Hey, welcome back. I started this blog because I needed to get my story out. Out of my body. Out of my mind. Out into the world for anyone who might be struggling with the same things I did—and still do.
By the time you’re reading this, my full “What Burnout Felt Like” series will be online. So if you just landed here and got curious, you might want to start with that series first. It’s where I explain how I got here in the first place—and how I ended up needing medical help. For those of you who have already read it, then you know where we are: December 2024, with a completely broken Lizzie.
When January came, I knew I had to seek medical help. I had made a scene at work. I had spent an entire week sleeping—and the following week, not sleeping at all. I had chosen to spend the winter holidays alone, skipping both Christmas and New Year’s, because I just couldn’t handle the pressure of mandatory social interaction. I was too exhausted. I knew I couldn’t go on like that. Something inside me had been shattered. So I looked for help.
Usually, when you seek medical support, the first step is a general practitioner. Well—mine wasn’t much help. At least, that’s how it felt. She just looked at me with pity and prescribed therapy. So I went. My very first session with a therapist. It was a disaster.
I was broken. I couldn’t do a damn thing—not cook, not sleep, not even return a stupid package. I was numb, collapsed on the couch, staring blankly ahead with a mind gone silent. I wasn’t eating. I was sleep-deprived. I was constantly on edge.
Maybe the therapist was a bad fit. Maybe it was just the wrong time. Probably both. But it was a complete disaster. He spoke in a whisper, barely audible, as if that alone would be soothing. He mostly responded with vague “hmm-hmms” and would occasionally ask a question when I stopped talking. He didn’t explain what was happening to me. He didn’t offer guidance or support. He just sat there and hummed. I left the session feeling worse than when I had arrived.
My doctor didn’t know what to do. The therapist was useless. And I was getting worse. I was begging for help, and no one seemed to understand that. I felt lost. I needed clarity. I needed someone to tell me what was happening. But no one did. It was terrifying.
I had one last medical appointment scheduled. I didn’t expect much from it—it was just an osteopath visit for the pain in my upper back and neck. But it ended up saving me.
He asked why I had come, and I told him about the pain. He examined my movements, then sat down and looked me straight in the eye:
— “Do you have a lot of headaches?”
— “Yes.”
— “Do you feel nauseous when you get up?”
— “Yes.”
— “Do you wake up at night from the pain in your neck?”
— “Yeah, I do.”
— “You’re burning out. You need to see a psychiatrist.”
What?! That was my first reaction. I had not expected that.
He explained that all my symptoms—the headaches, the nausea, the stiffness—were the mechanical signs of burnout. He could work on the physical part, unblock me. But unless I saw a psychiatrist to address the root cause, the pain would return.
That appointment helped me more than my doctor and therapist combined.
Seeing a psychiatrist doesn’t come easy. It’s something people associate with “serious” mental conditions: bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, and so on. It’s where you go when you’re—let’s just say it—crazy.
Well, I was crazy. And that osteopath helped me see that it was okay.
He referred me to a kind female psychiatrist. I went. And for the first time in months, I got what I needed: answers, support, softness. She knew what to do. And I felt seen. I cried—not out of panic this time, but out of relief.
The truth is, burnout is a mental condition. So yes, you need to see a psychiatrist. That’s their job. She told me I should probably find a new therapist and a new GP—since neither of them thought to refer me to her. She was right.
She also told me therapy wasn’t appropriate at that moment. That’s why it had made me feel worse. What I needed now was rest. I needed to sleep. I needed to let my body recover. Therapy could come later—once my nervous system could tolerate it again. And that might take months, even years. Again, she was right.
It was hard to hear. Like I said in earlier posts, my entire personality had been built around performance. Around proving myself, again and again. So not being able to do even basic things—like cook, or return a package—caused a massive amount of distress. I felt useless. I felt like a failure. I felt like I had no value anymore.
I wanted to heal quickly so I could start performing again. Be useful again. But I physically couldn’t. I wanted to get up, do my groceries, cook a meal, and cross things off a to-do list. But I just… couldn’t. My body wouldn’t move. I didn’t have the energy to feed myself. And that was one of the hardest things I’ve ever experienced.
Thank you so much for reading my story.
If this resonated with you, I’d truly love to hear from you — whether it’s in the comments or in a DM.
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