Here We Go Again: On Burnout, Waiting, and Finally Getting Answers

"Here we go again."

That was my first thought when I woke up on Tuesday morning.

The second thought arrived a few minutes later.

"Maybe I'm okay."

The strange thing is that both thoughts were true.

For the last two years, ever since burnout walked into my life and rearranged the furniture, I haven't felt like myself. That's probably the simplest way I can explain it. I still go to work. I still take care of my daughter. I still pay bills, answer emails, make dinner, and show up for the people who need me. From the outside, everything looks relatively normal.

Inside, however, I've been carrying a question that never seems to leave.

What happened to me?

What happened to the woman who woke up before dawn to run through winter streets? What happened to the woman who could juggle work, family, side projects, and still have enough energy left over to dream about the future? What happened to the version of me who felt alive?

For two years, I've been trying to figure it out.

I blamed burnout.

I blamed stress.

I blamed getting older.

I blamed hormones.

I blamed myself.

Most of all, I blamed myself.

Because when you're used to solving problems through effort, every problem starts to look like a failure of effort. If I'm gaining weight, I must not be trying hard enough. If I'm exhausted, I need better discipline. If I'm sleeping too much, I need more motivation. If I can't finish projects, I need to push harder.

That's the story high-achieving people tell themselves.

Unfortunately, reality doesn't always cooperate.

Last Thursday, I sat in my doctor's office reviewing a long list of medical tests. Earlier this year, while I was visiting my family, I had a health scare involving elevated blood pressure — enough to send me spiraling down every possible path looking for answers.

I walked into that appointment expecting complexity.

I expected referrals.

I expected more tests.

I expected a collection of new medications.

Instead, my doctor looked at everything and gave me an answer so simple it almost felt unfair.

The medication I take for anxiety and depression was responsible for many of the symptoms I had been struggling with.

The weight gain.

The increased appetite.

The fatigue.

The excessive sleeping.

The feeling that my body no longer belonged to me.

The answer had been sitting in my medicine cabinet all along.

I wish I could tell you that I felt immediate relief.

I did.

But I also felt something else.

Grief.

Because for over a year I had been fighting a battle without understanding the rules.

I had spent months wondering why my body wouldn't cooperate.

Months wondering why every healthy habit felt harder than it used to.

Months comparing myself to previous versions of myself and coming up short every single time.

And suddenly there was an explanation.

A real one.

Not laziness.

Not weakness.

Not lack of discipline.

Just biology.

The solution, however, was not nearly as satisfying as the diagnosis.

The solution was patience.

A dosage adjustment.

A waiting period.

Time.

If there is one thing I struggle with these days, it is waiting.

Maybe it's age.

Maybe it's burnout.

Maybe it's the realization that life feels shorter at forty than it did at twenty-five.

Whatever the reason, waiting feels expensive.

I don't want to wait to feel better.

I don't want to wait to lose weight.

I don't want to wait to have energy again.

I don't want to wait to build the business I dream about.

I want to get started.

The problem is that life rarely asks for our preferences.

It simply hands us the next chapter and expects us to figure it out.

And my next chapter has been far messier than I expected.

Earlier this year, I made a decision that felt both terrifying and liberating.

I resigned from my job.

At least, that was the plan.

I had reached a point where the stress was no longer sustainable. I needed distance. I needed space. I needed to breathe.

I gave my notice and fully expected to leave.

My final day arrived.

I packed my things.

I prepared to hand over my laptop.

I was ready to close the door.

Instead, life laughed.

Because rather than leaving completely, I was offered a part-time arrangement while I spent time with my family.

What was supposed to be a clean break became something much stranger.

I left.

But I didn't leave.

I quit.

But not entirely.

I became suspended somewhere between employee and entrepreneur.

Between security and uncertainty.

Between stability and freedom.

When I eventually returned, circumstances had changed again. Leadership had changed. Conversations happened. New arrangements were made.

Weeks became months.

And here I am.

Still working.

Still grateful for the income.

