I am smart. I am observant. I can make connections across many seemingly unrelated domains. I can care for others in myriad ways.

And I am terrible at listening to myself.

When I began this burnout recovery, I genuinely thought I was being proactive. I could still get up every morning, show up to work, get the kids to appointments, make dinner. I was a functional adult even though I knew I was struggling. My blood pressure was high. My sleep was terrible. I got done with work and sat like a zombie. 

But I could still pick myself up and keep going, so I thought I was doing so great at stepping away before things got too bad.

Gods I'm an idiot.

At the end of April with 2 months of recovery behind me and some energy restored, I decided to finally get going on the kitchen refresh I'd had planned for months. I scrubbed walls, painted, bought tile, put it up and got it grouted. I celebrated my 17 year old's birthday. I felt like me again.

That Friday, I realized I had done a lot and needed to rest. I rested Friday. I rested over the weekend. Sunday, I declared myself recovered and even posted on LinkedIn that a 3 day weekend was perfect. Cured! I declared.

Oh, Dearest Hubris. I know thee well

My body staged a rebellion. I woke up on Monday with the worst migraine I'd experienced this year. I couldn't see or form words. Walking was torture. Eating was out of the question.

9 days later, with double vision and a numb left side of my face I admitted defeat and went to the urgent care. They sent me to the emergency department, but only if I had a ride. I must have looked as bad as I felt. Failing the neurological screen sure expedited things.

I wound up with a nasty medication reaction and  a suspicious CT scan which led to an MRI, 20+ blood tests, and firm orders to go to bed and stay there. No argument from me! I couldn't stay out of bed if I wanted to. Walking up the stairs to my bedroom required a 2 hour nap. 

After 3 weeks, I worried that this was just my new reality – that I'd never get my brain or energy back. What if I never cooked again? Sewed again? Planted and harvested vegetables again? What if I had to give up driving forever? It was dark.

I wanted to write about this horrible, awful, no fun part of burnout recovery because I wasn't finding a lot of other voices chiming in. But now I know why. My brain simply could not even. No matter how hard I tried. For the first time in my life I could stare out the window and just … stare. No thoughts. No dreaming or scheming or story writing. Just utter blankness. 

Finally, all the tests came back negative. On paper, I'm the picture of health. The doctors declared it an intractable chronic migraine. It's the "you'll live but make yourself comfortable" diagnosis that those of us with complex autoimmune conditions are used to. But it sucks dirty pond scum.

After 24 days, my migraine and exhaustion disappeared as suddenly as they had appeared. Inexplicably, I'm fine, as if nothing ever happened. I can think in multiple tracks. I can play with the pups and cook dinner. I can walk and chew gum and holler orders at the teens. My doctor and I are baffled. 

I'm relieved. And puzzled. And I feel like I betrayed myself. 

I should have known how bad the burnout was. Because from where I am now, I really believe my body was not nearly rested enough to take on a birthday celebration week on top of a kitchen refresh. Looking back, I should have taken a break 2 years ago. That's when I started to lose my tolerance for others, found less pleasure in the things I loved, and when I stopped being a fun person to be around. But I kept pushing myself because I didn't feel like I could take a break. It wasn't bad enough. I could keep pushing. I could organize and optimize and automate my way to functionality. Stopping was scary – financially, professionally, existentially. I couldn't do the thing for Betts that I am able to do for others – hold space and compassion and softness for the reality of being human. To give permission to rest without rush or judgement. I couldn't love me the way I love others. What greater betrayal is there?

I am deeply grateful I have this time. A shorter break would have been disastrous exactly because of what happened. I would have thought I was ready to return to full time work, only to have a full month-long health crisis. And instead of being able to take the time to rest – deeply and without bounds – I would have pushed myself to return before i was ready, relying on medication to do so. A betrayal on top of a betrayal. 

So what does this mean for me now? It means I'm not returning to work in June. While I do feel better, I'm not stupid enough to think I'm back to 100%. I'm going to take at least another month to practice pacing myself, tracking my health, and building up the endurance to do a full days' work. I no longer believe a "full day" of mental labor is 8 hours. A full week isn't 5 days. And that's OK. Does it mean my options for W2 work are limited? Yea. Do I care? Absolutely not. I get one chance on this planet and I've learned that giving my health away to someone else who isn't going to share equally in the proceeds of my sacrifice is not how I want to spend my short time living. I won't do that to me again.