What I Thought Burnout Looked Like (And What It Actually Was)

I used to think burnout meant falling apart.

I imagined it as complete exhaustion—someone who couldn’t get out of bed, missed deadlines, maybe even questioned their entire career. Burnout, in my mind, was dramatic and obvious. And because I was still showing up for clients, returning emails, keeping up with my CE trainings, and crossing items off my to-do list, I told myself I was fine.

But I wasn’t fine.

Burnout, I’ve learned, can be much quieter than expected. It doesn’t always announce itself loudly. Sometimes, it slips in through the cracks—disguised as irritability that overstays its welcome. As going through the motions in session, relying on muscle memory rather than your natural presence and attunement. As sighing more than usual between appointments or struggling to summon your usual empathy for yet another intake.

It showed up for me as scrolling my phone late into the night, not because I was engaged, but because I didn’t want to face the silence. My mind wouldn’t stop, even though my body was desperate for rest. It looked like resenting tasks that once energized me. Like emotional depletion that even a full night’s sleep couldn’t repair. I still cared deeply, but I felt too drained to fully show it.

And yet, I kept minimizing it.

Why? Because I was “functioning.” Because I was needed. Because I thought I should be able to handle it. After all, I had tools. I had a mindfulness practice. I taught workshops about this very thing. I told myself it was just a hard week. Or a busy month. Or a season.

But the season didn’t end.

The turning point came when I got honest—with myself and with my supports. I stopped pretending I could “push through.” I named what was happening. I let go of the internalized belief that burnout only happens to people who are failing.

And slowly, I made space to begin again. I built in pauses to my days. I allowed myself to feel—not just for others, but for myself. I began asking better questions:
• What would this job feel like if I weren’t always operating at 110%?
• What boundaries have quietly eroded?
• What parts of me are asking for rest, creativity, or reconnection?

These weren’t easy questions, but they were necessary. Because burnout isn’t a personal flaw—it’s a professional hazard in our field. Especially for those of us who care deeply, listen intently, and give generously.

Now, as a therapist, supervisor, and continuing education provider, I see quiet burnout all the time. It doesn’t always look like crisis. Often, it looks like survival. It looks like seasoned clinicians doing what they’ve always done—just with a little less spark, a little more fatigue.

So we talk about it. Openly. Without shame. Because the earlier we name it, the earlier we can respond with care.

Some common signs of burnout I’ve seen in myself and others include:
• Emotional numbing or irritability
• Dread before the workday starts
• Loss of joy or purpose in clinical work
• Chronic fatigue despite “rest”
• Disconnection from clients, peers, or your own values

Burnout isn’t a sign that you’re broken. It’s a signal—an invitation to realign with what truly sustains you.

If this resonates, I want you to know: you’re not alone. You’re not weak. And you don’t have to wait until everything falls apart to begin making changes.

Let’s keep normalizing these conversations. Let’s support the helpers in staying whole. Let’s build professional cultures where rest is respected, boundaries are honored, and compassion includes the self.

You deserve to feel alive in your work—not just awake.