Burn baby, burn.

"Every day was the same. Since we were forced to retreat to our homes, share our space twenty-four hours a day with the same people, and fear the end of the world, the time seemed to stop, but it didn't. Hours moved slowly, the air got thinner, and the sounds more intense. I kept waking up early to prepare breakfast for the whole family, but I did not dress as I used to or wear any makeup. My high-heeled shoes gathered dust, and I lost the will to clean them. It was supposed to be two weeks, but we couldn't see the light at the end of the tunnel two months into it. For that matter, I couldn't even see the tunnel; I only saw the screen of my laptop, my phone constantly ringing, kids moving around the house, a nervous partner, and the two puppies we adopted when this whole mess started (We were supposed to have two weeks to train them, it was perfect good timing... if only we had known.).

At work, things were under control. I am a compulsive planner and organizer. I was born to thrive in chaos, so that's what I got: a nice challenge up to my skills. I had a team of twelve people, each one with their own troubles, worries, and good stuff. It was not my first time working remotely, but it was the first time I was responsible for someone else, so I followed all the instructions from higher management. I checked with each team member daily. I kept reports on well-being and business results. I created online team routines, "virtual coffee times," to ensure they spoke to each other. I planned, checked, and cross-checked, using my routines with my team members, the twelve of them, every single day. And I did my work as well: I attended calls, management meetings, and whatever popped on the calendar. I prepared material for the meetings. I worked on improvement projects. I reported back to my boss. I was killing it.

While I was doing all those things, the kids were also around. I drew planning tables for the two older ones to do their homework and checked their progress. I set up video calls to attend book reading sessions with my youngest son and his twenty-five classmates. Reading a book is never the same after a Zoom call with twenty-six kids, their caretakers, and a teacher. I corrected math problems while checking customer satisfaction rates, drawings, and crafts while preparing for meetings, and I got interrupted continuously. Not even hiding in the bathroom was an option to get a rest. The house was packed, my head was full, and there was nowhere to escape.

The weeks kept on going. The summer had been mildly warm, as you can expect, and fear in the North of Europe. I was missing the sun and tired of living the same day continuously. The kids had a bit of fun. They played with the dogs in the garden, and we installed a frame pool that allowed them to forget for a bit that they would not be able to visit any family members or friends. I missed my friends so much... I also missed my family, the ones I had not seen for months, but I really missed seeing my girlfriends, spending one calm hour talking about everything and nothing. People surrounded me, but I felt terribly alone. The laughs and the playing noises became static, which never stopped, but I did not care anymore. The interruptions were a standard. I cannot even remember how many times the kids or the dogs appeared on my camera and said hello in their own creative ways to my coworkers. I prepared meals, cleaned the kitchen, did puzzles, played board games, watched TV, and attended calls from anyone at any time. Nothing bothered me anymore because everything was just noise.  

One day, I was on a call and noticed something funny. The dogs were playing, my son was asking something, there was a stupid discussion in the meeting, and my right hand started to shake. I looked at the hand, the dogs, my son, and the men saying things that made no sense when I thought that was not normal. I shook my hand several times, but the shaking did not stop. I put my hand between my legs until the blood seemed to stop flowing, and the shaking stopped. That was the first time it happened, but not the last. The next day, I woke up with a massive headache. I jumped out of bed, took some medicine, and showered. I prepared breakfast, checked my agenda, and woke up the kids. I connected myself to the remote system and joined the management team's first meeting of the day. One of the points in the agenda was the number of people on sick leave and reduced schedules to prevent burnout situations. Someone commented how easy it seemed to say "I'm sick" those days. Many agreed. I said nothing. My hand started to shake again. 

One week passed by, and then another. My head hurt more than ever, my back was stiff, my hands and legs shook during meetings, and even if my kids had set the house on fire (luckily, they didn't), I am sure I would have said nothing. Everything was pain and discomfort. Apart from that, I felt nothing. I was highly functional but a mess inside. I had to tell someone, and the lucky one was my manager, during one of our weekly routines. That poor man had the "terrible idea" of asking how I was, and I had to tell him: not good, bad, horrible. I explained what I had experienced the previous days, weeks, and months, and he told me I should consider taking a couple of days off. I told him I didn't feel that would help. I knew something was wrong, and he proposed to take three days instead. I had two options: take some days and keep battling the everyday chaos, or speak with someone else."

"Is that why you called me?" said the company doctor on the other side.

"Yes," I said, noticing a tear rolling down my cheek.

My legs were trembling, my voice was broken, and my whole body hurt.

"I believe you might have burned out," he said.

"And now?" I asked, afraid of the answer he could give.

"You know the answer, right?"

"Yes," I replied. Unfortunately, I knew the answer.