When the Hustle Breaks you: Part 2
It's a slow burn. Not a devastating gas explosion followed by a blazing fire, but a slow, smoldering underground fire—spreading and consuming everything in its path. You don't notice the fire until it's too late, when the groundfire turns into a wildfire, seemingly uncontainable. At least, that's how I experienced burning out.
Disclaimer
I am not a doctor or psychiatrist. I can't give you advice or help you self-diagnose. I can only share my experiences and feelings during the lowest period of my life. Everybody is different. Symptoms manifest differently in different people—or not at all. And if you recognize yourself in what I’m about to share, please talk to a professional. Seeking help is not defeat. It is not failure. It is a victory—your first step toward recovery.
It feels like one big blurry movie, with scenes occasionally popping into focus. Thinking back, trying to rewind and recall that period of my life feels as if I'm looking down at a dust storm. I feel resistance, but I don't know what's holding me back from writing and sharing my experience. I want to do this, because when I was in the middle of my burnout, I felt it would have helped to know I wasn’t alone—that I wasn’t faking it.
I'm an imposter
I think at first there was denial, even when I recognized something was wrong. I felt I couldn’t break down because I had no valid reason to. I compared myself to people with demanding jobs, caring for a sick parent, and managing a busy family life all at once. Or people who had to stay laser-focused every day because others depended on them—sometimes for their lives. People with massive responsibilities. Yes, I wouldn’t be surprised if those people burned out. But me? I wasn’t one of them. I didn’t think I was “worthy” of feeling like this. I thought I was a failure and an imposter.
And because I felt unworthy, I felt guilty—guilty for leaving my team, for not being stronger, and for not being the person I wanted to be for the people I love most. It felt like betrayal. Not only did I feel I had let down those I cared about, but I also felt like I was betraying myself. I wasn’t supposed to be like this. Why couldn’t I answer simple questions about how I felt without crying? Why couldn’t I just think clearly?
The loud world
Every sensory phenomenon was amplified and I wasn't able to turn it down. Certain clothes felt wrong to my skin, sudden movements made me jump and some sounds could drive me over the edge.
The simplest external things became overwhelming. I remember walking to the supermarket and hearing two men talking ahead of me. They weren’t speaking loudly, but to me, it felt like shouting. As if every other sound had turned down and their voices were cranked to eleven. It made my skin crawl with anxiety. It almost physically hurt. I nearly turned around and skipped the groceries altogether.
Even a well-meaning touch on the shoulder could send a shock through my system. It didn’t hurt, but it made me feel deeply uncomfortable and anxious. I remember wishing those people would just disappear—or worse. It could turn an already fragile day into a complete nightmare.
But also just the presence of people I experienced as being too much. They were taking too much space. I remember locking myself up in the bedroom, under my partner's desk with the duvet covering me. Hoping that the plumber would leave soon. So I had room to breathe again. My surrounding world became too loud for me, invading my already diminishing personal space.
Just leave me be
I didn't want anything to do with other people except my partner. Talking to people felt like an enormous task or even a demand. I felt I could not uphold the masks I had to wear talking to them. And if not wearing masks, I could not find the energy to pull myself together to be somewhat functional in a day to day conversation. Some people I avoided altogether. Especially those who liked to vent. The ones who always managed to steer the conversation back to themselves. I had no space for anyone else’s weight, even if I cared about them.
"Just leave me be and don't check on me. Do not expect me to check in on you either. Because I don't have the energy for it. It overwhelms me. Go away. " That was often ringing in my head. And I know people were concerned and that their messages and phone calls were well meant. But I just couldn't deal with it.
Instant messaging were the worst. Receiving those felt like a demand to respond. Especially messages that were questions. Even reading those ate a chunk of my energy and left another stone on my shoulders.
Learning to listen
I didn't experience the extreme fatigue that some other people with burnout go through. I could clean and walk to the supermarket. I could even go to the bouldering gym on the quiet hours. Being physically active was also meditative. The singularity of just cleaning or just climbing the route felt good. But there were also days I just never left the couch. Luckily I could sleep, but I never felt rested. It’s only now, as I’m writing this down, that I realize I wake up with energy again. I haven’t felt this way in the morning for over 12 years—except maybe on holidays. And that on its own is a sign that I was constantly rushing and not slowing down.
Back then I had to slow down, there was no other choice. And on those days that I was a couch dweller I found myself drawing again. I think drawing was a way to shut out all the other distractions. I needed it. The feeling of the paper, the sound of the pencil, and the simple task of just drawing what I saw was soothing. I loved sketching portraits or letting my hand move freely across the page without thought. Looking back I think it wasn't only a way to shut out the world but more importantly it was a sign of my true-self that showed me who I really was.
I was learning to listen again to that little voice that was pushed away for so long. She never abandoned me, she was always there with me, even though I shut her down because I thought that there were other things more important. When I could finally hear her, even though it was subconsciously, I began to draw and write again. Writing in a journal, with a fountain pen with black ink. I still do it, even if these blogs are a form of expression too. There is something deeply satisfying about writing or drawing by hand. In a way, it makes things feel more real to me. It helps me to keep in touch with myself.
Accepting my path
I am very blessed with the people around me, not least my employer. They never gave me the feeling that I had to rush my recovery and they made it possible that I could seek additional help beside the psychologist I was seeing.
I entered a program of The Burnout Poly and they assigned me a breakthrough coach, an emotion therapist, and an osteopath. I understand their holistic approach isn’t for everyone, but it clicked with me instantly. They didn’t focus on symptoms—instead, they helped me uncover the patterns and beliefs I had carried throughout my life. They guided me in discovering where those beliefs came from. They helped me see that many of the systems I had built no longer served me. Not to label those behaviors as wrong, but to understand they were outdated—and, in my case, some were now actively harmful.
I realized that all those patterns and behaviors had been there to protect me. To shield who I really was. To avoid pain—even if it meant settling for a lesser pain instead of facing the deep pain I was desperate to avoid. My core pain: "I am not worthy of love." It still strikes me as I write it. Unworthy of love. Unworthy of being accepted as I am. And so, I felt the need to change myself to meet the expectations of others. Constantly adapting, always pushing past my own boundaries, always on high alert. Wanting to control everything so I could anticipate what others wanted from me.
But I am a being of chaos, a being of feelings and expression. I cannot be contained for too long. And when I tried to meet all the expectations of the outside world or rather I was trying to meet the expectations I thought the outside world had of me, it felt restricted. Like a python slowly suffocating its prey.
They helped me on the path of learning to trust my intuition again. They helped me discover that what I think, do and feel often is coming from that system of avoiding pain. And I learned to accept that it is not wrong or absolutely essential but it gives me the chance to stop and explore why and why I feel what I feel. And why I think certain things. And that gives me an opportunity to decide what I need to do. What I need to do what is best for me. Practicing mindfulness. I know that word carries baggage for some people, but what I mean is simple: being aware of what you do, think, and feel—and being willing to explore that on a deeper level. Without judgement.
Like the slow underground fire, putting the realizations and tools I’ve gained into practice is a gradual process. And it’s ongoing—because life keeps moving and I’m human. I’m no saint or enlightened being, and I never will be. But I’ve come to accept that it’s okay to feel down, angry, or upset. It’s okay to feel lost, useless, overwhelmed, and even unworthy at times. As long as I stay aware, and remember the tools that help me find my own true north again—my authentic self—that’s enough.
Following my path
