The Weight No One Warned Me About
My whole life, I thrived under pressure. My achievements were my badge of honour. There was something almost glorious about the busyness I lived in. In my mind, this was the right way to exist. I fed off the illusion that I could be everything to everyone.
No one told me I’d have to work full-time, manage an oversized house alone, feed, care for, and spend quality time with my kids, drive them to sports, cook, clean, be present for my husband. No one told me I’d have to call my parents, check in on my siblings, be there for my friends. But most of all, no one told me that, every now and then, I’d need to stop and breathe. Rest. I took all the responsibilities as givens, but rest? That one didn’t make the list. Because, who has time for that?
And so, after years of juggling flaming torches, one day, I just couldn’t catch them anymore. They tumbled down, scattering chaos everywhere and leaving me, fractured and lost.
The Day Everything Fell Apart
It wasn’t a particularly special day. I had a cold, but nothing out of the ordinary. I had been running around nonstop. The kids were finally asleep, and I was picking up after them. Midnight had already come and gone. Just a few more clothes on the floor, and then I could, finally, go to bed. I bent down to grab them and crumbled onto them instead. Tears burst out of me like a broken dam. I sobbed over those clothes like never before.
“I need help. I can’t do this anymore.” The words tumbled through my mind, through my lips, in an uncontrollable whirlwind.
That was the moment everything cracked.
Until I was forced to stop, I didn’t realise I was like an empty cup I kept shaking, hoping I could squeeze just one more drop. I was deeply ashamed to admit I couldn’t keep up. In a world that worships productivity, saying, “I can’t do this anymore” felt like confessing to a crime. I was trapped, both the prisoner and the helpless witness of my ruined life.
The Diagnosis That Changed Everything
My chronic exhaustion wasn’t just about being physically tired. Beyond the aches and pains, I woke up every morning already drained, as if I had never slept. Ever. My body rested sometimes, but my mind refused to. The harder I tried to control it, the more it slipped away.
I started forgetting essential things, like my own birthday and address. I couldn’t remember how to drive. My focus was gone. A dense brain fog took over. The smallest tasks, like brushing my teeth, felt insurmountable. I remember days when I had zero energy to even get out of bed, so I’d roll onto the floor and crawl. I felt like a wounded animal. I didn’t want to seem weak. But my body betrayed me, and my mind started whispering, “Maybe it’s true. Maybe I really am useless. Maybe I will always be like this.”
Months later, after countless doctor visits, I finally had a diagnosis. What I thought was just a cold had actually been long COVID (yeah, it’s a real thing). That had triggered a long-brewing burnout and, to top it all off, depression.
Fighting to Be Believed
What followed was a long battle, not just with invisible symptoms, but also with trying to be believed.
“You look fine,” they would say, their words cutting deeper than they realised.
“Power through!”
“Fake it until you make it!”
Some hinted that I was exaggerating, that maybe I didn’t want to work as hard anymore, or that I had some hidden agenda. I felt like I had to defend my reality. I had to prove that my pain was real. For months, I tried to control the situation, to fight the illness, to force myself to be okay. I even pretended it didn’t exist. It took me a long time to understand that I was the most important part of this story, not what others thought of me. I had already lived that way my entire life. And look where that got me.
Letting Go and Finding Myself
I grieved the version of myself that could work and give endlessly. I mourned the superhero in me that I had lost—perhaps forever. Without these, I didn’t know who I was.
When I was at my lowest, in a moment of complete surrender, I heard a Voice greater than myself saying: “I love you. Let yourself be carried.” And for the first time, I truly believed it. When I could no longer carry myself, Someone else could. There was silence for a while. No angelic choirs from the skies, no fluttering of angel wings. Just space.
Rebuilding from the Ashes
In that space, I found room to rediscover myself. Dreams I had buried under deadlines and obligations started to stir. Writing, my long-lost passion, began calling me back. At first, just a few lines in a journal, scattered thoughts on the margins of a notebook. Then, slowly, the answers to big questions started taking shape. On days when I could do nothing else, writing became my way of healing.
I started asking myself the things I had avoided for years. Who am I beyond what I achieve? What truly makes me happy? What dreams have I abandoned in the pursuit of “should” and “must”?
Many of those answers didn’t come right away. Others only emerged after a long, grueling process that, ironically, became its own kind of therapy.
Lessons from Burnout/Long Covid
This journey teaches me, day by day:
- To take off my armour.
- To choose my friends and activities carefully.
- To set healthy boundaries in relationships.
- To show up as I am.
- To work toward my dream.
- To NOT trust all my thoughts.
- To ask and to accept help.
- To leave the house messy so I can rest.
- To accept that I am a human with finite resources.
- To also be kind to myself.
Someone told me that this illness was the best thing that could have happened to me.
I’m starting to believe it.