No One Told Me What Burnout Was - Until It Was Too Late
I thought I was just tired. Not in a casual yawn kind of way. More in a "why am I crying in the work toilet again" way. The kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix. The kind of tired that feels baked into your bones, like you've been marinated in stress and slow-cooked on moral injury for about three years.
Spoiler alert: it wasn’t just tiredness. It was burnout. Full-fat, slow-burning, emotionally-bankrupt burnout. And the most surprising part? No one told me this could happen. Not at uni. Not in CPD training. Not even in the whispers of the staffroom.
This post is part personal story, part public service announcement. If you’re in healthcare, social care, or frankly just a functioning human trying to stay functional - this one's for you.
Burnout Doesn’t Always Look Like You Think It Will
Let’s just get this out of the way: burnout isn’t just stress.
Stress is, "I've got a lot on today."
Burnout is, "I can’t remember the last time I felt like myself, and if one more person emails me about a meeting that could simply just be communicated through an email, I will throw my laptop into the sea."
The World Health Organization classifies burnout as an occupational phenomenon, not a medical condition. It's defined by three key features: emotional exhaustion, depersonalisation (aka "numb and done"), and reduced personal accomplishment. Sound familiar? It did to me - once I stopped gaslighting myself.
But the thing is, no one tells you what it feels like from the inside. No one warns you that it can sneak up slowly, disguised as being "good at your job."
How I Got There (The Sanitised Version)
I worked as a Paediatric Occupational Therapist. A profession where you're praised for being selfless, calm under pressure and endlessly available. A profession where you’re also quietly expected to absorb the emotional fallout of systems that don't work, while writing it up in neat, SMART goal-filled reports.
It started subtly: feeling guilty for taking annual leave. Grabbing lunch on the way to an appointment. A creeping cynicism I joked about in team meetings but felt like acid in my gut. The constant feeling that no matter how hard I worked, it would never be enough. That I would never be enough.
Then came the brain fog, the emotional flatlining, the “I used to love this job but now I fantasise about working in Tesco” phase.
Eventually, the body joined in. Migraines, insomnia, irritability, chronic fatigue. I wasn’t just exhausted. I was emptied out.
And still, no one said it. Not once did someone sit me down and say, "Hey, this might be burnout. You don’t have to keep pushing through."
Instead, I was told I cared too much, felt too deeply and that my unwavering moral compass made me 'a bit much' for leadership.
Why No One Talks About It
There are a few reasons and they all suck.
Healthcare culture normalises burnout. You’re not overworked, you’re "dedicated." You’re not emotionally drained, you’re "empathetic." The more depleted you are, the more you’re celebrated.
There's shame. Burnout feels like failure. Like you weren’t strong enough, resilient enough, positive enough. But here’s the truth: burnout isn’t a lack of resilience. It’s a response to chronic system failure.
We're trained to endure, not reflect. The job trains you to suppress your needs and prioritise others. Useful in a crisis. Not so much in your day-to-day nervous system.
The Research Backs It Up
The data is grim but validating. According to the British Medical Association, over 80% of doctors report that work has a negative impact on their physical or mental health. A 2021 NHS staff survey found 44% of workers reported feeling unwell due to work-related stress.
In social care, the picture's just as bleak. The turnover is high, the caseloads are higher and the emotional labour is through the roof. The systems we work in were not built for human sustainability - they were built for output.
So if you’re feeling the weight of it, congratulations. You’re not broken. You’re just having a completely rational reaction to an irrational environment.
What I Needed to Hear Sooner
If I could go back and talk to past me - the one holding it together with snacks and plenty of unappreciated sarcasm - this is what I’d say:
You're not weak for feeling this way.
Being good at your job shouldn't mean being bad at your own wellbeing.
Recovery is slow, boring and possible.
Rest is not a luxury. It's a form of protest.
And most importantly: You don't need to fall apart to prove that things are hard.
So... What Now?
I created The Burnout Budget as a place for people like me. For anyone who’s too tired to keep pretending they’re fine. It’s a space for:
Burnout education that doesn’t gaslight you
Low-energy systems for life, habits and mental clarity
Tools for people who still want to help others - without destroying themselves in the process
If you’re here, welcome. You’re not alone. You’re not weak. And you’re definitely not too far gone.
You just need space to recover.
And maybe a cup of tea that’s still warm for once.
