It’s one of those “if you see it, it’s already really bad” things. “You see one cockroach or rat in plain view in your kitchen, you’ve already got an infestation.” That fact that you can see the problem means that it’s a big problem.

In this case, however, it’s more about what you can’t see– or not as clearly, not anymore. To quote Pastor Rob Bell, “Despair is the belief that tomorrow will be just like today.” You can’t see a better tomorrow. You can’t see a brighter future. You can’t even imagine it without a painful focus on the worst-case scenario and feeling exhausted from work not yet conceived.

Burnout includes a “theft of spirit,” and you forget how to dream.

I have tangoed with burnout before, and now- at the close of my 40th trip around this speck of wet dirt- I’m facing it again. The past year and everything about hit a lot harder, and I need to own that I’m not the tireless world-beater I was at 30. Overwork affects my mental health. Overwork/ workaholism is self-harm. I have goals and desires outside “crushing it” in the kitchen. Friends, family, and long-time followers of this blog have noticed my posting schedule has become erratic in the last few years. The truth is that some of my demon chickens have come home to roost.

I still meditate every morning. Sometimes I can focus and keep my mind on track, sometimes I can’t. A scary moment happened the other day, however, when a guided meditation asked me the arguably simple question of “what if your dream comes true.” The results were… not great.

I did my best. I swear it. I tried to imagine my dream business again. The pie shop. The nerdy community. Teaching others. Helping them move along in a career that meant so much to me. What came up for me was the anxiety and dread I’d mentioned at the top. No joy, no pride, no satisfaction in showing up to bake and teach and make people happy everyday.

What emerged instead was fear and exhaustion. I conjured up worst-case scenarios where I wasted time, wasted money, screwed everything up for myself and my wife, and people I loved had to dig me out of my own foolishness. I imagined the exhaustion of showing up every day to maybe make no money- just getting myself off in a display of hubris that I could run a successful business doing what I loved.

Didn’t I imagine all of this before?
Didn’t I go to people I knew and ask their advice?
Haven’t I walked past empty store fronts or gaps in food pods and said “What if…?”
If I can work myself into exhaustion and madness for the sake of someone else’s profit, why do my own hopes and dream seem like such a gamble on a hazy idea?!

It’s because burnout is real, and the cost is real. It places you permanently in “survival mode,” and that has a negativity bias built in by our saber-toothed-tiger-dodging ancestors. Spend that long in hyper-vigilance, and the bad shit is all you see. We tell ourselves we’re being cautious and “doing it right.” In my case, “Once bitten, twice shy.” This blog took off because I fucked up running a business once already, and writing was the one part of it I realized I actually did right.

It’s more than caution, though. It’s despair. The instinct that it can only get worse, stasis is the best bet, wanting better is an exhausting dream you can’t begin to conceive.

I related all of this to my therapist and asked him “How can I work toward something if all I get from imagining it is vague ideas and dread?”

There are lots of ways for “treating” or preventing burnout, so my therapist suggested I try one but not as a cure. Instead, as a creative exercise.

“Matt, what you’re hoping to do is definitely not impossible. Why not try writing up a business plan for your pie shop? Put some flesh on the bones. You’ll need one for a business loan anyway, but keep it simple for now, just for you. Imagine it brick by brick instead of as one whole big thing.”

After therapy, I went home and tried to wind down. I mulled over what my therapist said. It wasn’t just my pie shop dreams that were suffering. It was my writing too. My energy to even do what I loved was gone. Like I said, it’s a “theft of spirit.” When I need a push to write, I already know to turn to my favorite writers for inspiration. I sat in my rocking chair, poured a cider, and called on Uncle Tony.

After reading an interview about how Bourdain approached writing- both fiction and nonfiction- and his own career, I set down the book and started to cry. “It’s part of the job,” he said. “I’d wake up early, write as much as I could, then go cook. You do the job.”

The “push to write” I was looking for instead felt like a bucket of cold water. No excuses- you do the job.

Do it tired.
Do it angry.
Do it sad.
Do it lonely.
Do it scared.
I know the wisdom. You can’t pour from an empty pot, but burnout is feeling like you can never really refill it.

Em came over and hugged me, listened as I wondered if I’d finally done it- come to the end of a career with nothing to show., and then said “All you are is tired, and for good reason. Maybe you need a break from the industry- but you’re far from done. Go to sleep, try again tomorrow.

The next day, I woke up, dressed, and headed into work. There was a mandatory all-hands meeting scheduled for the late morning, with “prizes, coffee, and donuts” promised to sweeten the pot. Those not scheduled to work that day would be paid for their time coming in. Those who were scheduled- like myself- lost two hours of prep time just before the doors opened to customers so we could be admonished about uniform standards, greeting customers, and where we’d be allowed to park come summertime.

Seated off to the side, I’d already decided to bring a book. Nothing discussed was worth the time wasted for me- or really anyone else in back-of-house. Something in me seethed. Not just tired or aggrieved, but pissed. Meetings like this come down to one lesson- the management is going to piss on our legs, tell us it’s our responsibility to be ready for rainfall, and then promise that they will magnanimously offer umbrellas at some point in the future. In the meantime, here’s donuts.

“When I have my own place, shit like this won’t happen.”
“My pie shop will be small, personal, transparent.”
“When I have my own pie shop…”

Hope is good, but it’s messy- and spite often helps it get shit done. Sitting on that plastic chair, as we were being made to listen to obnoxious ice- breaker cow jokes to win a wine glass, I pulled out my journal and started taking notes. On my phone, I pulled up the Small Business Administration website and searched “How to assemble a business plan.” I scratched down notes on the different sections, worded for what I needed to say, and when lunch came I spent my time typing.

If I wanted out of this shitty cycle of burnout, it was time to start carving out an exit ramp. A dream is a dream, even if it starts with “no more bullshit.”

Stay Classy,