My Personal Story of Recognizing and Recovering from Burnout

I remember the day it hit me like a quiet storm. I'd been pushing through long hours at my job in Lagos, juggling deadlines for client projects while trying to keep up with family expectations back home. At first, it felt like the usual hustle - the kind every young professional in Nigeria prides themselves on. But over months, that energy started to fade, replaced by this constant fog that made even simple tasks feel insurmountable. Looking back, burnout didn't announce itself with fireworks; it crept in, disguised as just another busy season.

The Subtle Signs I Ignored

It started small. Mornings that used to excite me with fresh ideas turned into battles to get out of bed. I'd stare at my laptop screen, words blurring together, forcing myself to type reports that once flowed effortlessly. My colleagues noticed I was quieter in meetings, but I brushed it off as focus. At home, I'd snap at my wife over nothing, then apologize with excuses about stress from traffic or work pressure. Sleep became erratic - I'd lie awake replaying conversations, worrying about what I'd missed, only to drag through the day on fumes.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day commuting from Ikeja to Victoria Island, I sat down to eat and realized I had no appetite. The jollof rice my sister had cooked smelled amazing, but it might as well have been cardboard. That's when I started connecting the dots. Friends would invite me to hang out at a local spot in Yaba, and I'd decline, claiming tiredness. But deep down, the thought of socializing drained me more than recharging. I told myself it was temporary, that powering through was the Nigerian way - resilience baked into our stories of making it against the odds. Yet, my body was whispering otherwise, and I wasn't listening.

The Breaking Point

The real wake-up came during a family gathering. My parents were visiting from the village, sharing stories of their own struggles raising us through economic ups and downs. I wanted to engage, to show them how far I'd come with my career in digital marketing. But midway through, I excused myself to the balcony, overwhelmed by the noise and laughter. Alone, staring at the Lagos skyline, tears came unbidden. It wasn't sadness exactly; it was exhaustion, a profound weariness that made me question everything. Why was I running so hard just to feel empty?

That night, I confided in my brother, who's a doctor in Abuja. He didn't sugarcoat it. 'Bro, this sounds like burnout,' he said over the phone. He'd seen it in his colleagues - high-achievers collapsing under the weight of nonstop demands. He explained how chronic stress rewires your brain, spiking cortisol levels that eventually crash your motivation and joy. For me, it was the combo of a demanding job, the city's relentless pace, and that inner voice pushing for more success to honor my family's sacrifices. Recognizing it felt like lifting a veil; suddenly, the fatigue, irritability, and detachment made sense. I wasn't weak; I was human, overloaded.

Starting the Recovery Journey

Recovery wasn't a straight line, but the first step was admitting I needed a break. I took a week's leave - something I hadn't done in years - and headed to my parents' place in the village. No Wi-Fi, no emails pinging every minute. Just fresh air, walks through palm groves, and time to breathe. It was uncomfortable at first; my mind raced with to-do lists. But gradually, I slept better, ate what was in front of me, and even picked up a book I'd bought months ago but never opened.

Back in the city, I made small changes. I started journaling in the mornings, scribbling thoughts to unpack the mental clutter. Therapy became part of my routine through an online session with a counselor specializing in work-related stress. She helped me see patterns, like how I tied my worth to productivity, a mindset shaped by growing up hearing 'no rest for the ambitious.' Exercise crept in too - not gym marathons, but evening jogs around the estate, letting the rhythm of my feet match my slowing thoughts.

I also renegotiated boundaries at work. Talking to my boss about workload, I was surprised by his understanding; he'd been there himself. We shifted some tasks, and I learned to say no to extra projects without guilt. Socially, I reconnected slowly, meeting friends for low-key chats over garri and soup instead of forcing big outings. Nutrition played a role - incorporating more local fruits like oranges and plantains, mindful of how food fuels recovery.

What I Learned Along the Way

Through it all, I realized burnout thrives in silence, especially in cultures where admitting struggle feels like failure. In Nigeria, we celebrate the grind, from entrepreneurs in Aba markets to techies in Silicon Savannah. But that narrative ignores the toll. Recovery taught me self-compassion isn't indulgence; it's survival. I discovered joy in non-work pursuits, like volunteering at a community center, which reminded me of purpose beyond paychecks.

There were setbacks - a tough project deadline pulled me back into old habits, and I'd feel the fog returning. But now, I catch it early, pausing for deep breaths or a quick call to a trusted friend. It's ongoing; burnout's shadow lingers, but so does my resilience.

If you're reading this and nodding along, know you're not alone. Start by tuning into your body - track sleep, mood, energy over a week. If red flags wave, talk to someone, whether a friend, family, or professional. Set one small boundary today, like logging off at a set time. Seek support through local groups or apps tailored for our context. Recovery builds strength, turning survival into thriving. Mine did, and it can for you too.