I keep hearing it lately, almost like a whisper I can’t ignore. Stop performing. Just… stop. And the truth is, I don’t know how. My whole adult life, I’ve been a performer. Performing my way into being liked, seen, valued. If I’m nice enough. If I work hard enough. If I rarely mess up. If I can just be a little more creative, a little more stylish, a little more kind… More, more, more.

I’ve been sitting in a fog lately, the kind that settles in after a season of motion, of overcommitment, of striving, of burnout! Coming home from a week in Italy, surrounded by beauty and history, I should feel inspired. But truthfully? I feel disconnected. Sure, maybe it’s jetlag. But I’ve felt this before. Maybe it’s the realization that the world keeps moving without me, that my contribution isn’t as big as I thought. That stings a little more than I’d like to admit

You know, one of the first signs of burnout I totally ignored? When the easy things, like really easy things, suddenly felt impossibly hard.

I don’t run for fitness. I don’t run for fun. But give me a deadline or a mission I believe in? I’m sprinting, and spoiler alert, that sprinting has sent me straight to burnout. I don’t know why I’m wired this way. Why I equate success with hustle. Why I feel most alive when I’m contributing, moving, fixing, and leading. I have a hard time sitting still. I like results. I like action. And yes, I’ve been called a control freak more times than I can count.

I didn’t post a blog post last week, just because it felt too forced. I haven’t even posted on my Instagram in over a week. The HORROR! Why? Honestly, it felt like performing, or more like needing to mark off another notch on my goal of 52 posts this year, or growing a following and having something to show for it. A few weeks ago, I felt a deep pull to stop posting altogether. And what did I do?