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Burnout doesn’t always look like collapse. Sometimes, it looks like competence.
It didn’t happen all at once.
There was no dramatic collapse. No tears backstage. No final straw.
Just small things: the way my hands felt heavier on the steering wheel. The way laughter arrived a few seconds late. The way I started daydreaming about fainting—just long enough for someone to notice I wasn’t fine.
Maybe you know this, too. The quiet wish to be seen without having to scream.
When I was a teenager working in the circus, I ran my ass off. I wasn’t an “athlete” by school standards—no soccer team, no trophies—but I was strong in ways nobody measured. I cleaned stalls. I sprinted props across the arena. I ran to meet horses backstage, weaving through heat and noise.
Running never got to me. What got to me was the stillness.
At the end of each show, it was my job to stand guard at the curtain preventing loose horses from escaping backstage where they hoped to find their dinner. Under a heavy velvet cape and polyester headdress, I swayed in the August Florida heat, sweat pouring off me.
And sometimes, as the audience filed out, I’d think about the girl at school who once fainted in the hallway—how everyone rushed to her, worried, attentive. I’d stand there wishing, just for a second, that I could faint, too. Not because of the work. The work saved me. But because I wanted someone to notice it was hard.
But no one asked.
Or if they did, “How are you?”—I answered “Fine.” Because there wasn’t another option.
Quiet burnout doesn’t look like a breakdown. It looks like competence. Like resilience. Like stamina that people praise but never question.
You keep showing up. You keep smiling. You carry the weight, because you always have.
And slowly, the thread of wanting frays. You stop reaching for things just for yourself. You stop even noticing the hunger.
The world doesn’t see the fade-out. It only sees that you’re still standing.
Maybe you know this, too.
Later, when I developed recurring mono, it finally caught up with me. My liver was angry, my body itchy and inflamed. At first, doctors worried it was something even scarier. But it was mono, creeping quietly through my system, stealing energy by inches.
Fatigue is a sneaky thief. I didn’t notice it when it arrived. I noticed it when the idea of making dinner—something I loved—felt like too much.
My “tell” became absurdly tender: I’d fantasize about ordering pizza (we don’t even eat pizza, not with my husband’s allergies). That tiny longing was my body’s red flag.
So, I learned: If I wanted to protect my ability to care for others, I had to protect myself first. Not reactively, but proactively.
I started blocking time on my calendar. I resigned from draining commitments. I built Gantt charts and set hard limits.
Not because I stopped wanting to help. But because I finally understood: If I collapse, I can’t help anyone.
Maybe you’ve been there, too.
When the choice is no longer between “selfish” and “selfless,” but between “sustainable” and “broken.”
These days, the patterns are stronger. When I need a nap, I take it. I moved my life to Spain, near the sea, to reinforce a slower, more intentional rhythm.
I’m not “fine” anymore by default. I’m honest.
I’m not waiting to faint so someone will notice I’m tired. I notice. I care.
I’m building a new show.
Ten years a performer. Ten years running the circus. Ten years consulting and coaching leaders.
The next ten? I’m stepping back into the spotlight. Not running props. Not carrying the weight of the whole arena. Not waiting for permission to rest.
Choosing my own damn light.
Maybe you’re in your own pre-production, too. Maybe you’re standing under a heavy cape, waiting for someone to ask, “Are you sure you’re fine?”
You don’t have to wait for collapse to choose yourself.
Even if no one else sees the weight, you’re allowed to set it down.
~
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