It started with the wrist. A dull throb just under the surface of the skin—like the hum of an old fluorescent light. I knew that pain. It had been my early warning bell for years, long before I ever named what it was: stress, pushing too hard, too fast, too much.
Then came the dizziness. I was standing in the kitchen, pouring tea, when the world tilted slightly to the left. Not enough to fall, but enough to remind me I could. That I had.
I wish I could say I caught it in time. That I noticed the signs, paused everything, took a long bath and got back on track. But the truth is, I kept going. My mother had taken a turn—subtle but worrisome. My son had just gone through a breakup and was dissolving into that quiet, listless sadness that teenage boys carry like fog. And I had said yes to a new consulting project that I wasn’t excited about but felt I should accept.
Just for now, I told myself. Just until things settle.
But they never really do, do they?
When You Lose the Thread, Pick It Back Up
The beauty of having rebuilt myself from burnout once already is that I know the landscape now. I can walk its edges, feel the wind shift, sense when I’m nearing the cliff. I don’t fall headfirst anymore. I lean, I sway—and then I catch myself.
Still, I wish I’d caught it sooner. The headaches were sharper this time. The insomnia crept in like an old acquaintance, polite but persistent. My wrist ached constantly. And that low-level anxiety—like I was always ten minutes behind or forgetting something—became my morning coffee.
It took me three weeks longer than it should have, but eventually, I stopped. I sat down, cupped a warm compress around my hand, and asked myself the question I’d been avoiding: What did I trade for all this?
The answer was simple. I’d let my non-negotiables become suggestions.
The daily stretch and breathwork I’d sworn by? Skipped. My Sunday night bath ritual? Forgotten. Herbal teas replaced with espresso. Evening journaling swapped out for phone scrolling. I was trying to fix everyone else’s pain while letting my own accumulate in the corners.
But here’s the truth I come back to, again and again: it’s never too late to begin again. You do not need to punish yourself for slipping. You just need to return.
I reviewed my routines—not with guilt, but with gentleness. Maybe my self-care had become too complicated. Maybe I needed to simplify. More walk, less workout. More warm oil on the skin, less 12-step skincare. More quiet, less catching up.
This week, I lit a candle while making tea. I massaged my temples with lavender oil and put my phone on airplane mode by 9 PM. I did five minutes of deep breathing, sitting on the bathroom floor with the lights off. It wasn’t perfect. But it was a beginning.
Your wellness routines are not accessories to wear when life is pretty. They are the scaffolding for the days when everything feels like it might fall apart.
So if you’ve drifted, come back. Review. Simplify. Improve. But above all—don’t abandon yourself. You already know the way home.