“In for four, hold for four, out for four,” the girl at the checkout counter said, not even looking up from the cheekies she was scanning.

It was both comforting and unsettling that someone having a panic attack in line at Victoria’s Secret seemed like just another Tuesday to her.

I don’t know what burnout looks like for other people. For me, it looked like trying to pretend I wasn’t having a heart attack while buying underwear. It meant sobbing uncontrollably when a sparrow collided with the slider and took its dying breath in my hands. It manifested as declining a year’s worth of social invitations because lying convincingly about my great life required more energy than I had.

In those days, if I’d been hit by a bus, my last thought would’ve been what time to post on Instagram for the greatest chance of going viral.

Everything I did to make money took momentous effort. The freedom I had sought going into business for myself was nowhere to be found. I rationalized that staring at a computer screen for 15 hours a day without breaks proved I wasn’t a drain on society.

In my frenzy to make a living, I forgot what it meant to live.

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