The Problem with Burnout

We talk about “burnout” like it’s a thing that happens when you’ve used up all your fuel. The wick runs out. The oil is gone. You’re done.But if that’s the case—then what? Are you supposed to lie there and somehow regrow the wick? Wait for the oil to slowly seep back in? Take time off work and hope the candle magically rebuilds itself? In 3 weeks, months or years?

This metaphor, while poetic, quietly hides the real problem. It makes it sound like the person has simply depleted themselves, like they burned too bright or gave too much. But what if the issue isn’t how much you burned—but why you were burning in the first place?

Burnout Isn’t Just About Doing Too Much

Burnout symptoms — fatigue, apathy, dysregulation, fog, collapse — don’t always come from overworking. Sometimes they come from waiting. From sending resumés into the void. From not knowing where next month’s rent is coming from. From living without structure, community, purpose, or support.

In other words: you can feel “burnt out” even when you’re not producing anything. And this, too, is real. So how can both giving too much and having too little create the same effect?

Because in both cases, your nervous system is dysregulated. Either you’re running on survival-mode adrenaline, or you're stuck in a kind of limbo with no clear signals for action, safety, or rest.

Burnout Is Not Depletion. It’s Dysregulation.

There’s growing research—and a lot of lived experience—that shows the core of “burnout” isn’t about running out of some internal fuel. It’s about nervous system overload. About being stuck in long-term, low-grade survival mode, where your body is always responding to pressure, sound, demands, and expectations without pause.

It’s not just that we “worked too much.” It’s that we lost the ability to come down. To regulate. To feel ourselves again in the midst of it all. Taking time off doesn’t automatically heal that. In fact, stepping away from work without tools for emotional or physiological regulation can sometimes make people feel worse—disoriented, numb, or unsure of how to “rest” when they’ve forgotten what rest even is. That’s why just taking time off doesn’t automatically fix burnout.

Burnout as a Social Loop

In Europe, “burnout” is a recognized clinical condition and that can be validating. Especially for people who’ve spent years in high-stress environments without acknowledgment or support.

But there’s a cultural pattern, too.

More and more people are taking “burnout leave” once a year. This is not because they’ve failed, but because the systems they’re in are unsustainable. And sometimes, because they’re not engaging with the right kinds of recovery when they are working.

If the rhythm is always:

give everything → collapse → recover → repeat,

then something deeper needs attention.

Likewise, those who aren't in traditional jobs (freelancers, artists, people in between work) can feel the same sense of depletion, grief, or collapse without being seen or supported.

They may not qualify for a diagnosis. But they’re still struggling to regulate a nervous system that’s confused by too much uncertainty and not enough contact.

Why the Term "Burnout" Can Do Harm

Here’s the thing: the word “burnout” makes it sound like the person has failed. As if they were supposed to have an unlimited tank, and they foolishly used it all up. It encourages guilt, passivity, or resignation.

It also gets used to justify doing less, instead of doing differently. And workplaces love it. It’s a convenient way to frame the problem as your body couldn’t keep up, instead of the system didn’t support recovery. A burned-out employee can be replaced. But a dysregulated workforce? That requires actual change.

Alternatives? Language That Honors the Process

What if we stopped saying “burned out” and started saying:

• “I’m overcapacity.”

• “I’ve been running on hypervigilance.”

• “My system needs regulation, not a vacation.”

• “I need time to feel again—not just rest.”

Because figuring out how to move forward isn’t about doing nothing. It’s about doing something different—with attention, with rhythm, with care.

We are not machines, candles, or productivity tools.
We are sensing, rhythmic, relational creatures. We're ecosystems.
And we deserve language — and care — that reflects that.

What Healing Actually Looks Like

I recently came across a framework that helped name what I’ve sensed for a while:

1. First, reduce external stimuli.
   If your nervous system is fried, start by removing the sparks. Sounds, lights, conversations, social obligations—whatever your body interprets as incoming data. This is a type of triage. It’s retreating from the fire, instead of fixing the wick.

2. Then stay in that quiet.
   This step gets skipped all the time. People go on a weekend yoga trip and think they should bounce back Monday morning. But the nervous system needs atmosphere, not just absence. Space. Slowness. Time to reattune.

3. Then (and only then) learn to feel again.
   The final step is re-regulation—not just being relaxed, but learning how to notice what you feel, how to respond to it, and how to move through it rather than bypass it. You don’t need more motivation or productivity. You need reconnection.

This is why somatic work matters. Why movement matters. Why breath and body and safety and co-regulation matter. Because you don’t "rebuild the wick" by learning to tough it out or through static immobilization. You rebuild by relearning how to be in relationship—with yourself, with your sensations, and with your world.