If you were to describe your life on paper, it might look… fine.
You show up to work. You meet deadlines. People rely on you. You may even be successful by most external standards. And yet, internally, something feels off. You’re exhausted in a way sleep doesn’t fix. Small things feel overwhelming. Joy feels muted. You wonder, quietly, What’s wrong with me?
As a psychiatrist, I see this experience often. I sometimes call it high-functioning burnout—not a formal diagnosis, but a very real and painful state of being. It’s what happens when you keep going long after your internal reserves have been depleted, held together by competence, responsibility, and sheer will.
High-functioning burnout is confusing because it doesn’t look the way we expect burnout to look. There’s no dramatic collapse. No obvious failure. From the outside, you appear capable—even admirable. From the inside, you may feel detached from your own life, chronically tense, or emotionally flat. You might tell yourself you shouldn’t complain because others “have it worse.” That comparison often keeps people stuck longer than they need to be.
Many people with high-functioning burnout don’t feel sad in a classic sense. Instead, they feel numb, irritable, or constantly on edge. Decision-making becomes exhausting. Things that once felt easy require disproportionate effort. You may notice physical symptoms—headaches, stomach issues, frequent illnesses—that don’t have a clear medical explanation. There’s often a persistent sense of dread or heaviness that starts before the day even begins.
High-functioning burnout tends to affect people who care deeply. Those who are conscientious, driven, and reliable. People who learned early on to push through discomfort, meet expectations, and take pride in being the one others can count on. These traits are strengths—until they become the only way you know how to survive. When your sense of worth becomes tied to productivity or usefulness, rest can start to feel unsafe or undeserved.
One of the quieter contributors to burnout is self-neglect, though I use that term gently. Most people I meet didn’t choose to ignore themselves; they adapted. They learned to prioritize others’ needs, suppress their own signals, and keep moving forward because stopping didn’t feel like an option. Over time, this creates an internal imbalance. Burnout isn’t just about working too much—it’s about going too long without emotional replenishment, without space to be a full human being.
Many people don’t recognize burnout until it’s fairly advanced. Functioning becomes a defense: As long as I’m still performing, I must be okay. There’s often fear beneath that—fear that if you slow down, everything will unravel, or that you’ll lose the version of yourself you’ve worked hard to become. It can feel safer to keep pushing than to ask what the pushing is costing you.
When people with high-functioning burnout come into my office, they often say things like, “I don’t know why I’m here—I’m not falling apart,” or “I feel guilty taking up space.” I want to be clear: you do not need to be in crisis to deserve support. Therapy or psychiatric care is not about making you less capable or less driven. It’s about helping you reconnect with yourself, your limits, and your inner life—before your body or mind forces the issue.
If any of this resonates, I’m not here to label you or tell you what’s wrong. I’m inviting you to get curious. What has your current pace been costing you? When was the last time you felt genuinely present in your own life? What might it mean to take yourself as seriously as you take your responsibilities?
Burnout is not a personal failure. Often, it’s the result of being strong for too long without support. And reaching out—quietly, thoughtfully—is not a sign that you’re falling apart. Sometimes, it’s the first sign that you’re finally listening.