A Journey of Burnout & Anxiety

I’ve always struggled with depression and anxiety, but this year has been the hardest I’ve ever faced. I’ve encountered some of the toughest days of my life, to the point where simply living stopped feeling like my priority. Admitting this isn’t easy, but there have been times when the thought of ending it all crossed my mind. And, at my lowest, I came dangerously close to acting on those feelings.

The truth is, life can be unbearably difficult, and sometimes we’re asked to carry more than we can bear

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve become more aware of just how much my mental health has deteriorated. I always knew I had "issues," but I convinced myself they weren’t that serious. I wasn’t stuck in bed all day, I didn’t have constant breakdowns, and I could still manage basic tasks like showering, so I assumed everything was fine. But eventually, it wasn’t.

I hit a point where I couldn’t even feed myself. I struggled to get out of bed in the mornings, and even the simplest self-care tasks felt insurmountable. My days were filled with endless waves of exhaustion, and I began having nervous breakdowns—both at work and at home.

I’ve always been hard on myself. My inner critic is relentless, and I’ve spent years putting pressure on myself to perform at a high level, never letting up. When I hit my lowest point a few months ago, the self-blame was overwhelming. I kept asking myself, How did I let it get this bad? What’s wrong with me? Why am I like this? I felt completely broken, but instead of being compassionate with myself, I blamed myself for things that were out of my control.

By mid-August, my anxiety had completely taken over my life. At first, it was subtle—my appetite decreased, and certain work tasks began to trigger me. Every time I received an email from a student's parent, my heart would race, and I would be consumed by the fear that everything was about to go terribly wrong.

Side Note: It became a pattern. Whenever a parent reached out, it was usually because they were upset—about school policies, their child’s behavior, or their child's performance, which they often blamed on the school. The pressure to find solutions to these ongoing issues started to wear me down. I felt defeated when people weren’t satisfied with the outcome, and I would go home, constantly worrying if I was doing enough, if I was good enough at my job.

The school environment became toxic. Students were constantly misbehaving, running down the hallways, throwing food at lunch. Teachers were overwhelmed, and complaints about the constant disrespect were everywhere. Students would frequently be sent to the office, as teachers, already at their breaking points, kicked them out of the classroom.

One day, I had to break up a fight between students, and then found myself chasing one of them down the street when he tried to flee. His behavior was disruptive, and I was alone, trying to keep him safe. I was terrified that something bad would happen to him, and that it would somehow fall back on me. The fear of what could go wrong consumed me. This experience left me dreading being alone with a large group of kids, which, unfortunately, happened more often than not. Daily lunch duty sent me into an anxious spiral that I couldn’t escape.

The real frustration, though, came from the parents. They seemed unwilling to support the school and constantly questioned our actions, often refusing to believe their child could be at fault. More often than not, they deflected their child’s misbehavior onto the school, leaving me feeling like I was fighting a losing battle. Dealing with reasonable parents seemed like a rare exception.

By October, things had reached a breaking point. I was eating less than 200 calories a day, had lost 30 pounds, and felt a constant sense of dread every time I received a notification on my phone. I’d wake up between 3 and 5 a.m., overwhelmed by anxiety that gripped my chest and mind. To cope, I’d get to school early to catch up on work before anyone else arrived. But no matter how much I did, every task—whether personal or professional—felt like I was moving a mountain. Even something as simple as going to the grocery store felt impossible.

I spent my entire fall break on edge, dreading the return to work, terrified of what I would face. I couldn’t enjoy the time off. Instead, I worked on my computer, doing random tasks just to feel like I wasn’t falling behind. I couldn’t shake the fear and anxiety that haunted me all week. When I looked at old pictures of myself, I felt a deep sadness, longing for the person I once was—the person who felt happy, whole, and in control.

On November 6th, things took a physical toll during a particularly stressful work training. The session was about preparing for potential crises at the school, and I was so anxious that I spent the entire time bouncing my right leg. The next day, my leg started to feel numb, and I’ve since lost feeling in my foot. I still can’t flex my big toe, and my foot constantly feels like it’s "asleep."

As time moved on, my coworkers noticed the drastic change in me. They could see that I no longer had the same “shine” I once did. I was open with them about how bad I was doing and shared that I no longer wanted to be alive. It was hard to admit, but it was also a turning point. I was graciously given medical leave to focus on my health.

After an emotional session with my therapist, she became concerned about my well-being. I was engaging in self-harm and clearly struggling with emotional dysregulation. She referred me to a social worker, who helped me connect with the Ohio Recovery Center. I never imagined I’d need rehab, but there I was—packing my bags to leave for two weeks, two hours away.

Entering rehab felt surreal. I had no idea what to expect. The process was intense: they took my phone, gave me an exam - including a urine test and blood draw, and ran all my clothes through a high-heat dryer. After being stripped of my phone and having my shampoo and conditioner confiscated- I was sent to the E-Starr cabin. The first night was overwhelming. I spent hours crying, unable to call my husband or connect with anyone I knew. It felt like I had entered a different world, cut off from the “real world.”

But after a day or two, I started to adjust. I met incredible people, started eating three meals a day, and even found time to read books and watch a Netflix series with a new friend. Rehab gave my nervous system a much-needed break, even though I wished the therapy had been more intensive. I returned home on November 27th, feeling lighter, more hopeful, and ready to face Thanksgiving with my family.

However, the relief didn’t last. When Sunday came, the stress of returning to school hit me hard. I found myself unable to eat again, devastated by the realization that things hadn’t improved. I was right back where I had been two weeks earlier.

I tried to return to work, but the overwhelming pressure and anxiety hit me immediately. I couldn’t handle the backlog of emails, and within hours, I was facing an upset parent. I decided to take a step back—working from home part-time while seeking additional help. But even then, I felt like a failure. I couldn't do the basics of my job, and I began to wonder: Is it me? Did I cause this?

In those moments, I cried often and prayed for strength. I wanted to be there for the kids, for my coworkers, but I couldn’t push my own struggles aside anymore. I realized that no amount of effort would fix the environment I was in. It was beyond my control.

Eventually, I came to a decision: my mental health had to come first. I had to prioritize my well-being over my pride. I’ve decided to leave the school system and take a job with less stress. It’s not an easy decision. It’s hard to walk away from the students I’ve helped and the amazing colleagues I’ve worked with. But I know it’s the right choice for me, and I’m hopeful that this will be a step toward healing.

Turning in my resignation has been a huge relief. It’s become clear that I was experiencing burnout. While I wish things had turned out differently, I’ve learned the hard way that sometimes we need to take a break—reevaluate—and make changes for our own well-being.

I still have a long way to go, but I’m learning that it’s okay to put myself first. The journey isn’t over, but I’m ready to keep moving forward, one step at a time.