From my job to my relationships to whether I actually like what I’m doing… or just got good at faking it

I didn’t run away. Not at first.
I did everything right. Showed up. Smiled. Produced. Delivered.
Said yes when I wanted to scream no. Made space for everyone else’s urgency but my own.

I thought being accommodating made me good. Helpful. Selfless.

It took running on empty to realize I was never really driving.

At some point, life started to feel like a loop I never signed up for —
Wake, scroll, respond, smile, deliver, collapse.
A treadmill of urgency where rest was suspicious and silence meant I was probably forgetting something.

Every minute felt like it was already spoken for.
I’d buy planners to organize my chaos, candles to romanticize it, and overpriced caffeine to reward myself for surviving it.

But nothing worked.

I wasn’t fulfilled. I was numb.
I wasn’t failing. I was… just fine.
And fine is where dreams go to die.

I questioned why I was working so hard and still felt empty.
I questioned whether “success” was just prolonged self-abandonment.
I questioned the point of it all — the schedules, the meetings, the performative wellness, the desperate Amazon hauls trying to fix a feeling I couldn’t name.

Burnout didn’t break me.
It broke the illusion that this was the only way to live.

In the quiet in-between moments — doing my makeup, commutes, staring at my inbox — I felt it:
The ache for something different.

Spontaneity. Stillness. A little bit of adventure.

I wanted to wander.
I wanted to breathe.

Every day, I silenced the call.
Until one day, I didn’t.

But my “solution” wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t expensive.
It wasn’t even particularly interesting.

I took a walk.
That’s it. No grand plan. No glow-up montage. Just… movement.

Whenever I felt like I was about to disappear, I stepped outside.
No podcast. No destination. No goal. Just presence.

Over time, the walks got longer. On my days off, they became hikes.
I brought my sketchbook. I started painting what I saw.
No pressure. Just process.

Naturally, I overanalyzed it.
Is this a new habit? A practice? Should I track this?
(God help me, I almost made a spreadsheet.)

But I kept walking.

And somewhere in the quiet, something shifted.

• Why do I only allow myself joy after I’ve earned it?
• Why is stillness something I feel guilty about?
• Why do I know what everyone else needs from me — but not what I need from me?

Burnout taught me that I can't wait until my life clears up to start living it.
So I built anchors — soft rituals that hold me together, even on the hard days.

I walk daily.
Movement clears my head when nothing else can. Walking feels like exhaling.

I paint or journal, imperfectly.
It’s not for output. It’s for hearing my own voice again.

I go outside.
Fresh air. Real sunlight. Even if it’s just the view from the curb.

I give myself screen-free moments.
Because presence isn't something I’ll find in someone else's feed.

I protect my peace like it’s my job.
Because if I don’t, everything else falls apart.

It gave me a moment to pause and realize I’d built a life that looked ideal but felt like a contract I didn’t remember signing.

It made me brave enough to redraw the blueprint.

Burnout made me question everything —
What I value.
What I let slide.
Why I thought saying no was some kind of crime.

When someone asks for my time, I pause.
When urgency knocks, I ask, “Whose emergency is this really?”
When I feel the pull to overperform, I remember: fine is not the goal — fulfilled is.

It taught me that downtime isn’t wasted time.
That walks count as progress.
That just because something works, doesn’t mean it’s worth doing.

And that you don’t need to burn it all down to make a meaningful change —
Sometimes, you just need to make a new rule.

I still optimize. I still plan.
But now, the metric is peace.

And honestly? I like myself better this way.

I didn’t change everything overnight.
I just made different choices — slowly — and chose them again the next day.

These small shifts didn’t “fix” my burnout.

They gave me myself back.