I didn’t realise I was burnt out because nothing had fallen apart yet. I was still showing up, still responding, still doing what was expected of me. From the outside, everything looked fine. But underneath that functioning surface, there was a constant tiredness that rest didn’t seem to fix. It wasn’t dramatic or visible enough to justify stopping, yet it made even simple days feel heavy. This kind of burnout is easy to miss, especially when you’re still capable. It doesn’t ask for attention. It quietly settles in and becomes part of how you move through life.

There were days when I felt like giving up halfway through the day. Sometimes even before it began. I would wake up already wanting my shift to end, already craving the comfort of being back home. This wasn’t laziness or a lack of ambition. It felt more like my mind asking me to slow down. I slept for nearly twenty-four hours once, not because I was resting, but because I was depleted. I felt unhappy, emotionally empty, and completely drained of the energy required to show up for work or for life the way I once had.

It took me a while to realise that ignoring phone calls or messages wasn’t because I was busy or physically tired. My mind felt exhausted. Burnt out. I began withdrawing from people, even those closest to me, including my own mother. Every day, chores started to feel overwhelming. Stepping out of the apartment for something as small as groceries felt like too much effort. I understood the convenience of quick delivery services, but what unsettled me was the contrast. I used to be active. I went on walks, danced, took care of myself, and wanted to look and feel my best every day. I had even started fulfilling items on my bucket list. Then, slowly and without warning, that zest disappeared. I didn’t know when it happened or why. I only knew that something in me had shut down, and I had reached a low point.

There were stretches of time when I slept for days on end. I slept through entire shifts, through messages, through responsibilities that once defined my routine. Getting out of bed felt impossible, not because I was resting, but because I did not incline to participate in life as I knew it. My phone stayed untouched. The outside world felt distant and irrelevant. It wasn’t sadness in a dramatic sense, but a deep numbness, a desire for everything to stop. I didn’t want attention or explanations. I just wanted silence.

With time, I began to understand that familiarity does not always mean safety. Some spaces felt comfortable simply because they were known, but they were also deeply draining. The toxicity mattered more than the comfort. The end of my relationship and the loss of a job that had begun to feel comfortable in the wrong way forced me to reflect. Months later, I realised that neither space was meant to hold me anymore. I had stayed because it felt familiar, not because it was healthy. Walking away was not failure. It was self-preservation.

Burnout is often imagined as something obvious. A breakdown, a loss of control, a visible inability to function. We tend to associate it with collapse, with moments that demand intervention or explanation. But this understanding leaves little room for the kind of burnout that hides behind routine and responsibility. When someone continues to meet expectations, their exhaustion is rarely questioned. Functioning becomes proof that everything is fine, even when it isn’t.

Psychological research supports this quieter understanding of burnout. Maslach and Leiter describe burnout not as a single breaking point, but as prolonged emotional exhaustion paired with continued functioning. Over time, this quiet strain wears people down, not through sudden failure, but through constant self-override. The World Health Organisation similarly defines burnout as chronic workplace stress that has not been successfully managed, emphasising its gradual and cumulative nature. When exhaustion becomes normalised, people often continue operating on autopilot, mistaking survival for resilience.

Burnout often arrives in disguise. It does not always announce itself through collapse or visible crisis. Sometimes it shows up as withdrawal, numbness, or the persistent desire to be alone. There is a popular metaphor online sometimes referred to as the “nihilist penguin,” a figure that keeps moving forward without belief, purpose, or expectation that things will improve. While not a clinical theory, it captures something painfully familiar: continuing simply because stopping feels harder, not because there is hope attached to the movement. This mirrors philosophical ideas of nihilistic fatigue, where existence becomes mechanical rather than intentional.

The danger lies in how comforting silence can feel at first. Isolation may seem calming, even protective, when everything feels overwhelming. But over time, prolonged withdrawal can deepen anxiety and reinforce emotional exhaustion. The thoughts that accompany burnout are often unpredictable and self-critical, shaped more by depletion than by truth. Catching burnout early matters. Not every desire for solitude is unhealthy, but disappearing into silence for too long can quietly compound distress.

Burnout and anxiety often overlap, feeding into one another in subtle ways. When energy is depleted, the mind becomes less flexible, more critical, and less forgiving. Decision-making feels heavier. Confidence erodes. What once felt manageable begins to feel impossible. Naming what is happening, without judgment, can be the first step toward interrupting that cycle.

I don’t believe burnout always arrives to destroy us. Sometimes it interrupts us. To force us to notice what we have been overriding for too long. For me, recognising burnout did not come with clarity or relief. It came quietly, through withdrawal, through exhaustion, through the loss of things I once enjoyed without effort. Leaving the job and the relationship that had become toxic did not fix everything, but it softened the weight. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, I began to feel better. I am still recovering, still rebuilding, but I am better today than I was then.

Learning to walk away from spaces that no longer supported me was not easy. Familiarity had made them feel safe, even when they were slowly draining me. Choosing to step away felt lonely at first, but it also felt honest. I am still learning what it means to rebuild energy, not just productivity. To sit in silence without disappearing into it. To rest without guilt. To move forward without rushing myself back into patterns that cost me more than they give.

Burnout does not always end with a clear turning point. Sometimes there is no dramatic recovery, only a gradual return to yourself. Some days still feel heavy. Some days still feel uncertain. But there is a difference now. I listen more closely. I pause when something feels misaligned. I no longer confuse endurance with strength.

If there is anything burnout has taught me, it is that walking alone is not always a sign of isolation. Sometimes it is an act of self-respect. And while I don’t have a definitive answer for what healing looks like, I know this much: choosing awareness over autopilot, and honesty over comfort, is a beginning I can stand by.

References

• Maslach, C., & Leiter, M. P. (2016). Understanding the burnout experience: Recent research and its implications. World Psychiatry, 15(2), 103–111.
• World Health Organisation. (2019). Burn-out an occupational phenomenon.
• American Psychological Association. (2022). Stress effects on the body. 
• Camus, A. (1955). The Myth of Sisyphus. Vintage Books. (philosophical context)

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