Olivia could see this seven-year-old exile—could feel her loneliness and her need to be loved just for existing—you’d think everything would change. That’s not how it works.

The Messy Truth of Change

“I tried talking to my manager part,” she told me one day. “Ended up crying in the supply closet.”

Another time: “I said no to a committee. Then spent three days panicking, checking email constantly for the backlash.”

When she lost a patient to advanced disease: “The firefighters completely took over. Wine every night. Online shopping I don’t remember.”

But there were breakthroughs too. One day she told me: “I noticed my Perfectionist manager starting up about an email. I actually said out loud, ‘Thanks for trying to protect me, but this email is fine.’ And I sent it without rewriting it three times.”

Another time: “My Controller part wanted to plan every minute of the weekend. I let my family decide what to do instead. Nothing terrible happened.”

More importantly, understanding her parts changed how she related to herself. “I used to hate myself for the wine, for the checking, for being so controlling,” she told me. “Now I get it—these parts were trying to help. They learned these strategies when I was seven, trying to survive in that house. How can I hate them for that?”

She started holding more integrated views. Instead of “I’m a failure for needing wine,” it became “My firefighter is trying to help me cope with overwhelming pain.” Instead of “I’m weak for not handling everything,” it became “My managers are exhausted from decades of hypervigilance.”

This shift—from self-hatred to self-compassion, from seeing herself as broken to understanding herself as adapted—that’s where the real change happens.

This work isn’t linear. You circle back to the same issues from slightly different angles.

The real test came when she tried to change her actual life.

Olivia dropped to 80% time at work. The guilt was crushing. Colleagues made comments. The financial stress was real.

“Can’t afford to do this,” she said.

Then, quieter: “Can’t afford not to.”

Her firefighters still showed up during this transition—the stress of changing her schedule, dealing with colleagues’ judgment, the financial pressure—it all activated her parts. Some nights the wine came back. But now she knew what was happening.

She went back to full time after three months. Then down to 80% again six months later.

“You know what I’m learning?” she told me recently. “My manager parts kept me alive. Through childhood. Through medical school. Or through residency when we worked 36-hour shifts. They’re not the enemy. They just don’t know the emergency is over.”

She pauses, then adds something crucial:

“Except sometimes it isn’t over. The healthcare system still demands impossible things. So my manager parts aren’t wrong—they’re just exhausted.”

The wine? Some nights it’s chamomile tea. Some nights it’s still wine. But here’s the difference—she knows which firefighter part is reaching for the bottle. She can sometimes pause and ask: “What are you trying to protect me from? What do you need?”

Sometimes she gets an answer. Sometimes she doesn’t. Both happen.

Olivia’s parts—her exhausted managers, her numbing firefighters, her invisible seven-year-old exile—they’re not unique to her. They’re the same parts I see in woman after woman who sits with me.

What This Means for You

I share Olivia’s story because it’s not unique. It’s a pattern I see over and over.

If you’re recognizing yourself—competent at work but losing it over coffee mugs, professional during the day but falling apart at night—you’re not crazy. You’re not broken. You’re not “too much.”

That hypervigilant inner critic? That’s a manager part trying to prevent the criticism that once meant losing love. She learned that job when you were five and never got the memo that you’re safe now.

That controlling part that needs everything just so? A manager preventing the chaos that once meant danger. She’s still protecting the kid who needed predictability to survive.

That achieving part that can’t rest? Still earning love that should have been unconditional, still proving you deserve to exist.

The wine, the shopping, the affair, the Netflix binges until 3 AM? Firefighter parts trying to stop pain when the managers can’t hold it together anymore. They’re not sophisticated, but they’re effective.

And that hurt child underneath it all? Your exile parts, holding both the wounds and—this is crucial—your authentic self before you learned to perform your life instead of live it.

So now you know what they are. But naming them isn’t enough. The question is: what happens when you actually recognize them in action?

Understanding these parts changes things. Not overnight, not completely. But it creates space—just a breath—between you and the pattern.

The Reality No One Talks About

Now, before you think IFS is some magic solution, let me be clear about what this work actually involves.

