How I Unplug When I’m Burnt Out

It doesn’t always hit with drama. Burnout, for me, is quieter than that. It creeps in slowly — like forgetting why I opened a browser tab, or rereading the same message three times without absorbing it. I’m not falling apart. But something’s off.

There’s this odd tension between knowing I’m tired… and still feeling like I should keep going. Like pausing would somehow make it worse. So I keep pushing, until the noise in my head gets too loud and everything feels a little too much.

That’s usually my sign. Not to run away or fix everything — just to start noticing.

What Burnout Feels Like For Me

It’s not always dramatic. Sometimes it’s just… grey.

I’ll sit down to do something I usually enjoy, and nothing clicks. Even little tasks feel like walking through molasses. The things that used to ground me — morning writing, slow tea breaks, a walk — suddenly feel too far, like they belong to someone else’s life.

There’s a weight in my chest that I can’t name. Everything starts to feel louder than it should. Notifications, conversations, even my own thoughts. It’s like my body is still showing up, but I’m somewhere else — slightly detached, slightly numb.

I used to think I needed to push through that feeling. Now, I take it as a cue: time to unplug, in whatever small ways I can.

Why I Struggled To Unplug At First

At first, resting felt like cheating.

Even when I knew I was burnt out, there was this quiet voice in the back of my mind whispering, “You should still be working.” Guilt sat heavy, especially on days when the to-do list was untouched but my body was begging for stillness.

I also thought unplugging had to be big. Like a weekend retreat, or turning off my phone for three days. But that never felt realistic. Life doesn’t pause just because I’m tired.

And maybe the scariest part — I worried that if I really stopped, I wouldn’t be able to start again. Like I’d lose momentum completely. So I kept going. Until I couldn’t.

Learning to unplug became less about escape… and more about permission.

How I Actually Unplug Now (Small & Realistic)

Unplugging used to feel like this huge, dramatic decision. Now, it looks more like a series of quiet, ordinary choices.

I silence non-urgent notifications. Sometimes I even delete certain apps for a few days — not forever, just enough to soften the noise.

I put my phone out of reach. Twenty minutes is enough to notice how much I reach for it without thinking. That space reminds me I still exist without constant input.

Sometimes, I just watch the sky change from my window. Or I do one thing slowly — a shower, making tea, folding laundry — letting it be the only thing I’m doing. That simplicity has weight.

I’ll write one line in a notebook that no one else sees. Or listen to music without multitasking. Just that. Just me.

And when I can, I let myself do nothing. Not scrolling. Not consuming. Just… being.

It took time to believe this counts as rest. But as The Nap Ministry reminds us — rest is productive. It’s not lazy to pause. It’s necessary.

What Happens When I Unplug

It’s rarely instant. There’s no dramatic sigh of relief, no magical clarity.

But when I truly unplug — even in small ways — something loosens.

A slow exhale.

My thoughts stop racing each other. The noise dulls. I’m not trying to solve or produce or respond. Just… existing, gently.

I start to feel with myself again. Not performing. Not fixing. Just noticing. That’s where the return begins.

Unplugging Isn’t Quitting

Burnout doesn’t mean I failed. It just means I’ve been carrying too much for too long.

Rest isn’t an escape. It’s a return — to presence, to softness, to the parts of me that don’t need to prove anything.

Sometimes, the most responsible thing I can do… is stop.

Unplug.

Let my body catch up to my mind. Let my heart breathe again.