A reminder about burnout

I used to roll my eyes when people talked about “burnout.”

Then it happened to me around age 50.

Looking back, I’m surprised it took as long as it did. I checked all the boxes: woefully imperfect perfectionist… people-pleasing workaholic…no healthy boundaries…no life-giving hobbies.

My crash was ugly. I couldn’t function. Couldn’t focus or make simple decisions. I didn’t care—and didn’t care that I didn’t care. I fantasized endlessly about running away.

“I feel like I’m on the Bataan Death March,” I said to my counselor. (Hyperbole is one of my superpowers.) “Think a vacation in Colorado would do the trick?”

He shook his head, “You didn’t get this way overnight. You won’t get healthy overnight either.”

He explained that when we push too hard for too long, our bodies start pumping adrenaline to keep up. 

The problem? Our adrenal glands were designed to provide an occasional, short-term boost, not power our lives in an ongoing way.

Start living on adrenalin and you may as well assume the crash position.

If all this sounds familiar—you’ve been pushing yourself hard and your tank is bone dry, two things are true: (a) you need rest, and (b) that takes time.

Think about it. You can refill a glass of water in a couple of seconds. A pond can take weeks. What about something as vast as a human soul?

I need to warn you...if you’re the driven type, you’ll be tempted to speed up the restoration process. 

Fight that urge. Hurry is partly why you feel so drained! Hurry is the dysfunctional default setting of a disordered heart. 

And besides, it's futile. Racing to get rested is like gulping seawater to quench your thirst.

One day during my recovery I heard a thump on our glass patio door. Walking over to investigate, I saw a beautiful ruby-throated hummingbird lying still on the brick pavers.

I winced. Everyone knows that hummingbirds have two speeds: frenetic and dead. This little creature’s whizzing and buzzing days were clearly over, brought to a screeching halt by an unyielding pane of glass.

Only they weren’t over.

After a few seconds, the bird moved slightly. Then it struggled to get into an upright position. You could almost see little cartoon stars swirling above its groggy head.

I left. A couple of hours later I went to check on my feathered friend. It was gone.

It was a good reminder that when you’re trying to come back after a big crash, it can take a while to regain your bearings.

So, here’s permission to sit and recharge. Take care of yourself. And take as long as you need.