burnout didn't kill me, ambition did

The world moves fast, and we’re told to keep up, even if we’re limping.

It’s 9 a.m., and I’ve already lived an entire day inside my head. Since seven, I’ve been trying to wrestle stillness out of a morning that doesn’t have the patience for it. I pour myself a cup of coffee, pick up a book I’ve been “reading” for weeks now. I sip slowly, hoping time might take the hint and slow down too. But even in these 20 minutes, I’m mentally sprinting: what’s for breakfast, what’s urgent, who haven’t I replied to yet? The world seeps in through the cracks, faster still the more I try to shut it out.

But I don’t let go. I hold tight to those 20 minutes like a secret resistance. A small whisper to the universe: I’m trying to be present.

And then, like clockwork, the day arrives in a rush. I’m barking orders while inhaling breakfast, one eye on the app, trying to book a cab, resenting the noise I’ve become. The cab cancels. The WhatsApp messages pile up like laundry. I reply even though I don’t have to, because silence feels like a threat. I respond like a woman afraid of being forgotten, because the world we live in doesn’t reward absence. Or silence.

This is the constant hum now, isn’t it? The hustle soundtrack. The ache to stay relevant by being productive all the time. The urgency to perform, even when all you want is a pause. Don’t think - just do. Don’t pause - produce. The world moves fast, and we’re told to keep up, even if we’re limping. Capitalism thrives on this rhythm: the glorification of speed, the commodification of energy. It tells us that if we’re not always producing, we’re wasting.

I used to be the poster child for this. As an entrepreneur, I was always on. Firefighting issues, solving problems before they fully appeared, and measuring my self-worth in efficiency and output. I sprinted from one thing to the next. Said yes before I thought. Believed a full calendar meant a full life. I measured success in urgency - in how quickly I replied, how many boxes I ticked, how often my name came up in rooms I wasn’t in. I was efficient. I was polite. I was productive. I was exhausted.

Burnout didn’t arrive dramatically. It arrived like fog - soft, slow, and suffocating. I saw my peers putting in the hard work to get their dreams, and I resented them for it. I was training, working, undersleeping and overachieving, and I was exhausted. I snapped at a friend who asked me, gently, “How are you? What’s going on? Tell me!” I didn’t know. I was emotionally brittle. Even small joys began to feel like chores. Every interaction felt like a performance, every conversation a task to survive. Work no longer thrilled me; everything left me feeling drained. The things that once lit me up - writing, laughter, movement - were dimmed by the constant pressure to do more and be more. I had stopped reaching for joy.

So I did the only thing I could. I slowed down.

Except, slowing down didn’t arrive like some cinematic epiphany. It wasn’t some dramatic “Eat, Pray, Love” moment. It took months. It took me some time to admit I was lost, time to sit with the confusion, time to allow the fog to clear. I kept waiting for a spark, a sign, a fix, but it took me a few months to realise that healing came in stillness, in showing up without answers. What surprised me most was realising that discipline, the very thing I thought had driven me to burnout, was also what kept me afloat. Discipline was no longer about performance or perfection; it became a form of care. Discipline didn’t look glamorous at all, though; it didn’t come to me soaked in motivation. It was the quiet, unsexy kind. It got me out of bed, helped me feed myself, and carried me through the worst of it when joy alone wasn’t enough. It was discipline that said - You don’t have to be better right now. You just have to keep going.

I let messages go unanswered. I said no to invitations. I wandered through my own silence like a stranger in my own home. Every small act of resistance felt like rebellion against a version of myself I had spent years building. The hustler. The go-getter. The girl who always replied on time, always showed up, and always delivered. Letting that go was terrifying. It felt like walking into a room, turning off all the lights, and choosing to sit in the dark. There were days I questioned everything - was I throwing away my career? Was I being irresponsible? Lazy? Will people forget me? Would I forget myself? Without the constant buzz of problems that needed immediate solutions, of messages, of movement, I had nothing to distract me from my own thoughts. I cried a lot. Sent out cold emails I didn’t mean. Ghosted the replies when they came. Relationships soured, and I kept reminding myself that all of this was helping me make space for the new.

But I stayed. I stayed with the discomfort. I stayed with the guilt. I stayed with the gnawing ache of being off-timeline, when everyone else seemed to be sprinting towards love, success, marriage, promotions, and purpose. And I was just sitting in my corner, feeling.

Eventually, something softened.

Peace tiptoed in, in the steady breaths I began to take. In the mornings that didn’t feel rushed. In the lower back, as I sat in a deep stretch.

Somewhere along the way, my questions changed. It was no longer “What’s next?” and "How much can I do?" Instead, I focused on "What matters?" and “How well can I live?” I stopped chasing money with urgency and started asking if the work was kind to my energy. I started measuring success by how I felt at the end of the week, not how many things I achieved.

Discipline - quiet, unromantic, invisible - saved me. You can’t show this on an Instagram post. It’s the kind that makes you brush your teeth and have a bath even when you feel hollow. The kind that lets you write one sentence, and call that enough.

Slowing down, I’ve learned, is not a one-time decision. It’s a practice. A thousand small choices. Saying no to the third plan of the day. Choosing a walk over a scroll. Letting your tea get cold because you got lost in a thought. Getting drenched in the rain because you chose to stay back and stare at the beautiful scenery around you. I know now that this takes courage. That being gentle requires a lot of muscle. That healing is not always a visible glow-up and you have to be okay with being the only one who celebrates.

Slowness is not glamorous. No one claps for stillness. No one hands out medals for saying, “Actually, I’d like a little less right now.” The world does not reward softness. It rarely understands it. But I am glad I do.

Now, I measure success differently. Care about the breaths I take, and not much about the likes a post gets. Success comes to me in the quiet sentence I write in the morning. It’s the way I can now enjoy a leisurely lunch with a loved one. It’s the way I can take a nap on the floor with my dog. It’s the way I can walk all morning with no urgency to return.

And I feel the best I’ve felt in years. I can walk more, lift more, eat more without guilt. My health is great. My energy helps me stay curious. I can read more, write more. I am getting some of my best creative ideas now. I’m doing some of my most mindful work, and I am working on one thing at a time. I am not afraid to ask for what I deserve, and I am not afraid to take risks. I don’t chase, I let things arrive.

The act of simply being is not idleness. It’s a full-bodied presence that resists commodification. This world isn’t built to nurture slowness. It equates productivity with worth and visibility with value. But I am no longer interested in being seen more than I am in being whole.

In a world that worships speed, choosing to go slow is a kind of poetry.

And I hope we learn to survive.

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Who wrote this?

Protima Tiwary (aka Dumbbells and Drama) is a wellness nerd and copywriter. With 13+ years in brand strategy, communications, and content, she’s worked across wellness, publishing, travel, and lifestyle, helping brands sound like humans and humans feel like themselves. She’s also a writer, and storytelling consultant, equally obsessed with strong coffee, strong narratives, and stronger boundaries. A bookworm at heart, Protima believes in the healing power of words- whether she’s writing about rest, reading about resilience, or building honest conversations around self-work. Currently open to new work and creative collaborations. You can find her on Instagram at @dumbbellsndrama