Just Because You’ve Handled Worse

Burnout is one of those words that’s everywhere now.

So much so that it’s easy to brush it off.
“Oh, that? Everyone’s burned out.”

Looking back, I can see how many times I’ve actually been there — even if I didn’t call it that at the time. I’m not sure that when I was really in the thick of it, I ever fully realized it in the moment. A lot of that understanding only came in hindsight.

Over the course of my career, I went through a lot of transition. In twenty years, I had ten jobs — nine of them in the last fifteen. I was tired long before I admitted it. Burnt out not from one bad role, but from the cumulative weight of constantly having to adapt, reset, and prove myself again.

The last corporate role I held felt, at first, like a dream job. And then, slowly, it unraveled in front of me. I began to feel out of control — not just of the situation, but of myself inside it.

The day before I lost that job, I remember standing over a hot stove, turning to my husband, and saying out loud:
I can’t do this anymore.

That moment didn’t come from nowhere. It had been building for a long time.

For me, burnout didn’t announce itself dramatically. I didn’t fall apart. I kept going. It showed up quietly.

In my sleep — or the lack of it.
In how hard even small decisions suddenly felt.
In how reactive or flat I became in conversations.
In the subtle loss of trust in myself. That feeling of I don’t quite recognize who I am anymore.

On the outside, I was functioning. I was doing what needed to be done. Going through the motions. But underneath, I was quietly unraveling.

I remember crying in front of my boss one day — something I’d never done before. because she told me that other team members saw me as “not a team player.” Hearing that was shocking. It didn’t align at all with how I saw myself. I felt sad, confused, and exposed. What I needed in that moment was compassion. What I felt instead was that my struggle was being interpreted as weakness — as evidence that I wasn’t capable of doing the job.

Inside, I told myself I just had to keep going. That I should get help. And I did all the “right” things: I hired a therapist, looked for a coach, listened to the podcasts. But despite all of that, I dreaded every single day. I was working around the clock. Nothing ever felt like enough. I couldn’t get off the hamster wheel.

Those were the signals I ignored — or normalized — at the time. I didn’t think I was burned out. I thought I was just unhappy with my job. I told myself I was fumbling the ball, that I couldn’t do anything right.

Slowly, my self-trust eroded. I started questioning my worth, my competence, my right to even be there. I told myself I must have faked my way into the role. That I didn’t deserve it. That I wasn’t good enough after all.

The day I lost my job, I felt a lot of things at once. I was sad. I was scared. I was angry. For a long time afterward, I placed the blame outside of myself.

But I was also — quietly — relieved.

With distance, and time, I can see something more clearly now. If I’d had support sooner — real support — things might have unfolded very differently. Not because I wasn’t strong enough, but because I was trying to carry too much on my own for too long.

I don’t share this to relive it, or to draw a neat lesson from it. I’m sharing it now because I see so many people around me who feel lost inside themselves. People who are capable, responsible, and outwardly “fine,” but who are quietly just trying to keep their heads above water. Not fulfilled. Not steady. Feeling like nothing they do is ever enough.

And I don’t think it has to be this way.

You shouldn’t have to blow up your whole life in order to live a happy, fulfilled, successful one.

Sometimes, just naming what’s happening matters. Sometimes, giving something air helps.

So this is just an invitation.

To slow down for a moment.
To take a breath.
To sit quietly.

Maybe in the silence, you’ll notice what your body has been trying to tell you.

Not to hack it.
Not to optimize it.
Just to acknowledge it.

You don’t have to explain it to anyone else.
But you don’t have to ignore it either.