Pain & Burnout – Of Broken Rhythms and Gentle Returns

If we were having wine tonight, I probably wouldn’t dive into a dramatic monologue about pain and burnout or the messiness of real life. I’d just sit across from you, glass in hand, with a tired smile, and say, “It’s been… a lot.” And I’d mean it.

You know that kind of tiredness that doesn’t go away with sleep? That bone-deep weariness that makes everything feel a little heavier? That’s where I’ve been these past few months. My body’s been quietly rebelling. A disc herniation, they called it. Just a phrase at first—something clinical, fixable, manageable. Until it wasn’t. Until walking, standing, and even getting out of bed became conscious, painful acts.

And worst of all, I had to stop dancing.

If we were having wine, I’d tell you how that broke something in me. Not dancing wasn’t just a scheduling inconvenience—it was like someone turned down the volume on who I am. Kathak isn’t just movement; it’s rhythm, story, and breath. It’s how I come home to myself. That Saturday class was the one moment in the week I felt fully alive. And suddenly, my body wouldn’t let me get there.

You know I’m an introvert. It takes time for me to open up, to carve out a space where I can just be. And here I was—without that spark of joy that helped me wade through the monotony of adulting. It was more than physical pain; it was a kind of grief.

But—and this is the part where I’d lean in, eyes a little brighter—I’ve started again.

A few weeks ago, I went back to class. Slowly. Gently. Hesitantly. Like relearning how to walk. And while I’m nowhere close to where I used to be, every time I raise my hand in a mudra or feel the taal vibrate through the floor, something in me exhales. It’s not the same—but maybe that’s okay. Maybe coming back isn’t about picking up where you left off. Maybe it’s about learning a new way to be here.

I don’t have pain now, but there is the fear that it will happen again. Some days, I can just about feel that disc a little out of place. Maybe it’s all in my head. But there’s joy too. And in movement—even cautious, careful movement—I’m remembering my own strength. That I can begin again.

And if we were still sipping wine, I’d probably sigh and say, “And then there’s work…”

You know those meetings where voices are raised, but not in passion or inspiration? Where people speak just to be heard, not to listen? That’s been the tone lately. I used to pour myself into my projects—lead with intention, bring people together, solve problems, and build systems that actually worked. But these days, it feels like shouting into a void. Like no matter how much I give, I’m pushing against a tide of apathy and ego. Oh, the pain and burnout!

There’s a quiet heartbreak in becoming disillusioned with a place you once gave your best to. A slow sadness in realizing that care alone may not be enough to shift a culture that doesn’t value it.

If we were still talking, I’d admit I’ve thought about leaving. About what it might mean to start fresh. To find a space that values people as much as performance. Where leadership isn’t loud, but grounded. Where kindness isn’t mistaken for weakness.

But I haven’t made any big decisions yet. Maybe because I’m still in that murky in-between—holding on and letting go, nursing what hurts and searching for what heals. Also, does a place like that exist here?

What I am doing, though, is listening. To my body, which is slowly learning to trust again. To my heart, which whispers, “You deserve better.” To the quiet stirrings of the self I thought I’d lost in all the noise.

If we were finishing that bottle of wine, I’d tell you I’m still tired—but it’s a different kind of tired now. One that comes from trying. From showing up again. From dancing through the ache.

And I’d raise my glass to that.

To healing, even when it’s slow.

To movement, even when it’s cautious.

To those quiet, fierce moments when we choose to come back—to our bodies, to our passions, to ourselves.

Thanks for sitting with me. For listening. For not needing me to pretend I’m strong all the time. Some nights, that’s all we really need—a quiet space, a good friend, and a glass of something honest.

If you’re in a season of stillness, of returning to yourself, of starting again—I see you.

And I’d love to hear what’s helping you move forward, however slowly.

Drop me a comment. Or let’s talk—maybe over a glass of wine.