Burnout, Beets, and the Silent Return to Joy

Recognizing the small ways we care for ourselves, because they matter too.

I sat in bed, laptop open, waiting for my therapist to admit me into the Zoom room. Outside, spring was orchestrating its usual symphony of contention. The birds squabbled over the coveted nesting spot tucked discreetly in the crevice of my building’s rooftop. Amidst the chaos, rays of sunlight grazed my face, and before I knew it, a warm, whispering breeze ushered me into rhythmic breaths.

The One Assignment I Kept Failing

Her face appeared on the screen, inquisitive and unassuming as always. She asked the same question that had surfaced in our last eight sessions. But today, it felt different — like a ritual I couldn’t escape:

“What’s one thing you did to take care of yourself?”

I gasped for air — those words knocked the wind out of me. First, defiance: I’d promised myself I’d come prepared this time. Then, disappointment: I’d left our last session energized and committed. But somehow, I forgot — again. Finally, a pensive sadness. One or two missed assignments felt human. But four? That was clearly a pattern.

How could something I genuinely cared about slip so easily from my mind? It was like the version of me who showed up for these sessions disappeared the moment the call ended, diverging from the one who was supposed to carry the intention through.

It reminded me of Severance — how the “outies” forget everything the moment they leave work, even when the “innies” desperately want them to remember. That sense of dissociation was too familiar. I was forgetting how to show up for myself, despite my best intentions, and a different version of me took over once the screen went dark.

Nothing felt different in that moment. But her repetition — simple, resolute — began to unearth a truth my body had known long before my mind was able to accept it. This wasn’t a prompt demanding a neatly bow-tied answer, but an invitation to bring my inquisitive, systems-oriented mind to the challenge of nurturing myself. Not to find the solution necessarily, but to make space to discover what care could look like.

Seeking Clarity, Finding Questions

So I started digging.

I filtered through the usual archives: childhood, work, relationships. I hypothesized theories and searched for patterns, trying to pinpoint what might be clouding my view.

But nothing seemed to get to the root of what I was feeling.

By the end of the session, I was still left with questions — now echoing louder and resonating deeper than before.

In the weeks that followed, I did what I always do: I showed up for others and fulfilled obligations that brought only glimmers of joy. None of it quieted the persistent, low hum of depletion.

That hum had been with me for a while.

Breaking the Pattern

The physical signs were hard to ignore. My body asked for rest. My mind refused to settle. My heart yearned for something — literally anything — to light me up.

But I’ve always been a little stubborn.

One morning — crying, restless, a little manic — I recognized the feeling. It was the same one I’d felt a year earlier, right before I went on medical leave: helplessness, overwhelm, depression. My mind and body were on the brink of collapse.

It’s a state I promised myself I’d never return to.

In all fairness, I had taken some steps. I was building muscle around saying “no.” I pushed myself less when I was exhausted. But the practice was inconsistent, sporadic, and often unintentional at best. As adulthood demands piled up and people needed me, I slipped mindlessly back into old habits.

A clear sign that I hadn’t fully changed? I booked every weekend in April — four weeks back-to-back, full of commitments. Not one of them was truly for me.

I’d learned nothing, it seemed; the medical leave was a pause, not a pivot.

Planting a Small, Inconspicuous Seed

But that wasn’t true.

Beneath the surface, something had begun to take shape. These were inconspicuous, almost invisible ways I had chosen myself. It wasn’t as obvious as an all-inclusive trip to the Galápagos. Rather, a small seed planted shallowly, with quiet intention. One I hoped, even faintly, to tend to.

So I did, in the ways I knew how.

The Return

One of the ways was revisiting a project I had left unfinished: a custom Roronoa Zoro rug I’d promised my partner. Two years in the making, and still untouched. Ever patient, he offered to rent me a studio space so I could finally bring it to life.

And that’s how I found myself creating again — reawakening my artistic side through the process of tufting his rug. It was a limitless space that asked nothing of me, and for once, it was something I could pour into, just for me.

Outside the studio walls, nature called to me. With the last frost behind us, though, climate change keeps us guessing; it was growing season. I restocked the soil, purchased the seeds, and mapped out my planting layout with the attentiveness of a researcher.

But that visceral sense of happiness came when wildlife returned: my run-ins with the otters during my walks, jumping spiders skittering across the patio door. And of course, Frank — my bushy-tailed nemesis — resurfacing to scout which raised bed he plans to vandalize this year.

There’s something magical about existing alongside other life and nurturing it, too. In those moments, I felt the synergy between my body and the earth — something I’d forgotten. And that carefree, childlike happiness was the permission I needed to rediscover joy.

We haven’t met since that last session, but I’ll be proud to report back to my therapist. I’ve thought a lot about the feeling I’m moving toward.

What I’ve learned is that, for me, the hard part is always just noticing — the obvious moments, absolutely — but also the unassuming ones:

• Whispering affirmations to my seedlings.

• Logging birds in my Merlin app.

• Saying no — and being okay with meaning it.

  
  

Taking care of myself is a primitive instinct — always alive and intact, sometimes stifled but never completely gone.

The world around me may muffle the soft signals, but with my antennas up, I’ve learned to listen for the subtle cues. And that’s where I’ve started — with small, deliberate practices that help me reconnect.

Only four out of sixteen of the scallions I planted have emerged, and the studio has sat quiet for a few weeks. But for now, you’ll find me admiring my newly formed beets — honoring the intentional moments of this process.

And that is more than enough.

It’s easy to forget what fuels us when we’re pulled in conflicting directions. But maybe, just maybe, now is the time to return to something that feels like home — a small, quiet act of care you’ve neglected for too long.

What that is doesn’t always reveal itself right away. I wish I could offer you CliffNotes, but I assure you, you don’t need them. You likely already have the seed sitting underneath the surface, a dormant instinct, quietly awakening, just waiting for the right moment to emerge. So, I’ll leave you with this:

What is one thing you can do right now, just for you?

Still learning, still listening — Shayla