The Quiet Work of Coming Back to Myself

I was burnt out long before I left the job. I didn’t call it that at the time. I called it being tired, overworked, stretched. But what I was experiencing had nothing to do with stamina. My body was shutting down, constantly sick. My mind was fogged over. I was drowning in a kind of exhaustion that no weekend or wellness webinar could fix.

I led the Human Resources department. I ran the wellness initiatives. I built systems meant to support people. I trained staff on boundaries and respect. The irony never left me. I was teaching people how to avoid the very conditions I was crumbling under.

The culture wasn’t dysfunctional. It was corrosive. Overwork was framed as commitment. Boundaries were labelled as defiance. Saying “no” invited punishment. Leadership pushed mental health messaging while sending calendar invites for 7 PM meetings.

I sat at the same table as those leaders. I smiled through it. I presented slide decks while slowly disappearing. I carried the mandate for well-being while bleeding out internally. The leader at the top smiled like a viper and struck with precision. Some of the peers wrapped tighter around me every week, like boa constrictors. It didn’t feel like harm until I couldn’t breathe. It looked like teamwork, like alignment. But it was control.

I stayed. I built a brilliant team. I gave what I had until there was nothing left. Even the strongest sense of purpose can’t survive in a place where power poisons everything it touches.

The burnout followed me home. It took my attention from my family. It stole my appetite, my sleep, and my creativity. I went from loving food to forgetting to eat. I stopped writing. I stopped feeling joy. My whole nervous system was trapped in survival mode.

Every morning felt like a fight. I believed it would pass. I told myself to hold on a little longer. A season, I said. But seasons turn. That job didn’t. The longer I stayed, the more I disappeared. The mission was noble. The cost was personal. I left too much of myself behind in the name of impact. No cause justifies losing your own voice. No title is worth breaking your body.

The days after weren't dramatic. The silence came first. No buzzing phone. No red flags waving at 6:30 AM. The quiet should have felt like peace, but it didn’t. I felt guilt. I felt shame. I didn’t know how to rest without permission. I didn’t know who I was without the noise. Then came grief. I grieved the part of me that only knew how to endure. I grieved the years I gave. I grieved the way I disappeared into usefulness.

In the middle of all that heaviness, something gentle returned. I made tea and sat in the stillness. I cooked a simple soup and tasted it without rushing. I stopped apologizing for needing space. I wrote a sentence without planning a deliverable.

Recovery feels slow. It doesn’t offer clarity or closure. It asks you to stop running and sit in the ache. I’m here to feel whole, not perfect. I still lose my footing. I still wonder what’s next. But there are flashes of light now. I catch myself laughing. I remember flavours I used to love. I look up from the page and realize that I am still here. That I am not defeated.

So I’ve come back to this blog. Not to build a brand but as part of my healing. I’m here because writing helps me name the things I’ve buried. Cooking helps me remember that care can be soft, simple, and sacred.

If you’re here, maybe you’re rebuilding too. Maybe you’re climbing out, breath by breath. You don’t owe anyone your burnout. You don’t need to prove your pain. You get to start over, even in the mess.

This is how I’m starting: one pot, one post, one quiet return to myself.

On My Way to Enjoy Freedom!