It was the fall of 2021. I was at my first job out of graduate school. I was investing my time and energy into a fast-tracked career trajectory with great teammates and meaningful projects. Everything seemed perfect.
But I couldn't help feeling depressed and helpless at times. I would be procrastinating on tasks did not appear difficult for no obvious reasons, and working overtime to compensate for self-induced productivity drain. I would sign myself up for challenging projects - even outside of my own team's scope - and later feel overwhelmed. On the outside, I was getting recognized and promoted quite frequently; only I knew that I was stuck in a cycle of endless sprinting and self-sabotage.
The COVID-19 pandemic brought on loneliness and isolation, but it also led to a robust discourse around burnout. I was finally able to find words to describe what I was feeling - this silent struggle that I've had all this time.
This kind of burnout doesn’t always arrive loudly. Sometimes it shows up quietly, disguised as procrastination, overcommitment, or self-blame.
And in fact, this was not the first time at all. I had always been a perfectionist overachiever up until that point. The pattern had been strikingly similar: setting a high target for myself, toughing it out (cue hyperindependence), and at the end, getting completely exhausted when I should be feeling proud for the achievement.
A sense of disconnect grew quietly at the same time. The more peers saw me as a smart, intelligent person, the more I worked for external validation that matched the "reputation". I felt that I would be worthless if it weren't for all the great things I could do. My self-esteem was contingent upon external approval. Achievement felt less like something to celebrate, and more like something I needed to survive.
If you’ve spent years trying to appear “normal” rather than feeling understood, you may recognize this tension. ADHD (attention deficit hyperactivity disorder) gave me the ability to hyperfocus in anything that interests me, at the expense of being able to stay consistent. Lectures that are less engaging than ideal felt like torture. Me pretending to be attentive at meetings probably deserves an Oscar.
Staying socially connected and supported was also harder for me when I was young because of ASD (autism spectrum disorder). Every move to a new environment brought a new set of challenges in terms of fitting in and understanding unspoken social rules. Masking became a default mode of operation, preventing me from connecting authentically with others and from being seen.
If you are here, you can probably relate to a great deal of the cultural factors I'm about to enumerate.
The culture I grew up in celebrates winning and perfection, attributes failure to the lack of will power, and does not value empathy. Individuals are deserving of attention only when they are successful and excellent, not when they are struggling and in need of community and support. Our differences are not valued, but rather weaponized against us. Empathy is direly needed, but mocked as "sympathy for the weak".
Many of us learned early that being lovable meant being exceptional.
Since then, I’ve been on a journey of understanding through mindfulness, Buddhist practice, therapy, and curious study of psychology and human relationships. These experiences helped me learn how to meet the world from a grounded, compassionate place.
If you’re not looking for a quick fix, but for a way to relate to yourself with more compassion, this part of the journey may resonate.
Today, I work in tech while also co-running an online feminist community with my partner. When I'm not working to support others, I enjoy learning new languages, playing music for friends, and reading a good book in a warm blanket.
Welcome to this journey where we figure it out and stay honest to ourselves, one chapter at a time.