When the Hustle Breaks You: Part 1
A Personal Story of Burnout, Identity, and Coming Home
I didn’t see it coming—at least, not until everything stopped. For years, I had been doing my very best to be a responsible and emotionally connected manager. In those last few months, I had been pushing beyond my boundaries, trying to lead my team through yet another difficult period of transition.
I remember standing outside the office, calling another department because something had gone wrong. While I was talking and managing the situation, tears kept streaming down my face. The cold November wind stung my cheeks, carrying the faint smell of exhaust from passing cars. The muffled sounds of the highway blended into a background hum, and I gripped my phone tightly, trying to steady my voice against the lump in my throat. Everything around me seemed to blur, but the biting wind was a constant reminder that I had to focus. Don’t let them notice that I was falling apart.
In that moment, I wondered how long I could keep pretending—how much longer I could hold myself together before everything came crashing down. It wasn’t until I finally admitted, with tears in my eyes, that I couldn’t keep going like this.
Burnout doesn’t arrive with a crash—it creeps in quietly. It whispers, not shouts. I had been hearing those whispers for years without recognizing them, each one nudging me further from who I truly was.
A Life of Chasing Dreams
For most of my life, I was a dream chaser. As a child, I loved singing, dancing, and performing. I was that theatre kid who felt most alive on stage. My parents supported me, and I was fortunate to land roles early on—even performing on national TV when I was just eight years old. It wasn’t just the applause I loved—it was the performing, the teamwork, the sense of belonging. There’s something special about the silent connection you share with a partner or the ensemble when something goes wrong on stage but you instinctively have each other’s back. And that magical energy, that buzz in the air when everything clicks perfectly—that is what I loved most.
But dreams can be fragile things.
They come with commitment, dedication, and a very specific kind of pressure. From a young age, I understood that if I really wanted this, I had to make sacrifices. It often meant missing birthday parties or other social events because I was training or performing.
Chasing my dream also meant pushing myself past my limits. Even when I had a fever or a headache, I kept going. The show must go on—on stage and off. I remember joking with fellow performers, "Pijn is fijn en bloed is goed"—which roughly translates to "Pain is good and blood is better." Performing with a 40°C (104°F) fever wasn’t unusual. Just push through and give a little more.
There was also another kind of pressure. I didn’t want to let my parents down. They gave me so many opportunities—first by adopting me, and then by encouraging me to pursue my dreams. I think I felt that I had to succeed because I’d been given a second chance in life.
All that hard work paid off. By the time I was fifteen, I was training with passion and dedication in the Miss Saigon School. I was honored and thrilled. I made it to the final audition—only to lose the role to a more experienced performer returning to the ensemble. I still remember that phone call. I was at a party. It broke my heart.
That moment didn’t just crush a dream—it planted a seed of doubt. Maybe I wasn’t good enough. Maybe hard work wasn’t enough.
The Pattern of Almost
That wasn’t the last time I felt like I had failed. After the Miss Saigon rejection, I dropped out of musical theatre college. I didn’t know who I was or what I really wanted anymore. I still loved the stage, but if rejection hurt this much, did the joy truly outweigh the pain?
I explored other paths—social work, cultural welfare, and different studies—but nothing felt right. Not because I wasn’t capable, but because I was searching for that same creative spark, that sense of belonging I had known in theatre. And I couldn’t find it.
When I discovered Graphic Design, something shifted. I found my people again, and the joy returned. I worked hard—juggling two jobs, playing in a band, pouring energy into projects. That magical feeling was back: collaborating, creating, being inspired by those around me. But it didn’t last.
Just as I graduated, the industry collapsed. Once again, I was left wondering where I fit in. I took a job in customer service, telling myself that if I couldn’t live my dream, at least I could be a functioning adult. But deep down, it felt like failure. I believed I had let myself and my parents down. They never said so—but in my head, their disappointment was real.
During those first 20 years, I developed a survival system that wasn’t always healthy. I wore masks to seem capable, cheerful, and content—because adults don’t like to talk about sadness, fear, or uncertainty. Decades later, in therapy, I discovered just how deeply those patterns shaped me—and how they laid the groundwork for my eventual burnout.
The Slow Burn
Apparently, I was successful in the customer care industry. I did my best, even though I hated being an inbound call center agent. But my colleagues were great, and I discovered that many creative people were doing the same job while in between gigs. In some strange way, it felt like "home" again.
Still, I hated the job. I was even ashamed of it. Deep down, it felt like failure. I thought, If nothing else works in life, you can always be shouted at, humiliated, and threatened—as a call center agent. And there I was, not seeing it as a way to pay the bills, but as punishment.
Luckily, an opportunity crossed my path, and I landed a job as a Player Support agent for an online game. I didn't have to pick up the phone anymore! What a relief. At least I could drop one mask I wore: the "Ever friendly and helpful mask" which was mentally exhausting. I loved gaming myself so I felt like it was a good opportunity to see and learn more about the gaming industry. Life finally was heading a direction I could live with. With a part-time job I could pay my bills and I had time to work and express myself in my band. It didn’t take long before I was promoted to Customer Care Manager. And in this role, I felt insecure again. I was happy to jump into it. It was a new adventure. But it also meant I had to learn a whole set of different skills. So, like always, I just tried my very best and worked hard. To make sure that I deserved this role.
This also meant that I was always switched on. I managed a team and felt responsible for their well-being, performance, and everything in between. While also ensuring that we continued meeting company goals. My direct manager used to jokingly call me "Mother Goose"—always looking out for my team, protective and nurturing, while still getting things done. And this "on-switch" was never really turned off, even when I wasn’t working. Working for an online game studio meant dealing with server breakdowns, bugs, freezes—you name it. That often resulted in a flood of tickets and me contacting our development team at all hours of the day. My boundaries blurred, my energy drained. I stopped creating—not because I didn’t want to, but because I had nothing left.
Creativity isn’t a hobby for me. It’s my lifeline. It’s how I process the world, how I connect with myself and others. When that went silent, I did too.
Burnout didn’t hit all at once. It was like a slow leak in a tire—until one day, I was flat. Done. And I had to admit that something had to change.
Where I Am Now
It’s been 16 months since I hit that wall. I don’t know if I’m completely over it. Some days are better than others. But I’ve learned to listen again—to the whispers, the exhaustion, and, most importantly, the need to create. Through therapy, I’ve learned to recognize my patterns and I now have tools to deal with my inner turmoil and ever-chaotic mind. Most importantly, I’ve learned to trust my true self again. By listening to myself and taking the time to really explore how I feel, I’m now able to set clearer boundaries.
I’m rebuilding. Not just my energy, but my sense of self. I’m letting go of the belief that I’m only worthy when I’m achieving. I’m learning that failure isn’t the opposite of success—it’s part of the path. And a gift to grow as a person.
And through that, I’ve come home to myself.
If you’ve ever felt like you were failing just by surviving, I want you to know: you’re not alone. Sometimes the strongest thing you can do is stop, breathe, and start again.
In Part Two, I’ll dive deeper into what burnout really felt like—emotionally, mentally, and physically. I’ll share more about the anxiety, the inner noise, and the journey through therapy that helped me reconnect with myself. If this part resonated with you, stay tuned—there’s more to come.
