The Tug-of-War Between Burnout and Change: Why Letting Go Feels So Hard (Even When You Know You Need To)

There was this constant tug-of-war inside me — a part that knew I couldn’t keep going like this… and another that was terrified to stop.

I remember one night in particular. I came home from work completely drained — snappy, anxious, overstretched. My husband greeted me at the door, like he did every night, and I snapped at him for something completely minor. He hadn’t done anything wrong. But I was angry — not at him, but at how trapped I felt.

That kind of thing was happening more often.

I was holding space for everyone else all day, over-functioning at work, showing up with that reliable “togetherness” I’d always been known for… and then coming home and falling apart in quiet, disconnected ways. It made me feel ashamed. Like I was losing the parts of myself I’d worked so hard to hold onto.

That night, I lay in bed with a tight chest and thoughts that wouldn’t stop:

“Why can’t I handle this?”

“Other therapists seem to do it all — and still love their work.”

“Why does it look so easy for them?”

“I should be able to keep going.”

“I must be broken.”

The shame was loud. Deafening, really.

And the comparison only turned up the volume.

But beneath the shame, there was something else: grief.

Grief for how long I’d ignored my own needs.

Grief for how deeply I’d measured my worth by how much I could carry.

Grief for the parts of me — soft, tired, human parts — that I’d pushed aside just to make it through.

That night became a turning point.

Not the moment everything changed externally, but the moment I stopped pretending it didn’t need to.

I realized: I can’t do this anymore.

And more importantly: I don’t want to.

Why We Stay — Even When It’s Hurting Us

The truth is, most people don’t burn out because they’re lazy or disorganized or weak.

They burn out because they’re high-functioning, deeply caring, sensitive, emotionally attuned people who’ve learned to survive by holding more than their share — and doing it quietly.

If that’s you, you’ve likely been praised for your strength. For being the one who’s always on top of it. The one others rely on.

You’ve learned to equate “being okay” with managing everything — even when it’s slowly hollowing you out inside.

And even as part of you whispers, “This isn’t sustainable,” another part clings tightly to the structure that’s been keeping you afloat.

Here’s the thing no one talks about enough:

It’s not just hard to leave what’s burning you out. It can feel unsafe.

Even unbearable.

You’re not just walking away from a job, a routine, a way of being.

You’re walking away from the identity that kept you safe.

From the rhythm that made you feel useful.

From the coping strategy that helped you make sense of the world.

And that makes change feel like loss, not relief.

The Hidden Roots: Shame and Comparison

When clients come to me — emotionally exhausted, holding it together on the outside but falling apart on the inside — they often describe this split. This quiet war between knowing they need something different… and fearing what that change might cost. Not just for themselves, but for others. They’re deeply mindful, sensitive to how their choices ripple outward. They worry about letting people down, about being seen as selfish or unreliable, about what others might think. There’s also the quiet ache of wondering if they even deserve it.

And underneath it all?

Shame.

The belief that if they were stronger, more “together,” more good at what they do — they wouldn’t be feeling this way.

The idea that struggle means failure. The idea that not being able to do it all means they are not good enough. That exhaustion is personal, not systemic.

That they should be able to carry it all — because others seem to be doing it, don’t they?

And that’s where comparison quietly slips in.

We look at the polished surfaces of other people’s lives and assume we’re the only ones unraveling.

But the truth is: we’re comparing our insides to someone else’s outside — and calling it truth.

I was trapped in this cycle of comparison for a long time. And sometimes I still find myself in it.

“That therapist sees 32 clients a week and never complains. What’s wrong with me?”

“He has been with this company for 10+ years. Why can’t I be more like him?”

But I don’t truly know how they are doing internally. What their day-to-day lives look like. What they spend time on the weekends doing… or not doing. How they are actually managing.

So, let me say this gently and clearly:

You are not broken.

You are responding — wisely, protectively — to systems and expectations that were never designed to hold your nervous system, your tenderness, or your humanity.

Shame isolates. Comparison distorts.

Together, they keep you stuck in a version of life that no longer fits — but feels too risky to leave.

So I wonder…

What if this isn’t proof that you’re failing — but a signal that something softer is asking to emerge?

