burnout.

I’ve spent enough time in therapy that I sometimes feel like I should get an honorary psych degree. While I may not always be great at applying everything I’ve learned to my own life, I’ve learned to recognize when I need to take a step back and reassess. Lately, reassessing has become a big part of my journey. It's not just about processing past experiences or understanding my reactions—it’s about learning to manage what’s happening in the present and finding new ways to move forward. And in full disclosure, I’m terrible at applying any of this logic.

Being honest and vulnerable with my feelings has never come easily to me. I’m just not a sharer by nature. I’ll listen for hours, offer support, and do anything for anyone, but you’ll be lucky if you learn something as simple as my birthday or favorite color—especially with the big 4-0 right around the corner.

For a long time, I prided myself on being the person who could handle everything. I believed I could push through. I used to feel in control—or at least, I thought I did. For so long, I managed to balance work, relationships, motherhood, and all the responsibilities that came with adulthood. And I did it well. Or at least, I convinced myself I did. I thought I had it all figured out. Even when the weight of it all started to feel too much, I believed I could push through. But a few years ago, I learned that even diamonds have their breaking point—and when I broke, it was nothing short of spectacular. Honestly, that breakdown was necessary because I had chosen not to share, not to be honest and vulnerable, until it got to the point where I couldn’t hide it any longer. I made decisions that forever altered me.

When you experience trauma, your body stores those responses. And once you've ingrained unhealthy habits in your body, it's all too easy to slip back into them. Moving forward requires conscious effort—it’s not automatic. You have to choose not to let history repeat itself. But when logic, emotions, anxiety, and a sprinkle of depression all join forces, well, that’s no small feat. It's like trying to win an Olympic event with an invisible weight around your ankles.

I have been trying to successfully navigate professional burnout for the better part of a year, probably longer. Some of the time was necessary as the job entails what it does, and it’s a career where I support a vulnerable population whose needs are complex and require 24/7 support. It’s a world I’ve always been a part of, a world in which I’ve thrived. I used to work 24-hour shifts, drive all over the state, and show up late at night to lend a hand. I do my job well these days because I don’t know how not to do it. But my heart is missing. It’s become just a job—something I do for the paycheck and the health insurance.

Several months ago, I hit a breaking point. I didn’t realize how much I had been suppressing until it all came rushing to the surface. The burnout had taken over, and I couldn’t shake it on my own. I’d always prided myself on pushing through, but this time, nothing worked. Every step felt like a burden, and anxiety gnawed at whatever peace I could hold onto. I burned out spectacularly—not the kind that fades with a few days of rest, but the kind that digs in deep and refuses to let go.

That’s when I faced the truth: I couldn’t do it alone anymore. I turned to therapy. Though it felt like a failure at the time, it became the turning point I needed. I realized I couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine. Burnout had taken over, anxiety had overwhelmed me, and I couldn’t manage it on my own. Admitting I needed help AGAIN wasn’t easy, but it was the first step toward regaining control.

And even though therapy and medication became a lifeline, I know that maintenance is just as necessary as the initial healing. Mental health, like physical health, requires upkeep. The hygiene part of health—the part about consistency and daily practice—is something I tend to fight. It’s something that you wish you could address and move on. But the truth is that you don’t “arrive” at a place where everything is fixed and requires no more effort. It’s defeating and terrifying to ask for help again when you can’t manage the ugly side of mental health, especially when your professional world and personal worlds are colliding.

I know that personal growth isn’t linear. There’s no destination where everything is perfectly fine and no more effort is needed. There are days when the weight of it all feels overwhelming, when anxiety creeps back in, and the burnout is suffocating. I am working toward learning how to manage it better. Logically I know that seeking help is a step toward strength, not weakness. However, I still struggle to feel I can ask for help. I feel like I should be able to manage it all, move forward, and shoulder it.

There are days when I feel like I can finally see that light, like everything I’ve been through, is leading to something better. It’s tempting to think, Maybe I’m almost there. But then the anxiety creeps back in, and suddenly I’m wondering—Is that light actually a train coming full speed at me? It’s the fear that I’m rushing toward another breakdown, another point where it’s all too much. That fear makes the light feel like a threat, not a promise. It’s as if, no matter how many steps I take, I can’t be sure whether I’m heading toward safety or another overwhelming storm.

But then, there are other days, the more hopeful ones, when I look at that same light and think—No, it’s the ocean. It’s the peace I’ve been fighting for. It’s the calm after the chaos. On those days, I can almost taste the salt in the air, hear the waves crashing, and feel the cool breeze of relief on my face. The tunnel, which once seemed suffocating, feels like it’s opening up into something bigger, something calmer.

As I continue this journey, I’ve come to understand that healing and growth aren’t quick fixes. There’s no single moment where everything falls into place, no finish line where the stress and anxiety disappear. Some days feel like progress, while others make me feel like I’m back at square one. But through it all, I’m learning to be kinder to myself. Deep down, I know it’s okay to ask for help, yet I still struggle with the shame that comes when I acknowledge that need. The spectacular breakdown I experienced a few years ago left me with an even more guarded approach to life. I want to appear strong and in control—asking for help feels like a failure, like I’ve let myself down again, let down those who’ve helped in the past. But I’m learning that asking for help isn’t a weakness. It’s part of the process and a necessary step toward regaining my strength. So, I take it one day at a time, trusting that I’ll keep learning to manage the weight, even when it feels too heavy to carry.