When Burnout Becomes a Breaking Point
The Career Detour That Finally Made Me Listen
If you’ve ever made a big life change only to find yourself back in a familiar place—feeling lost, tired, and questioning everything—you’re not alone. I’ve been there too. More than once. And every single time, I’ve ended up right back where I started: selling books. What I didn’t realize until much later is that those detours weren’t regressions—they were invitations to slow down, tune in, and start listening to my own damn voice again.
This is one of the stories from my upcoming book—part memoir, part manifesto—Lead With Heart. It’s currently out for developmental edits and has officially been queried to agents. (Get excited, fam. I know I am.)
Here’s a sneak peek.
That Time I Tried to Ignore the Call
Every time I’ve made a major life pivot, I’ve returned to bookselling.
When I was student teaching—I sold books.
When I got divorced—I sold books.
And when I left Los Angeles, I sold books again.
I know what you’re thinking: “Wait, you left L.A.?”
I did.
Even though I loved my students, my work, and what we were building, it wasn’t sustainable anymore. L.A. had become too expensive, too fast, too much. I needed space to breathe. So I moved to Tulsa, Oklahoma—where the pace was slower, the rent was lower, and I could finally be still.
At least, that was the plan.
But when I stopped moving, everything I’d been outrunning caught up with me. The grief. The burnout. The creeping fear that I’d made the wrong choice. I cried in the car, at work, at Target. (Not every time—but often enough that the office supplies aisle started to feel like church.)
Bookselling gave me something to hold onto. A routine. A purpose. A community. Something to do with my hands while my mind tried to catch up.
Then one day, a man came in with a copy of Teach Yourself InDesign (not the real title—but you get the vibe). I half-joked, half-pleaded: “Sir, you don’t have to teach yourself. I’d be happy to teach you.”
He laughed. “You know InDesign? How?”
I told him I’d been using it since it was called PageMaker—and teaching it to teenagers, which is much harder than just using it. He was impressed. He asked if I’d consider interviewing at his tiny startup.
I did. I got the job. I loved the job. And I clung to it like a lifeline.
Because to me, it felt like proof I was okay again. That I’d reinvented myself and it was working.
And then I got fired. (For insubordination, if you can believe it.)
Honestly? I can.
Because even back then—I knew.
I knew it wasn’t aligned.
I knew I was performing.
I knew I was holding on too tight to something that wasn’t mine.
But I ignored the whisper. I overrode the gut feeling. I clung to logic and stability and what looked good on paper.
Until it all fell apart. And so did I.
I found myself somewhere I never thought I’d be: asking for help I never thought I’d need. (Shout out to Laureate Psychiatric Clinic in Tulsa.)
And honestly? That was the beginning of the end of pretending.
Why This Story Still Matters
Sometimes reinvention doesn’t look like triumph. It looks like unraveling. Like breaking down in public places. Like starting over (again) with nothing but a whisper in your chest and the hope that this time, maybe, you’ll finally listen.
If you’re on the edge of something—burnout, transition, reinvention—I hope this reminds you: You’re not broken. You’re becoming. And your intuition? Is worth listening to.
Want more sneak peeks and behind-the-scenes updates?
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