I never expected to lose myself in the work meant to help others find themselves.

When I first began my career in mental health, I was lit from within by purpose. I believed in showing up fully for others—heart open, boundaries loose, intuition wide awake. My sensitivity felt like a gift. Clients told me they felt seen, safe, held. And I did everything I could protect that space for them, even as I slowly started disappearing from it myself.

That’s the thing about burnout. It doesn’t always arrive in a blaze. Sometimes it’s a quiet erosion. You’re still doing the work. You’re still showing up. But you start to feel like a ghost of yourself—performing empathy, moving through sessions on autopilot, no longer feeling nourished by the healing you once loved.

What Burnout Felt Like (for Me)

For me, burnout looked like sobbing in the car between sessions, then pulling it together with a practiced smile. It sounded like silence at home, too emotionally depleted to call a friend or answer my kids’ questions with more than a hum. It felt like resentment, guilt, and shame braided together in my chest. I couldn’t tell if I was more exhausted or angry—angry that the system demanded so much from us as clinicians, angry that I had let myself give so much away.

I wasn’t just tired. I was spiritually bankrupt.

And as someone with a deep belief in the healing path, that terrified me.

The Breaking Point

I remember a day in session when a client described feeling invisible in her own life. Something about her words hit me like a mirror—I felt the same way. But I wasn’t the client. I was the clinician. And that scared me. I had crossed some invisible threshold where my burnout wasn’t just a personal issue—it was a clinical one. I couldn’t keep pretending.

So I did something terrifying and radical.

I slowed down.

Healing Doesn’t Look Heroic

I’d love to say I took a sabbatical and found myself on a mountaintop. But what really happened was quieter: I canceled extra intakes. I started blocking off 10 minutes between sessions. I stopped apologizing for not being available 24/7. I set boundaries in the workplace. I personally requested monthly mental health days. I let some professional opportunities pass me by.

More importantly, I stopped trying to be the therapist who had it all figured out.

I reached out. I cried with colleagues. I journaled. I practiced yoga in a way that wasn’t performative, but healing. I started talking back to the voice that said, “You’re weak if you need rest.” And I wrote. That’s how Rooted Light was born. As a love letter to the therapists and healers who serve from their soul, often at the expense of their own.

What Helped Me Reclaim My Light

Burnout isn’t a flaw in the healer. It’s a symptom of a system that rewards self-abandonment. But that doesn’t mean we’re powerless. Here’s what helped me:

• Claiming My Humanity: I stopped trying to be “therapist perfect.” The moment I allowed myself to be a person first, I started healing.

• Rebuilding Rituals: I created small rituals throughout my day—breathing between sessions, lighting a candle before documentation, giving myself permission to pause.

• Letting Go of Guilt: Guilt had been my co-pilot—guilt for not doing more, giving more, being more. I began rewriting the narrative: Rest is responsible. Saying no is sacred. My body is wise.

• Remembering I’m Not Alone: Burnout thrives in isolation. I found healing in community—fellow clinicians who weren’t afraid to talk about the weight we carry.
• Listening Inward Again: The same intuition I once used for clients—I began using for myself. What do I need today? What feels life-giving, not just life-sustaining?
  

If you’re reading this and feeling the ache of your own burnout, let me say this: you’re not broken. You’re not failing. You are a light-bearer who’s been asked to shine without fuel. And it’s okay—necessary—to step back and tend to your own fire.

We don’t need more martyrs in mental health. We need models of sustainability. We need therapists who are allowed to be whole, not just helpful.

So ask yourself gently: What do I need to feel alive again? And what can I let go of so I can hold that? You don’t have to do it all. You don’t have to do it alone. You just have to begin—one breath, one boundary, one truth at a time.

‍

About the author

Carina Schroedel, CSW, is a clinical social worker, trauma-informed yoga instructor, and founder of Ember & Ease—a holistic healing practice rooted in mindful resilience. Her debut book, Rooted Light: The Quiet Power of Empathic Clinicians, offers validation and guidance for deeply feeling professionals navigating burnout and compassion fatigue. Carina blends clinical expertise with embodied healing practices to support the quiet revolution of heart-led therapists.

‍