The Real Reason I Keep Burning Out

I Knew This Feeling

For months, I’d been waking up at night with work thoughts. It was almost constant, I couldn’t switch it off. My heart was racing, I felt overwhelmed by all the things on my to-do list, and I was tense, exhausted, anxious, my mind looping like this for so long.

I’d been in this state a few times before, so I knew the signs, and it was clear to me - I was burned out, again. I could not carry on like this anymore.

I booked a meeting with my “bosses.” I put that word in quotation marks because I don’t like it, and I know neither do they. Where I work really isn’t your most “usual” or typical workplace, in the best sense. Things work a little differently there. It feels more like a home, a community, and a place of friendships, and I loved it there, so the decision to leave came with the heaviest emotions after a long time of resisting it.

We got on a video call and I just blurted it out, “I think it’s time I go now.” When the call was over, I immediately broke down. I remember it felt like I had just told my husband of 20 years that I wanted a divorce. It was horrible. And although I was (almost) certain it was the right thing to do, it still hurt deeply.
I had just quit my job after four years, with no plan or idea of what to do next. All I knew was that I needed to rest.

What Happens When You Slow Down

During the first two weeks after leaving my job, there were two things that I noticed that really hit me:

1. For the past four years, my whole life had been about work. And now, when the work was gone, there was this empty space there. Not because I had nothing to do, I always had things to do, but there was nothing that actually felt like life.
I didn’t really have hobbies, I’d lost connection with most of my friends, and I had become distant from everything else in my life except work.

And that got me thinking: did I have no life because I was always working and there was simply no time or energy for anything else? Or, did I work so much because I had no life? Was I using work as a way to distract myself from this fact?

2. Although I didn’t have to go to work or necessarily do anything, I was still going like a hamster on a wheel. I still woke up, did my things, and got super busy, carrying on with personal tasks like a madman. It’s always felt like the to-do list is endless and forever growing, and there was so much to do.
I couldn’t stop.

I remember I had to start repeating and reminding myself several times a day that “I don’t have to do anything,” or “I’m on vacation,” or “I don’t have to work” just to try and slow down.

And when I really thought about it, I realized I haven’t actually rested… ever. I can’t remember the last time I took a real break, a proper “doing nothing” kind of rest. I’ve taken time off here and there over the years, yes, but it was always filled with other things that needed to be done.

And then I realized — I don’t know how to rest.
I think this must have been at least the fourth time I had burned out in my life, so clearly, this was a pattern. And if I can’t, or won’t, rest… no wonder I keep ending up there.

The Discomfort of Doing Nothing

I was watching Eat Pray Love over the last Christmas, and there’s a scene where Liz is sitting with her Italian friends in Rome, talking about how she feels guilty because she’s been in Italy for three weeks and all she’s done is learn a few Italian words and eat. To which his Italian friend replies:

“You feel guilty because you're American. You don't know how to enjoy yourself. Americans know entertainment, but don't know pleasure. You work too hard. You get burned out. Then you come home and spend the whole weekend in your pajamas in front of the TV. But you don't know pleasure. You have to be told you've earned it.”

And I thought, oh my god… he’s talking about me!
I don’t know how to enjoy myself, I don’t know pleasure anymore, and I can’t rest because I won’t allow myself to — because I don’t feel that I deserve it.

But what’s the underlying belief here? Where is this coming from? I thought.
And it became clear to me: it’s because I believe I’m not worthy, because I’m not there yet. I haven’t done enough, I haven’t achieved enough, I’m not successful enough. And until I am, I always feel behind, like I’m getting older and time is running out.

So I can’t stop, and I keep going.

And when I do take a day or a week off, I don’t actually rest. I use that time to catch up on everything else that has piled up. Errands, tasks, things I didn’t have time for before.

So I’m still “doing”, because when I stop, I feel guilty, and worthless. It’s unbearable, so I get busy again, and the cycle continues.
I had my worth tied to my productivity and doing-ness, so “doing nothing” never felt relaxing to me, only uncomfortable. It was easier to just keep going and stay busy, even if that was wreaking havoc on my body and mind and leading me to burn out.

And I don’t think it’s just me. It feels like everything around us moves fast, and there’s this unspoken rhythm to the world that says: keep going, keep improving, keep achieving. Trying to go at your own pace can feel like going against the grain, like you’re the one slowing things down, and there’s something wrong with you.
Like you’re not good enough.

So you push yourself to keep up, and slowly, that pace becomes your “normal”, even if it’s completely out of sync with what your body actually needs, or is even capable of. 

Who Am I Without the Doing?

Since taking time off and slowing down, I’ve struggled a lot with this feeling of worthlessness. It’s still ongoing, because for so long, my worth has been directly tied to my doing-ness. It’s in my system, it’s our culture and moving away from it is no easy feat.

Productivity = Worth. It’s in my system. It’s our culture. And it’s making us sick.

But I’ve started to question it: if I strip away the work and the output, what’s left of me? If I’m not working and doing, who am I then?

Because even if I don’t achieve, or produce, or go to work every morning, I am still a daughter, a sister, a friend, an auntie, a lover, a peer. I’m still smart, I’m still kind, I’m still there for the people I love. None of that has gone anywhere. I am still valuable in terms of my presence, my relationships, my ways of being, my knowledge and skills, my character, and my existence.

I think a lot of us have unconsciously learned that if I produce, I matter, or if I’m impressive, I’m lovable, or if I achieve, I’m safe, if I’m useful, I belong. Or, if I stop, I disappear. So “doing nothing” never feels safe or neutral, but more like failure, guilt, danger, shame, or a loss of identity. But it’s just not true, it can’t be. We do not need to prove our right to exist, we are not a machine whose value is measured by output.

And what if the discomfort of doing nothing isn’t even really about inactivity, but about having to face the possibility that you have always been worthy, and that all the striving was never the thing that made you valuable in the first place.

A tree is still valuable in winter. 

A person is still worthy in stillness.