Let’s be honest about something: IFS isn’t for everyone. Some of my clients love understanding their manager parts, firefighters, and exiles—the model clicks and creates immediate relief. Others need different approaches entirely. EMDR for trauma that lives in the body. Somatic work to discharge what talking can’t touch. Medication first to create enough stability for any therapy to work.

Even when IFS helps, it’s not a cure. It’s awareness. Your Perfectionist manager still activates under deadline pressure. Your People-Pleaser still scans every room for disapproval. The firefighters still show up with their unsophisticated solutions when the managers get overwhelmed.

The work isn’t eliminating these parts—they’re not going anywhere. The work is recognizing them. Sometimes your Self can say: “I see you, manager part. Thank you for protecting me all these years. I’ve got this one.”

And sometimes Self can’t lead. The parts take over completely. That’s not failure. That’s being human with trauma in a world that keeps retraumatizing.

Here’s what else no one mentions: This work takes years. Costs money most people don’t have. Insurance covers maybe eight sessions if you’re lucky. You need fifty. Maybe a hundred. Maybe more.

Some clients do this work while caring for dying parents, while getting divorced, while the world literally burns around us. External pressures don’t pause for your Self to learn leadership.

Your boss doesn’t care about your parts work. Your kids need dinner while you’re processing childhood wounds. The mortgage company doesn’t accept “I’m working with my managers” as payment.

And through all these real-world complications, what does the evidence actually say?

Research shows IFS can help—the data is clear. But research happens in controlled settings with motivated participants. Your life? Not controlled. Your motivation? Varies by the hour.

Most days? You won’t catch any of this in real time. You’ll be lying in bed at 2 AM, replaying how you snapped at your partner about the dishwasher. Then maybe—maybe—you’ll think: ‘Oh. That was a manager part.’ Doesn’t mean it won’t happen again tomorrow.

What’s Actually Possible

So what can you realistically expect from understanding IFS?

Some of you will find IFS useful. Others won’t. Most will be somewhere in between—it helps with some things, not others.

IFS gives you a framework. A way to understand why you do what you do. Why you can handle work but lose it at home. Why success doesn’t fix the empty feeling.

Sometimes you’ll catch a manager part in action. Usually not. The firefighters still show up. The exiles still hurt. But maybe you understand the system better. Maybe.

Your manager parts have worked hard for decades. Your firefighters have put out countless fires. And your exiles have held pain you couldn’t process.

These parts got them through. They’re still trying to. Even when their strategies don’t work anymore. Even when they exhaust you.

Sometimes there’s room for Self to lead. Usually there isn’t. The world doesn’t stop demanding impossible things. Your trauma doesn’t vanish. Your parts don’t retire.

Next Sunday

If you’re curious about your own internal system and want to explore this further, next Sunday paid subscribers will receive “Meeting Your Parts: An IFS Workbook.” It includes practical exercises to identify your specific manager parts, recognize your firefighter strategies, and gently acknowledge your exiles.

Plus my monthly letter about how this shows up in real life—the parts that run my own show, the managers that still activate, the firefighters I know by name.

Paid subscribers get the October Q&A where we work with your specific patterns. Your particular system. Your unique constellation of protectors and exiles.

The Bottom Line

The women who sit with me, manager parts in overdrive, trying to control everything because that’s what kept them safe—these parts got them through.

Under all those managers, firefighters, and exiles is Self. The wise, calm presence that can hold space for all these parts without being overwhelmed by them. The part of you that can facilitate the internal boardroom meeting instead of being hijacked by it.

So that’s IFS. It’s a way of thinking about why you do what you do. Why you can handle work but lose it at home. Why success doesn’t fix the empty feeling.

You’ve got manager parts trying to control everything. Firefighter parts numbing the pain. Exile parts holding the hurt.

Will knowing this change anything? I don’t know. Maybe you’ll start noticing when a manager part takes over. Maybe you won’t. Or maybe you’ll recognize a firefighter in action. Probably after the fact.

Either way, now you know why you have all those voices at 3:30 AM. It’s not because you’re crazy. It’s because you learned to split yourself into parts to survive.

That’s IFS. It’s not a cure. It’s not magic. It is just a way of understanding what’s already happening inside you. For some people, that understanding makes a difference. For others, it’s just interesting to know. Either way, at least now you have words for what happens at 3:30 AM.