The soft rebellion

The way we are working isn’t sustainable.

We’re often told that burnout is a personal flaw. That if we were just a little more organized, a little more disciplined, or did more yoga, we wouldn’t be exhausted. But what if that’s not true? What if the culture is broken, not us?

Over the last year, I broke down. I broke open. And now, I’m starting to rebuild. Not just for me, but for my child, for the kind of world I want to live in, and for anyone else who is quietly unraveling while trying to hold everything together.

This is my healing journey.

In October 2024, I woke up one morning and thought a spider must have crawled on to my head and bit me twice! I had two nasty sores on my forehead and the entire left side of my face was swollen. I dropped my kid off at school and headed to urgent care, thinking maybe I needed a little ointment. Twenty minutes later, the doctor came in with the look of someone about to tell me I had to start writing a will.

It was shingles. Shingles. I’m still in my 40s. I thought that was reserved for people who eat dinner at 4 p.m. and keep hard candies in their pockets. They were concerned about the stress levels that had triggered it and worried I might lose my sight. Thankfully, I got on medication early enough to avoid permanent damage, except for a few gnarly scars on my forehead that now serve as a reminder of just how far I’d pushed myself past empty.

While I kind of took most of the week off and laid on the couch, I was still checking in to Slack, replying to emails, directing shit, and I still had all of the parenting responsibilities, of course. But was soooo wiped out and in pain. I can’t remember feeling that level of fatigue, and I’m a perimenopausal single parent! Yet, I still attempted to grind.

By the end of 2024, I was barely functioning. I had panic attacks so intense I was taking beta blockers just to survive a 30-minute meeting. I wasn’t sleeping. I couldn’t think clearly. I was leading a high-performing team at one of the world’s most powerful companies, but my body had staged a full mutiny.

Looking back at the two years leading up to this break down, it's no wonder why I found myself in this place.

On my first day in this role and company, massive layoffs were announced larger than I’d ever experienced in my nearly few decades of work. On my second day, my entire org was offered voluntary severance. For the next two years, it was a nonstop carousel of reorgs, scope shifts, chaotic decision-making, and deadlines built on vibes. I kept hoping things would calm down, but apparently calm was not a feature of the job description.

At the same time, I was solo parenting my child, who was struggling in school, socially, and emotionally. I was trying to be his rock while I was quietly sinking, and now I see how much my health was negatively impacting his.

Eventually, my body said what my mouth couldn’t. I can’t do this anymore.

I took a medical leave.

The decision terrified me. I was afraid of what it meant for my career, my team, my identity. But I knew that if I didn’t stop, I’d lose more than my job. I’d lose myself.

My child needed me to heal. I needed me to heal.

I had no map, just a prayer that rest could do what over-functioning never could.

And so began the work of healing.

I wish I could say I immediately found peace, started meditating at sunrise, and took up pottery. But the truth is, healing is wildly unglamorous. Some days I felt hopeful. Other days I binge-watched garbage TV and cried over expired veggies in the fridge that I should have fed my kid, rather than nuggets every night. I finally started anxiety and depression medication. I leaned in with my therapist, a psychiatric nurse, and a hormone specialist who all basically said, “Yeah, this tracks.”

There were breakthroughs. I found a new therapist for my child. We started martial arts. I paused social media. I stepped into a church that felt like an actual safe and inclusive space. I reaffirmed my values: faith, health, meaningful work. I dreamed of a new career that combined coaching, design, and wellness, even if I had no clue how to make it happen or what that might look like.

There were breakdowns too. Nights of insomnia that spiraled into panic. Emotional fallout from strained family relationships. Fear about the future. Loneliness so deep I could feel it in my bones. But I kept showing up for the process, even when all I could do was breathe and make more nuggets.

At first, it was for three months. But by the beginning of that third month, I realized I was still not okay. It had taken weeks to find a medication that didn’t mute me, mess with my sleep, or leave me worse off than before. I was still having the occasional panic attack and using therapy sessions just to regulate my nervous system instead of actually processing or healing.

So I extended my leave to four months.

And in that final month, something shifted. I started having real moments of stillness. Not just absence of panic, but flickers of peace. My child was noticeably lighter. We were laughing more. Making art. Dancing in the kitchen. I was finding sparks of joy every single day. I finally felt like I had the system in place to return to work and stay well.

I returned in mid-April. And at first, it felt amazing. Reconnecting with my team, sharing ideas, feeling re-engaged. I was optimistic that with strong boundaries and clear values, I could make it work. I believed I could balance work and well-being.

But within a few weeks, the signs started creeping back in. The insomnia returned. So did the migraines. The sadness began to build again. I wasn’t having panic attacks, thanks to medication and regular therapy, but I could feel myself slowly sliding back into the same patterns.

The difference was, this time, I noticed.

I could take a step back and observe what was happening in my body. I knew I was doing everything within my control. But the structure around me hadn’t changed.

The day I returned, my team was moved to a lower level of the org and under a leader with no understanding of leading a mature product team and no UX background. My role was effectively diminished. Strategic input was cut off. Customer problems were being defined after solutions were already locked in. My team was being asked to show up reactively, not proactively. It didn’t matter how thoughtful we were or how clearly we advocated for human-centered approaches. We had no seat at the table.

At first, I wanted to fix it. That’s what I do. I lead. I support. I try to make things better.

But the reality became clear. I had no control. No agency. No autonomy.

And that was the nail in the coffin.

It was time to make the scary leap.

I realized I had been pouring myself into problems that weren’t mine to solve, into systems that were not designed to care about the people inside them. I have real ideas. Solutions that actually serve people. And I was finally ready to bet on myself.

I actually love UX research and design. I’m good at it. But I’m not good at designing solutions that have no purpose.

So I left. Two months after returning from medical leave, I left my job.

And now, I’m standing in this terrifying, beautiful, unfamiliar space called rediscovery. It’s messy. It’s unpredictable. But it’s mine.

What I know now is this. Burnout isn’t a personal failure. It’s a cultural one.

We’re expected to give more than we have, and when we fall apart, we’re told to just take better care of ourselves. It’s gaslighting on a corporate scale.

Our stakeholders need us more than we need them. They depend on our silence and our fear. But the moment we stop pretending this is normal, the game changes.

I’m not out of the woods yet. I still wake up anxious. I still get overwhelmed. I still forget to eat my veggies and doomscroll like it’s a hobby. But I’m no longer pretending that I can just push through or out-hustle the system.

I am choosing something different. Rest. Clarity. Integrity. Joy.

Here’s what I’m learning:

• Rest is not lazy. It is sacred.

• Boundaries are not selfish. They are survival.

• You don’t need to be productive to be valuable.

• Empathy without boundaries is martyrdom.

• You don’t have to prove your worth. You already have it.

• And if your forehead breaks out in blisters, maybe that’s your body sending a very loud memo. Read it.

If you are tired, unraveling, or quietly wondering how much longer you can hold it together, I want you to know you’re not alone.

You are not broken. You are not failing. You are waking up.

And when you wake up, you get to decide. You get to say no. You get to rest. You get to reclaim your life.

Let’s stop waiting for someone to give us permission.

Let’s take it.

Together.