What would it feel like to meet yourself in this moment… not with pressure to fix, but with permission to feel?

The Cost of Holding On

When I reflect on why I stayed in burnout for so long, I can see now that part of me believed the pain was proof I was doing something meaningful. That exhaustion meant I was giving enough and that I was enough. That if I just held on a little longer, it would ease. I am the glass-half-full type of person and optimistic, even when it becomes detrimental to my well-being.

But it didn’t ease.

It deepened.

And it began to cost me things I deeply valued:

My health. I gained weight. I had many nights filled with anxiety and little sleep. I numbed out by emotionally eating and doom-scrolling on my phone. I had acne. And I was too stressed to stay consistent with my workout routine.

My peace. My mind was constantly filled with something. Rarely could I be present. I carried a heaviness in my body.

My ability to be present in my relationship. I was so distracted, always focused on my own problems, always in my own head. It was hard for me to communicate. It was hard to be present for other people’s thoughts, emotions and things.

My sense of joy in the work I once loved. It was slipping further and further away.

What started as “just a hard season” became a new normal.

And that new normal became a slow erasure of self.

I want to be clear here: you don’t need to hit a breaking point to choose differently.

But if you’re reading this and feeling that quiet resonance — the lump in your throat, the exhale of finally someone gets it — please know: you are not alone in this.

The Reframe: Discomfort Isn’t Failure — It’s Intelligence

What if the discomfort isn’t a sign you’re falling apart… but a sign you’re waking up?

What if that quiet voice inside — the one saying “I can’t do this anymore” — isn’t weakness?

What if it’s your deepest wisdom?

Burnout often brings clarity we didn’t ask for:

About what’s not working

About what we’ve been tolerating

About what our bodies have been trying to tell us all along

And once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

The problem is: clarity alone doesn’t dissolve fear.

Even when you know something needs to change, it’s normal to feel terrified of what that change might cost.

I remember worrying:

“If I quit, will everything fall apart?”

“Will people still respect me?”

“What if I’m just being dramatic?”

But slowly — painfully, sometimes imperfectly — I began to trust something quieter:

That if staying meant slowly disappearing… then leaving wasn’t reckless.

It was kind.

Letting Go Isn’t Weakness — It’s Repair

We live in a culture that praises resilience but rarely teaches rest.

That applauds productivity, but pathologizes pause. We are even pathologizing laziness, which is actually okay sometimes and necessary, as a sign of depression.

So when you start to want a different kind of life — one with softness, rest, room to breathe — you might feel like you’re going against everything you’ve ever known.

And in a way, you are.

But what you’re creating in that moment isn’t collapse.

It’s repair.

Letting go of the role, rhythm, or routine that’s draining you doesn’t mean you’ve failed.

It means you’re choosing to honor the parts of you that never got a chance to come alive.

You’re choosing to believe that your needs matter.

That your softness isn’t something to hide.

That your worth doesn’t hinge on what you produce or perform.

This is a radical act.

A sacred one.

And it deserves tenderness.

A Soft Invitation

If you’re still in the tug-of-war — one hand reaching for change, the other grasping for what’s known — please know: you don’t have to rush the leap.

But you do get to listen to what’s whispering beneath the noise.

Maybe today isn’t about quitting or overhauling everything.

Maybe it’s just about asking:

“What would shift if I stopped measuring my worth by how much I can carry?”

“What if rest and change weren’t signs of weakness… but signs of healing?”

“What if I don’t have to keep living like this?”

Let those questions breathe.

Let them sit with you, without needing to fix anything right away.

And when you’re ready — if you’re ready — I’ll be here.

Not with a five-step plan. Not with pressure.

But with quiet, steady support for your soft, brave return to yourself.

Gentle Next Steps (If You’re Feeling the Pull)

Take ten slow breaths today. Not to become productive again, but just to land in your body.

Write down one thing that no longer fits — and one thing you long for, even if it feels far away.

Let yourself grieve, even if you don’t fully understand what you’re letting go of yet.

And if this spoke to something deep inside you, consider this your sign:

You’re not wrong for feeling this way.

You’re just finally listening.

Kristi x - your thinking partner, therapist, coach, burnout strategist