Burnout
welcome to the shitshow
A few weeks ago I stumbled across this post by Protima Tiwary and it hit me right in the gut.
This whole piece by Protima - about how burnout creeps in like fog, how slowing down isn’t glamorous, and how discipline can be care rather than punishment - has been rattling around in my head more than ever, especially since I’ve arrived in Bali (go on, roll your eyes - I would too!). And while this isn’t me trying to rehash her words (go read the full post, it’s beautiful), this is me taking what resonated, holding it up against my own life, and trying to be brutally honest about where I’m at.
Which is not a shiny “bounce back” story. It’s the messy, sweary, slightly chubby middle.
The weight of it all
Nearly three stone heavier in two years. Is that normal? Who the fuck knows. Either way, it’s mine.
People kindly tell me I still look great - healthier and happier even. That weight isn’t worth. That I shouldn’t worry. And I get it - I really do. But here’s the thing: I don’t feel good. I miss feeling strong. I miss folding myself into yoga poses without my belly or boobs getting in the way. I miss being able to tie my laces without making a noise like a haunted house. I miss doing the hard things because they made me feel alive.
Yes, my boobs may look banging in a bra now. But they’re also spilling out of tops like they’re trying to escape. My hips, my belly, my thighs - they all feel a bit foreign. And during sex? Let’s just say I’m not exactly bouncing into action (pun intended) with carefree abandon these days. More like: “Don’t look at my squishy bits while I cover myself with this pillow.”
Hot.
It’s not just vanity. It’s strength. It’s ease. It’s being able to sit on the floor without my knee screaming at me. It’s missing the clothes I bloody loved. It’s missing ME!. And I think I’m here, struggling with myself because I’ve been cycling through burnout and punishment for the best part of two years.
Protima wrote:
“Burnout didn’t arrive dramatically. It arrived like fog - soft, slow, and suffocating.” And yep, that’s it. Burnout isn’t some dramatic crash, it sneaks up. One day you’re buzzing on “girl boss” energy, the next you’re exhausted from just existing. You wake up tired, your brain is already shouting “what’s urgent, what’s next, who haven’t you replied to?” before you’ve even had a wee (or 10 if you know me and my pea-sized bladder!) Then you ‘just get on with it’ because that’s what we do!
100mph → crash → burnout → recover → repeat
Fear, sabotage & the stories I tell myself
So, when you’ve lived at 100mph for years, slowing down doesn’t feel like a gift. It feels like failing and I never truly gift myself proper time to slow down. BUT WHY?
If I peel it back, so much of it is fear.
• Fear of failing.
• Fear of not being good enough.
• Fear of being unattractive.
• Fear of giving it my all and proving myself right or wrong.
And what do I do? I self-sabotage like a pro. I tell myself I can’t do it, I’m not worthy, I’m not good enough and I run away (not in my trainers - running feels like dragging a sack of potatoes on knees made of honeycomb right now). But I run from myself, from my potential, from anything that might actually stick. And honestly? That fear weighs more than any number on the scales.
“You can’t build a life that you love when you hate yourself”
The truth about “self-care”
Here’s another line that slapped me recently (thank you ADHD Love Podcast!):
“If you’re beating yourself up about your self care routine, it cannot be self care.”
Fuck. For the past couple of years I’ve treated “health” a bit like a punishment. Diet harder. Train harder. Restrict more. Burn out. Repeat. No wonder it never stuck. What if discipline wasn’t punishment though, but boring little things that keep me sane? Brushing my teeth. Drinking water. Taking my iron tablets (rock and roll, baby). Showing up to the gym because I actually like it there, not because I’m trying to shrink myself. Saying no without guilt. No one claps for that. But it’s the stuff that actually helps and I promise you I’ve tried to chip away at all that too but it’s it not enough to battle the self-hate within.
so what am I scared of exactly?
I’m not sure I’ve nailed it simple in my brain yet but this little instagram nugget, seemed to help explain the mush in my head:
“Your potential should fucking terrify you… it’s like owning a Ferrari and refusing to take it out of first gear.”
That’s me. I know what I’m capable of when I stop faffing about. I’ve had glimpses of it. Training consistently. Eating food that fuels me instead of numbs me. Creating, moving, laughing, feeling like myself again. It’s not failure that terrifies me. It’s becoming the person I know I could be and still not being enough, not wanted, not loved.
The messy middle
So here I am - feels like I’ve been here a long fucking time too - Not in the “before.” Not yet in the “after.” Just smack bang in the middle of shit.
• Three stone heavier, yes.
• A bit lost, definitely.
• But also - more self-aware, braver, divorced, and finally protecting my bloody peace.
(Ok so runnning off to the other side of the world seems a bit dramatic right, but hey, I can make it work for me, so here I fucking am!)
And try not to laugh at how pathetic this might sound, but I have been brushing my teeth twice a day, drinking 2-3l water, taking my vitamins and really trying to listen to my body, whilst giving it what it deserves - proper movement, rest, nourishment. I’m learning to rest (good books and a pool help!) I’ve found classes I love and am showing up regularly. I’m saying no when my conditioning instinctively tells me I should say yes/be more sociable/do more (that’s an exhausting one!) I’m learning to sit with the discomfort in both my body and brain. Observing, not judging (also really fucking hard when I look like Frankenstein’s monster crossed with a pretzel whilst 'I’m next to super-bendy, youthful goddesses). I’m going to bed early and waking up feeling restored.
And maybe that’s enough of a start.
Here’s the kicker:
Yes. I’m writing this from Bali. Which all sounds glamorous as fuck, doesn’t it? Sunshine, coconuts, yoga mats rolled out and waiting, poolside working and buffet breakfasts.
But honestly?
This isn’t a typical holiday - I’m not here to explore, to eat my way around the island or cram in as much stuff as I possibly can (standard all or nothing Jo). It’s just about me, sweaty and scruffy, trying to do the boring, unsexy work of showing up for myself. Drinking water. Moving my body. Eating food that actually makes me feel good… and not too much of it! Doing the small, steady things that aren’t Instagrammable, but are the building blocks of feeling like me again. I am fully aware I am privelidged as FUCK to be able to do this but my life decisions (sometimes questionable) have enabled me take advantage of such fuckery, so I am.
I know burnout doesn’t fix itself in a few weeks, or with a plane ticket. It doesn’t get solved by palm trees or poolside coconuts. Sure that all helps but it’s the daily practice of slowing down, of caring instead of punishing, of putting one foot in front of the other - wherever you are in the world and learning to love yourself in the process. And for me, right now, that just happens to be happening in Bali.
You can hate me as much as you like right now, but the ever evolving me, doesn’t give a shit*
Namaste
✨
*I give lots of shits actually, to the point it hurts but I’m practicing positive self-talk and I’m allowing myself this opportunity because I’m fucking worth it (and not in a glam l’oreal advert kinda way - in a beat-up, spicy disaster of a pickle way!
