Beyond Burnout: How I Reclaimed My Spark

For most of my life, I was performing without realizing it. Smiling when I didn’t want to. Helping others regulate while ignoring the chaos in my own system. I could read a room in seconds and shape-shift to keep everyone else comfortable. I was praised for how “together” I seemed—for the polished nails, the hair, the calm presence.

But underneath? I was unraveling.

When perimenopause hit, I couldn’t keep up the act anymore. My body stopped complying. I forgot appointments, lost track of time, couldn’t muster energy for anything that used to come easily. At first, I panicked. I thought I was losing myself. But the truth was: I was finally starting to find her.

Burnout forced me to stop. I didn’t slow down because I was enlightened. I slowed down because I had no choice. I couldn’t keep playing the part. The mask was too heavy, and it started to crack.

The shame hit hard. I wasn’t “productive.” I couldn’t show up for people like I used to. I felt like I was failing at everything—but especially at being the version of me who was always okay. It took time to realize that I wasn’t falling apart. I was falling through—into something deeper, more honest, more alive.

At first, rest felt like weakness. Doing nothing brought up guilt. But I started practicing stillness anyway. I let myself lie down even when the dishes weren’t done. I stared at the ceiling and let the boredom come.

And then, something shifted.

That boredom cracked something open. I felt a flicker of interest not in achieving or fixing anything but in something strange and beautiful. I started looking at old buildings in my hometown and realizing the history didn’t add up. I followed that spark like a thread, and it led me to a nearby body of water. I wasn’t trying to hike or get “outdoorsy.” I was chasing resonance. Ruins. The feeling that something had been forgotten and I wanted to remember.

Out there, I felt it: my body and mind syncing for the first time. I wasn’t masking anymore. I wasn’t trying to be digestible or sweet or small. I let myself take up space. I let myself be seen in the bigness I had always been taught to hide. And the land held me. The water didn’t flinch. Nature didn’t think I was too much.

It welcomed me home.

So if you’re deep in the ache of burnout right now, hear this: it’s not your end. It’s your threshold. Let yourself fall apart. Let the mask slip. Let the performance stop. Your spark isn’t gone. It’s buried under decades of being what the world told you to be.

And when you rest, and when you get bored enough to care again she will come back. You will come back.

This time, unmasked.