the early bird who forgot to rest

I’m afraid of falling behind. Terrified, even. So, I start early—really fucking early. The kind of early that feels like cheating, like showing up to a party before the hosts have even cleaned the place up. But it’s not cheating. It’s survival. Or so I tell myself.

At first, it feels good. Productive. Like I’ve outsmarted the clock, broken some invisible code that others haven’t even noticed yet. There’s a sense of control in it, a belief that if I get a head start, I’ll avoid the crush of panic, the weight of a last-minute rush. I chip away at the task while others are still stretching, still figuring out their starting line. I feel safe, ahead, untouchable.

But then, somewhere along the way, the momentum turns into friction. The flame I lit too early starts to sputter. The safety I thought I’d secured begins to unravel, and what I’m left with is exhaustion. I’ve given too much, too soon. The thrill of being ahead morphs into a kind of dread—a tired, bitter awareness that I’ve drained myself before the race is even halfway over.

And there’s something else, too: the loneliness. Starting early means starting alone. While I’m halfway through burning out, others are just beginning, together. They have each other to lean on, to figure things out, to share in the camaraderie of a common struggle. I’ve already gone ahead, alone, and by the time they catch up, I’m too worn out to join them. What should feel like a head start instead feels like isolation, as if I’ve locked myself into a room where my only company is my overworked mind.

Burnout has a cruel way of sneaking up on you. It doesn’t announce itself like a wall you slam into; it seeps in quietly, through the cracks of your own ambition. And when it takes hold, the irony is almost laughable: the fear of falling behind creates a cycle that ensures I never really move forward. The early start becomes irrelevant because I’m too spent to keep going. I stare at my work and realize that I could’ve accomplished the same—or maybe even more—if I’d just let myself wait. If I’d trusted that I could still be enough, even without the head start.

But waiting feels dangerous. Like a trap. How do you teach someone to pause when their whole identity is built on the idea that stopping equals failing? How do you trust time when you’ve spent so long outrunning it? I wish I could tell myself it’s okay to let go of the reins, to believe that time won’t betray me if I loosen my grip. But letting go is a skill I haven’t yet learned.

And so, I cycle through the same mistake, over and over, because I don’t know how to stop. Because the idea of falling behind terrifies me more than the burnout itself.

Maybe I just need to start right. Or maybe I’ll keep holding my breath, waiting for a version of myself that knows how.

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author’s note:

my first post of 2025, you guys! i’m so excited for what this new year will bring because honestly, 2024 was just not it… the only reason i was able to survive it was because i had special people in my life and also substack towards the later half of the year. if you’re reading this, happy new year and hope you have a wonderful year ahead! make the most out of what the year has in store for you ❤️