Still uncertain about the future.

There is comfort in having steady money arrive every month.

There is also frustration in knowing that every hour spent maintaining stability is an hour not spent growing the business I hoped to build.

I started my consulting practice believing I would fill my days finding clients, creating systems, and building something that belonged entirely to me.

Today, I have one client on retainer.

I am grateful for that client.

But if I'm being honest, it isn't where I thought I would be by now.

This is the part of entrepreneurship people don't put on Instagram.

Nobody posts pictures of the months spent waiting.

Nobody celebrates the weeks where nothing dramatic happens.

Nobody creates inspirational reels about uncertainty.

Yet uncertainty is where most dreams actually live.

Not in the launch.

Not in the success story.

Not in the headlines.

In the middle.

The uncomfortable middle.

The place where you have enough proof to keep going but not enough proof to feel confident.

The place where you are simultaneously hopeful and terrified.

The place where I seem to spend most of my time lately.

As if that wasn't enough, life decided to remind me that stress does not respect schedules.

Last weekend, my mother was involved in a car accident.

Thankfully, she wasn't inside the vehicle when it happened. She wasn't injured. For that alone, I am profoundly grateful.

But accidents have consequences beyond physical injuries.

Insurance.

Paperwork.

Phone calls.

Questions.

Uncertainty.

And perhaps most difficult of all, the helpless feeling that comes from being far away when someone you love needs support.

I listened to her voice.

I heard the stress.

I heard the exhaustion.

And something inside me cracked.

Not dramatically.

Quietly.

The way overloaded systems fail.

I spent almost an entire day asleep.

Not because I wanted to.

Not because I was avoiding responsibility.

My body simply shut down.

It reached a limit before my mind was willing to acknowledge one existed.

For years I have treated my body like an employee who could always work overtime.

Apparently, it has started filing formal complaints.

The interesting thing is what happened next.

Tuesday arrived.

I dragged myself to work.

I expected a terrible day.

Instead, it was a good day.

I finished projects.

Solved problems.

Answered emails.

Made progress.

Wednesday was good too.

Tomorrow I will have family responsibilities to manage.

Next week will bring new challenges.

My husband will be away for a while.

My daughter is approaching the end of another school year.

Life will continue doing what life always does.

Moving forward.

And somehow, despite everything, I find myself returning to those same two thoughts.

"Here we go again."

"Maybe I'm okay."

Because both are true.

Some days I feel like everything is falling apart.

Other days I realize that what felt like disaster was simply overwhelm.

Some days I believe I am hopelessly behind.

Other days I notice that I am still moving forward.

Some days I see only uncertainty.

Other days I see possibility.

Recovery has taught me many things, but perhaps the most important lesson is this:

Feelings are weather, not climate.

A difficult weekend is not a difficult life.

A bad day is not a bad future.

An exhausted nervous system is not a broken person.

Sometimes we survive a storm and mistake it for a permanent season.

And then Tuesday arrives.

The coffee tastes normal.

The emails get answered.

The work gets done.

The world continues spinning.

Not because everything has been fixed.

Not because all the answers have arrived.

But because healing often happens quietly.

Not in breakthroughs.

Not in dramatic transformations.

Not in motivational speeches.

It happens when we take a shower.

When we go to work.

When we answer the phone.

When we make dinner.

When we wake up after a difficult day and discover that we can try again.

I don't know exactly what the next few months will look like.

I don't know how quickly my body will respond to the medication adjustment.

I don't know how long I will continue working part-time.

I don't know how fast my consulting practice will grow.

I don't know whether the future will unfold according to plan.

What I do know is that for the first time in a long while, I have an answer.

And maybe that answer isn't perfect.

Maybe it comes with waiting.

Maybe it comes with uncertainty.

Maybe it comes with patience I don't particularly want to practice.

But it is an answer.

For now, that is enough.

The sun came up on Tuesday.

I got dressed.

I went to work.

And maybe, just maybe, I'm okay.

- Love Fabi

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