On the emotional burnout, the tyranny of roles, and the quiet plea for reprioritization
There was a time when I believed fatigue came from doing too much. Later, I discovered a deeper truth—the most draining fatigue comes not from what we do, but from who we pretend to be while doing it.
I remember, an evening, not too long ago, standing before the mirror before heading out to a social gathering. The tie was straight, the smile rehearsed, the responses mentally queued. And yet, beneath the polish was a hollowness—like a seasoned actor preparing for yet another scene in a play I hadn’t written, yet somehow kept performing in.
I stepped out, exchanged pleasantries, asked the right questions, answered in safe, socially acceptable tones. I laughed, nodded, listened—until the roles blurred and I could no longer tell who I was being, or whether I was being anyone at all.
That night, I came back not just tired, but depleted. A kind of inner exhaustion that doesn’t go away with sleep. It was then I realized—I wasn’t tired from doing too much. I was tired of not being myself.
Some of the most exhausted people I’ve met wear the cleanest smiles. They’re professionals, parents, caregivers—stable, responsible, “together.” And yet, they confess—if you catch them in a quiet moment—that they feel like they’re carrying a backpack full of invisible expectations:
- Be composed in crisis.
- Be financially prudent.
- Be emotionally present.
- Be socially warm.
- Be always available, but never needy.
- Be kind, but not too vulnerable.
- Be successful, but remain humble.
- Be human—but flawless.
It’s no wonder so many people today are caught in a slow-burning spiral of anxiety, procrastination, resentment, and fatigue.
The tragedy — Most don’t even know they’re performing. They’ve done it for so long, it has become second nature.
Somewhere along the way, many of us signed an unwritten contract:
“If I act right, behave well, keep it all together—then I’ll be safe, accepted, respected.”
And for a time, this contract works. You get validation. You’re seen as dependable. You fit in.
But the soul doesn’t sign that contract. It watches quietly. Waits patiently. And then, one day, it begins to protest—not in anger, but in symptoms:
- Brain fog.
- Delayed responses.
- Emotional numbness.
- Sudden irritation.
- That strange feeling of “I just can’t anymore….”
These aren’t flaws. They are soul signals. Indicators that the real self is suffocating behind the mask.
If any of this feels familiar to you, let me offer no advice—only an invitation.
Just pause.
Let the mask roll down.
Let the roles sit beside you, not on you.
Ask quietly:
- Who am I when I stop trying to be liked?
- What version of me have I outgrown?
- What one role can I retire, even briefly, this week?
Maybe it’s replying late to a message without guilt.
Maybe it’s saying no without explanation.
Maybe it’s letting someone else solve a problem they’ve always brought to you.
Maybe it’s meeting yourself—not as a fixer, doer, giver—but simply as you.
We don’t need to exit life to reclaim our soul.
We just need to exit the version of life that requires us to earn love through exhaustion. The Tired Performer Needs Not a Stage, But a Sanctuary.
This letter is a gentle nudge to say: You’ve performed enough. The role has been played. The audience applauded. Now let the curtain fall. And breathe.
In that quiet, offstage space—you may find the most beautiful version of yourself waiting. Not ready to act. But finally, ready to be.
Letters for the Inner Journey by Pushkar
Whisper back, if the letter spoke to you.