This is a personal essay written by the author, sharing their individual journey and experiences. The views, thoughts, and opinions expressed in this piece belong solely to the author and do not necessarily reflect those of MyndStories. This essay has not been professionally vetted or reviewed for clinical accuracy.
Burnout is like a sneaky pickpocket, quietly robbing you while you’re busy being a “good” person. It doesn’t arrive in a grand announcement; instead, it slips in with innocent requests like, “Got a minute for a quick opinion?” That minute stretches into an hour, and before you know it, your kindness has turned into servitude.
For me, the thieves wore familiar faces: family, friends, mentors, and even strangers who leaned on me during their darkest moments. How could I say no? Isn’t that what good people do? Especially as a mental health professional, wasn’t it my sacred duty?
But kindness turned heavy when I realized I wasn’t just holding my baggage but carrying everyone else’s too.
The good girl complex
I’ve never been the “good girl” in the traditional sense. That halo belonged to my sister. I was the defiant one, the back-talker, the “spirited” child. But maybe that’s why I tried to prove my goodness in my messy way by saying “yes” when I wanted to scream “no.”
And somewhere along the way, my goodness came with a price tag: exhaustion.
Working with parents of children with disabilities, grieving families, and people in crisis, I convinced myself I didn’t have the right to feel tired. My life was fine, wasn’t it? How dare I complain when others face “real” struggles?
The more I listened to others, the quieter my voice became. I silenced my frustration, my exhaustion, my need for rest. I told myself I had to stay strong for them, to keep fighting their battles.
But what about me?
2020: The breaking point
Then came 2020, the year life said, “Let’s make things interesting.” My husband and I lost our jobs. The kids were forced out of school. Homeschooling became the new normal. I launched a private practice out of sheer necessity while racing to finish my PhD.
And the cherry on this chaos cake? My thesis was titled “Making Lived Experiences Matter.” Ironically, while making everyone else’s experiences matter, I was erasing mine.
There were days I didn’t want to get out of bed. Days I fantasized about disappearing, not because I wanted to die, but because I wanted rest. A deep, uninterrupted rest where I didn’t have to think, do, or be. Isn’t that, in a way, what death promises?
But even my darkest thoughts weren’t free from guilt. I’d imagine the chaos my death would leave behind, junk food-fed kids, a grieving husband, a meowing kitten searching for me. Dramatic? Yes. But it was enough to keep me alive.
The only other way to get rest, I figured, was to catch COVID. Two glorious weeks of isolation, no people, no work, just uninterrupted sleep. Bliss. I did everything short of licking doorknobs to get the infection. But no, not even that worked in my favor. And the kicker? I hadn’t even taken a single vaccine shot! Duh. Burned out but apparently indestructible.
Walk it out (Literally)
In desperation, I turned to walking. 20K steps a day, pacing my bedroom like a caged tiger. It helped ease the tension, but my to-do list continued to grow. People applauded my “resilience.” As if breaking myself was something to celebrate.
I’m the founder of an advocacy movement. I’m driving policy changes in the country. People are cheering and applauding, and all I want to do is scream at them, “Shut up!” How could I admit I was falling apart when everyone saw me as someone who had it all together?
In 2021, I finally defended my thesis. I was officially “Dr. Lal.” Surely now I could rest, right? Wrong.
The title came with expectations, some real, some self-imposed. “I should be doing more.” “I must act like I have it together.” These thoughts ran on a loop as I spiraled into overeating, irritability, and weight gain.
I tried yoga, journaling, and socializing. Some things worked briefly, but nothing stuck. Why wasn’t my advice working for me?
The conference that broke me (and set me free)
January 2024 was supposed to be my moment. I was invited to speak about my research and activism at a prestigious conference. I nailed my presentation and felt like I was finally on top of the world.
And then an autistic self-advocate tore it all apart, questioning my focus, my methods, my very existence, it seemed. Her point, that autistic voices must be heard, was valid, but the delivery crushed me. My work, my life’s purpose, felt invalidated in an instant.
Support was nonexistent. The organizers stayed silent, and others excused her bluntness as “unintentional.” I hit rock bottom.
It wasn’t her criticism that broke me, it was the sorrow of realizing that she, too, was unknowingly repeating the very cycle that had once hurt her. I felt like Kamal Haasan in Sadma– nurturing, protecting, and ensuring my babies were seen and heard, only to watch them grow, find their voices, and turn away, saying, Listen to me, and only me. Who are you, anyway? The helplessness of the organizing institutions, the illusion of these conferences I once held in such high regard, it all came crashing down, leaving me buried beneath the ruins of my misplaced faith. I lay beneath the rubble.
“Epistemic violence” – a term I once tossed around in my Ph.D. days, more poetic than personal, suddenly felt heavy, real. No longer abstract, it pressed down on me, woven into the ruins of castles I had built for everyone but myself.
But here’s the funny thing about rock bottom: it’s quiet. No noise, no pretence—just stillness. Alone, but not lost. Waiting for clarity, for an epiphany, for anything. Instead, I found silence. And in that silence, I finally understood—there was only one way left to go. Up.
The U-Turn
When you hit a dead end, your GPS doesn’t say, “Welp, guess you’re stuck forever.” It screams, “Make a U-turn, dummy!”
So that’s what I did. I made a U-turn. I stopped carrying the weight of everyone else’s words and actions, choosing to focus only on my own. And fun fact: I literally dropped 5 kgs along with it. Coincidence? Maybe. Therapeutic? Absolutely.
Did I crack the code to beat burnout? Hell no. But I did map out the road to burnout, and now I know when I’m heading down that path. The potholes, the signs, they’re all too familiar.
And instead of trudging down that burnout highway, I’m choosing the road less travelled. I’m choosing me, the messy, flawed, gloriously alive version of me.
So here’s to U-turns, dropping dead weight, hitting rock bottom, and bouncing back higher. Life’s an intricate, chaotic journey, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: sometimes, the best path forward starts with a good, hard U-turn.
Note: Pictures in this article are representative and not related to the author.
