9 min read
There are moments in life that divide everything into “before” and “after.”
For me, my first burnout was one of those moments.
Until then, I thought I was coping.
Life was busy.
Work was demanding.
Family life was full.
Like so many people, I kept telling myself to push through.
I believed that if I just worked a little harder or became a little more organised, everything would eventually settle down.
Instead, everything slowly began falling apart.
At first, the changes were subtle.
I became more anxious.
More emotionally reactive.
More exhausted than I’d ever felt before.
Things that had once seemed manageable suddenly felt overwhelming.
My mind wouldn’t stop.
Every thought seemed to lead to another.
I couldn’t switch it off.
I stopped feeling like myself.
The more I tried to push through, the worse everything became.
Over the following months, I genuinely believed I was losing my mind.
It’s difficult to describe that feeling unless you’ve lived through it.
Nothing felt familiar anymore.
I questioned my thoughts.
My memory.
My emotions.
My ability to cope.
I kept wondering what was happening to me.
I didn’t recognise the person I’d become.
Looking back now, I realise I wasn’t “going crazy.”
I was experiencing a level of burnout that my mind and body could no longer hide from.
At the time, though, I didn’t know that.
All I knew was that I was terrified.
Those twelve months were, without question, the hardest of my life.
They were also incredibly hard on my family.
The people who loved me were watching someone they cared about slowly disappear beneath exhaustion, anxiety and confusion.
I wasn’t just struggling.
We were all struggling.
Burnout doesn’t only affect the person experiencing it.
It reaches the people who care about them too.
That is something I’ve never forgotten.
There were moments during that time when life felt so overwhelming that I struggled to imagine things ever improving.
I felt completely lost.
Hopeless.
There were times when my thoughts became frightening enough that I wondered whether I could keep living like this.
Looking back now, I can say those thoughts came from a place of profound exhaustion and despair—not because I truly wanted my life to end, but because I desperately wanted the suffering to stop.
That distinction became incredibly important as I began to recover.
Today, I’m deeply grateful that I kept reaching out for help, even when it didn’t feel like things would ever improve.
Recovery wasn’t quick.
It wasn’t a straight line.
There wasn’t one appointment or one medication that suddenly made everything okay.
Instead, recovery happened gradually.
One conversation.
One piece of understanding.
One small improvement at a time.
As I learned more about burnout, anxiety and eventually my AuDHD, I slowly began making sense of what had happened.
For the first time, my experiences had a context.
Not an excuse.
An explanation.
If I could speak to the version of myself who was living through those twelve months, I wouldn’t tell him to be stronger.
He’d already spent years being strong.
I’d tell him something very different.
I’d tell him that he wasn’t weak.
He wasn’t broken.
He wasn’t failing.
He was carrying far more than anyone should have to carry alone.
And most importantly…
I’d tell him that things could get better.
Because they did.
Not overnight.
Not perfectly.
But little by little.
That experience changed me forever.
It changed the way I think about mental health.
It changed the way I think about success.
It changed the way I look after myself.
And ultimately, it changed the direction of my life.
Without those twelve months, I don’t believe AuDHD Companion would exist.
I would never wish that experience on anyone.
But if sharing it helps someone else recognise the signs earlier, ask for support sooner or simply realise they’re not alone, then something meaningful has come from one of the darkest chapters of my life.
If you’re reading this while you’re in your own difficult season, I want to leave you with this:
There may be days when you can’t see a way forward.
I’ve been there.
Please don’t mistake the way you feel today for how you’ll feel forever.
Keep talking.
Keep reaching out.
Keep taking the next small step, even if it’s the only one you can see.
Sometimes hope doesn’t arrive all at once.
Sometimes it returns so quietly that you only notice it when you look back.
I’m living proof that even after the darkest chapter, another one can still be written.