This is a personal account. Not a guide, not advice. Everyone experiences things differently, with their own background, sensitivity, and story. Nothing written here replaces the support of a healthcare professional.
In part one, I told the story of how I got there. The people pleasing, the piling up, the ignored signals. And that Monday morning, sitting on my kitchen floor.
I got back up. I picked up the phone.
Here’s what happened next.
Lancing the wound
They listened. They took several projects off my plate right away. We talked: do you want to stay, take some time off, or is it over? I chose to leave. Mutual termination, HR process, a few weeks to wrap things up.
But the most striking part wasn’t that.
It was the relief.
Just from talking about it. Just from saying, out loud, that things weren’t okay. This thing I’d been holding in for months, years maybe, finally coming out. Like lancing an abscess. It hurts in the moment, but after, the pressure drops.
And then there were people’s reactions. Colleagues, clients, partners. Every time I told someone I was leaving, the same surprise. The same kind words. Genuine thanks for the work I’d done.
They saw someone who was smiling, available, who delivered. I knew what it had cost me.
That gap, between what you’re living on the inside and what others perceive, might be the most unsettling thing about burnout. It’s also what makes it so hard to spot from the outside. And it’s still true today. When I tell people I’m anxious, stressed, the response is almost always the same: “Really? You?”
But behind the smile, it’s a constant churn. Endlessly, that voice reminding you what there is to think about, to do. How will that meeting go? How can I improve this process? Stressful situations are lived through multiple times. Before, I run through the scenario every possible way. “If I say this, what happens? What if I do it like that?” And after, I replay it on a loop. “What if I had…”
The fear
The relief didn’t last long on its own. Pretty quickly, another feeling took over.
Fear.
Because it’s all well and good to say stop. But there’s rent to pay. Mouths to feed. It might sound dramatic put like that, but it’s plain reality. Unemployment benefits are barely more than half your salary. Not exactly the kind of safety net that lets you truly take a breath.
So I started looking for a new job. Actively. Before I’d even finished packing up at the old place, I was already in interviews for what came next.
You don’t always get to rest when you want to.
The breathing room
The real relief came in between. Old job left behind, new one secured.
A little under two months.
A few weeks where, for the first time in a long time, I had nothing to do. No emails to send. No “I need to remember to do that.” No problems to solve for someone else. The brain going quiet (well, quieter).
It was the end of summer. I spent time with my kids. The beach. Hikes. Simple moments, fully lived.
Not a twelve-step recovery program. Just time. Real time. The kind you never grant yourself because there’s always something “more urgent.”
The kind that lets you watch a sunset without thinking about API performance. The kind that lets you read your kids a story while actually being there, fully present, without your mind drafting an email.
Everything changes, nothing changes
And then, back to work. New role, new company, new faces.
New job also means wanting things to go well. The reflex comes back fast: do it right, leave nothing to chance, prove you’re up to it.
Old habits die hard…
The people pleaser is still there. He’ll probably always be there.
It’s very hard, maybe even impossible, to change your deep nature. I like making people happy. I like lending a hand, making things easy. I don’t like conflict. I like it when things are simple, when it just flows between people, no fuss, no complexity. I’m warm, and kind. The kind of person others can take advantage of.
What has changed is the awareness. Having been through it once gives you a kind of radar. The signals — I recognize them faster now. Sleep going off the rails, the tension building, the mental load spilling over. I know what it looks like. I know where it leads.
It won’t necessarily stop me from ending up there again someday. But I can hit stop sooner. I raise the alarm faster. I talk about it, too. Finding people to share this with is still essential to me. Being able to say when it’s hard and not feel judged.
That awareness isn’t a shield. More like an early warning system.
The small things
So there’s no big revolution. No “I figured it all out and now I’m at peace.” More like a collection of small things, built up over time and through trial and error.
I relearned how to breathe. It’s wild to even say that. But I noticed that whenever I’m focused on something or a bit on edge, I hold my breath for a few seconds. Like little apneas. Now I catch it. Maybe not every time, but I restart the system as soon as I pick up the signal.
Cardiac coherence too. Often in the evening, sometimes during the day. Just close my eyes and breathe. Five minutes. It sounds trivial. It’s not. I tried meditation, but I can’t make it work. I get swallowed by the flood of thoughts instead of letting them pass. Maybe it’s a matter of practice. In the meantime, just breathing does the job.
Spending time with the people close to me. Listening, really. Looking, feeling. Silly little things that get lost easily when the brain is running at full speed around the clock.
My wife, who’s always been there. No blame when I was exhausted or on edge. A hand held out, a listening ear, kindness, and a lot of patience. You don’t always appreciate it in the moment.
Putting things in perspective, too. Putting work back in its place. It matters, yes. But not more than the rest. Not more than the people waiting for me at home.
I’d started seeing a therapist a bit before the burnout, for other reasons (or was it a premonition). It helped me through. I stopped, started again a few years later, tried hypnosis to tame that voice in my head, that permanent stress. You don’t silence that voice. You learn to live with it.
At peace
Am I “cured”? No. I don’t think it works that way.
Could it come back? Yes. Probably. Because that’s who I am. Because the working world is what it is, and society along with it. Because life doesn’t pause.
But I know that now. And knowing it, accepting it, is already a step forward.
I think of it as an iteration. Recognizing the signs a little better each time I hit a rough patch. Patch. Adjust. Start again.
I’m at peace with that. At peace with the idea that it’s part of me. That it’s not a weakness to fight, but something to know, to watch, to tame.
Like an old travel companion, a bit cumbersome, but one you eventually accept on the journey.
The only piece of advice I’ll allow myself: If you’re going through a hard time, talk about it. To someone close, a doctor, a professional. There is no shame in asking for help.