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It doesn’t happen all at once. Burnout is sneaky like that. It starts quietly, the kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix, the sigh you let out before opening another email, the way your coffee cup sits in your hand a little longer each morning because you need just one more minute before pretending you’re okay. People think burnout means collapse. But more often, it means continuing. It’s the version of you that keeps showing up, keeps helping, keeps saying, “I’m fine,” becaus

There’s a silence that follows service, one that few outside the military understand. For some, it’s the echo of things seen and done. For others, it’s the quiet ache of everything that never  happened, the deployments that didn’t come, the guilt of returning unscarred when others didn’t return at all. People imagine trauma only in explosions and gunfire. But sometimes it’s built from smaller things: the constant readiness, the pressure to never falter, the way you start to m

You’ve spent your life saying “yes” because it was easier than saying “no.” You’ve stepped in when others faltered, covered shifts, listened to endless problems, smoothed over conflict, and taken on responsibilities that weren’t yours, all because being reliable and kind was expected, and because deep down, you didn’t want to disappoint anyone. On the outside, this makes you appear strong, capable, even heroic. People rely on you. They admire your generosity. They trust that

You lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the endless loop of “what ifs” and “should haves.” You feel like your mind never shuts off. Even when your body is exhausted, your thoughts won’t give you a moment’s peace. You replay conversations, ruminate over mistakes, anticipate the worst, and mentally rehearse every interaction you’ve had, or might have. You’re not lazy, distracted, or weak. You’re overworked: emotionally, neurologically, and spiritually. Living with

You smile. You nod. You say, “I’m fine,” even when your chest feels tight, your thoughts are racing, and your body aches from the tension you’ve carried all day. You do it instinctively, like brushing your teeth or putting on shoes, because it’s safer than admitting the truth: you’re not fine. The world rewards the people who appear unshakable. People rely on them. They are trusted. They are admired. And you’ve learned that if you show weakness, you risk disappointment, judgm

You’ve been telling yourself you’re lazy. That you’re not doing enough. That everyone else has it together while you’re stuck spinning your wheels. You feel guilt, shame, or frustration because even on your “good” days, it feels like progress is just out of reach. But here’s the truth: you’re not lazy. Your nervous system is in survival mode. And survival is exhausting. What Survival Mode Really Feels Like When your body and mind have spent years protecting you from stress, t