A Lesson in Listening

On Anxiety and Burnout

The other morning, I flipped through paperwork in my Honda’s glove compartment when my fingers brushed against something sharp and sturdy that cut me. I winced, not because of the sensation of the sting or the blood, but because of the sight of my faded work ID badge.

I fished out the relic I hadn’t seen or sought in over two years. Staring at a vaguely familiar version of me made my heart swell thick. I let out a heavy sigh and sank into my seat, knee-deep in my memory bank. 

Sitting in my car, I drifted to flashbacks of mornings before work, during my pre-pandemic life. A time before I knew anxiety wasn’t just a burden, but a signal. Back then, my body’s warning system tried again and again to alert me that something needed to change. But I didn’t listen. 

I didn’t prioritize my diminishing mental, emotional, and physical state. I failed to recognize the intensity of my growing dread, depletion, and disillusionment with working in Special Education were the embers of burnout. My failure fanned my own flames.

Butterflies in my stomach are too pretty of an image to describe the violent anxiety I felt; there wasn’t ever a gentle nervousness floating inside, it was wasps that invaded, pricked, and swarmed, and wouldn’t subside. 

Before leaving my home for work, I’d often fight the urge to throw up. But my body would purge anyway. On mornings like that, I’d take deep belly breaths on the drive to my job. Gripping the steering wheel, the anxiety so dense in my throat that I couldn’t swallow my own spit. To me, I was just flowing through another day.

I’d arrive, and sit in the elementary school staff parking lot. The adrenaline bound in my body drowned out the sounds of the engine’s hum and the kids whizzing by, laughing on their way to class before the final morning bell rang out loud.

To be in constant fight-or-flight on a campus full of children didn’t make sense. So I pushed past what I perceived as my weak feelings and through the physical manifestations of stress. 

Perhaps this felt easier than confronting the choice I never wanted to make. I wasn’t ready for the uncertainty that came with quitting a job and walking away from a path I thought was meant for me. And I carried a deep loyalty that lay with the kids. I was scared to leave.

I’d look into my rearview mirror and see the school building. I’d wonder if I could make it through the day or if I could even make it inside. Tension tightened my shoulders and stomach, and the thought of the lifeless white walls felt oppressive and bleak. 

Eventually, I would go in. Many times, I would take a detour to throw up inside the office bathroom before heading to class. I’d walk out, greet everyone, and pretend to be fine. But I wish I had known back then that I didn’t have to force myself to try; I didn’t have to stay in a situation that drained me dry.

Holding my ID badge, I thought about how long it’s been since I’ve had mornings like that. My burnout peaked when the pandemic turned the world upside down and then I finally quit. For over two years, I’ve taken uncertainty head-on. Being on sabbatical gives me the evidence I need to see that I can handle a higher level of uncertainty than I thought I could.

My nervous system reminds me that anxiety and burnout haven’t gone away. But now that I know better, I do better. Because of that, I’m quicker to remove myself from situations that deplete me, or that I don’t want to be in.

I feel lucky I've since learned to listen to my body when it whispers a signal, or lets out a roar, to pay attention, to help myself, and to change course.

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Hi friend,

Thank you for reading A Lesson in Listening!

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Stay tender,

Sandra