Part 1: Rage, Reflection, and the Quiet Burnout

There’s a specific kind of exhaustion that doesn’t show up on a lab panel. A kind of burnout that doesn’t come from your job, or more accurately, not only from your job, but from always being the emotional anchor in your relationships. The one who holds space, softens words, reads the room, regulates first.

Maybe you're a therapist, a teacher, a nurse, a parent, a partner. Maybe you’re the “strong one,” the “calm one,” the “rational one.” And maybe you’re so good at holding it together that no one realizes you're quietly coming undone.

You know the signs before they erupt. The sudden shift in tone. The tension behind a slammed door. The unspoken pressure to absorb someone else’s anger without reacting to it. You’ve been here before. You feel the heat before it burns.

They say it’s not about you. But it lands in your body like it is. Because it’s your ears that hear the yelling. Your body that flinches. Your nervous system that goes on high alert. They say, “I didn’t choose rage, that’s just how it comes out.” And you think: “So I have to choose regulation, and you get to choose rage?”

You’re not asking anyone not to feel. You’re asking for feelings not to become weapons. To stop weaponizing emotional release in a shared space, then retreating into silence while you manage the aftermath.

And still, somehow, you feel like the problem. The overreactor. The one who “makes it worse.”

You’re tired. Not just physically, but from the invisible weight of noticing and adjusting—all the time. You initiate the hard conversations. You keep the peace. You explain, soothe, anticipate. You’re the thermostat and the smoke alarm. And it’s exhausting.

And then comes the worst part: when your skills—your empathy, your patience, your deep emotional vocabulary—start to feel like chains. Because the more tools you have, the more emotional labor is expected of you. The more you know, the more you're responsible for.

If you recognized yourself in these words, if even part of you whispered, “That’s me,” then let this be your moment to pause.

Not to fix. Not to figure it all out. Just to pause.

And if you're ready for more, here’s what you can do:

Share this post with someone who sees the load you carry.

Journal your answers to one reflection prompt per day this week.

Say out loud, “I’m allowed to rest.”

You’re allowed to come undone. And still be worthy. And still be whole. And still be home.

Thank you for being here. For doing the work. For letting yourself feel it all, even in fragments. You’re not alone. We see you.

Reflection Prompts:

When was the last time I let myself be upset, without filtering or softening it for someone else?

Who expects me to be the “regulated” one, and how do I reinforce that expectation?