Reveal What Holds: What Lies Beneath Human Burnout

By: The Writing Spirit

Yesterday didn’t break me in a single blow.

It built.

It started with bringing coffee, breakfast, and medicine to my partner, who has been healing at my house for the last month.

Then the IV infusions I give him each day so he can heal—keeping things calm, steady, with as little stress as possible.

So I moved into the porch, quietly, to listen for two hours to a meeting for a journalism article—tracking details, holding information, making sure I understood it well enough to translate it clearly.

And while I was doing that, my aging dog had an accident on the carpet I had spent the day before cleaning.

Then, after cleaning it up, I took a break while my tape recorder carried the meeting and went into the living room to be with my partner.

He handed me his phone and asked me to speak with one of his doctors—to find out if he needed to do something before surgery.

After that meeting, there were two leadership spaces.

One—holding differences, navigating tension, trying to move people toward something coherent.

The other—my board, working through differences at a national level. Again holding. Again listening. Again helping shape direction.

And layered underneath all of that—

My partner needing care.

My aging dog, needing constant attention and cleanup.

My over 100-year-old house that needs to be repaired—and re-repaired—on what feels like a daily basis.

And my aging 72-year-old body beginning to respond:

• new blood pressure medication

• nausea

• a heaviness I couldn’t quite shake

All of it present.

All of it asking something of me.

By 5 pm, I had nothing left.

I didn’t have the energy to cook, so I ordered food.

I didn’t have the energy to speak, so I nodded and shrugged, “I’m fine,” to my partner.

I didn’t have the energy to reply to emails outside of a quick “thanks.”

Simplicity was needed in all its shapes and forms.

But simplicity isn’t easy to implement.

As soon as I came downstairs after my last Zoom call, I realized that.

I came down to clean up before going to pick up dinner—and found that my aging dog had had diarrhea on the carpet.

The same carpet I had spent hours cleaning the week before, getting the house ready to host my partner’s son and his girlfriend.

My partner was asleep on the couch.

And I stood there—before I could even go pick up dinner—cleaning it up.

Again.

I picked up the food.

I brought it home.

And at the point I unwrapped my sandwich, I stopped forming full sentences.

I remember thinking I must look like Goldie Hawn in Overboard—blubbering, disoriented, trying to speak but nothing coming out cleanly.

Not because I was dramatic.

Because I was done.

Everything was there at once:

• my sandwich

• my partner’s health

• my aging dog

• my house

• my work

• my body

All of it real. All of it present. All of it needing something from me.

The wisdom of age settled in.

When we are younger, we strive:

• to improve

• to refine

• to become better versions of ourselves

We believe there is a level to reach—some version of being human that is more composed, more capable, more perfect.

But with age, something else emerges.

We begin to see:

We are not meant to perfect being human.

We are meant to live it.

But that wisdom didn’t carry into sleep.

Mine was restless and fitful.

By the time I woke up and walked downstairs, my heart sank as I stepped around—once again—what hadn’t yet been cleaned by my dog, just to make coffee.

I brought a cup up to my partner.

He asked what I had planned for the day.

And I said:

“Nothing. Just nothing.”

He paused.

I filled the space by telling him about the facial I have scheduled tomorrow.

He asked me what I would get out of it.

I said:

“It makes me feel pampered. Like I’m doing something for myself.”

He asked if he could pay for it.

And I said no.

Not because I didn’t appreciate it.

But because something in me needed to say this clearly:

I want to spend my money on something that isn’t groceries, utilities, doctors, or the house.

Something just for me.

And that’s when it all came together.

The buildup.

The exhaustion.

The unmistakable signs of a quiet meltdown.

From a burnout, that this time, I didn’t want to:

• push through

• be cheerful

• make it easier for someone else

• return to the version of me that keeps everything moving

I wanted silence.

I wanted space.

I wanted to sit in my pajamas and not be “better” at being human.

But even in that, there was a subtle pressure.

My partner, kind and well-meaning, trying to cheer me up.

To fix it.

To make it better.

Needing reassurance he wasn’t the reason.

And I did what I’ve always done.

I reassured him.

Took on the responsibility for his feeling.

Until something in me shifted.

And the words came, clear:

“The most supportive thing is not to fix, solve, or lift someone out of what they’re feeling—

but to allow them to be in it without making them feel wrong for being human.”

To let them be human—

without judging it,

without needing to change it.

He stopped.

Became quiet.

And let me be where I was.

Was that what I needed?

Yes.

Anything else?

No.

Because in a world that is constantly pushing us toward self-improvement, development, becoming more—

there is something just as necessary.

We are not always meant to be developing.

We are not always meant to be fixing or achieving.

We don’t have to be perfect.

We don’t have to hold everything together.

We are allowed to be exactly as we are—and still be loved.

Why?

Because we are human.

And our job is not to perfect the experience—

but to live it.

So today, I’m sitting in my pjs and robe, letting my partner do our laundry at his house, keeping my dog in the kitchen so it’s easier if he messes, and typing this reflection—

It is enough.

Not only enough—

perfect for imperfect human me.

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The Writing Spirit is the reflective and narrative work of Susan Steele, bringing together memoir, storytelling, and insight to explore the deeper patterns that shape human experience. Her writing focuses on relationships, identity, and life transitions—revealing what often goes unseen beneath the surface of everyday moments. Known for her ability to name what others sense but cannot yet articulate, her work invites readers into a process of clarity, alignment, and natural change. Rather than offering prescriptions, The Writing Spirit creates space for recognition—where understanding shifts what becomes possible.

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