The Gentle Burnout of Doing What You Love

December 22nd — Last night I stayed up far too late — again. I was writing, planning, dreaming. My mind was sparkling with ideas for the blog, for Selflavie, for everything I love creating. It didn't feel like work; it felt like joy.

When even joy becomes heavy

We often talk about burnout as if it only comes from things we hate — stress, pressure, endless obligations. But sometimes, it can come from what we love the most.

There's a kind of tiredness that grows quietly inside the things that give us meaning. It's not the sharp edge of distress, but the soft ache of eustress — the "good stress."
It's the kind that comes from caring deeply, from wanting to give your best, from pouring your heart into something that matters.

I feel it often. I love writing, studying, creating content for Selflavie, and spending time with my boy. These are all things that fill my soul. Yet I still find myself overwhelmed sometimes, not because I want to stop, but because I don't know how.

The hum underneath the happiness

There are days when everything I do feels beautiful — writing, studying, creating for Selflavie, cuddling with my boy, walking through the forest, learning something new.
These are not chores; they are parts of myself. Pieces of my identity that make me feel grounded and alive.

Yet even inside all this goodness, I sometimes feel a quiet overwhelm rising, not because I want to stop, but because I don't know how to stop.

When life is filled with things you love, slowing down can feel almost unnatural.
You don't want to lose the momentum or dim the spark. You want to stay in the glow for just a little longer. But that glow, if held too close, can begin to warm you into exhaustion.

The bright fire of enthusiasm

When inspiration hits, I go all in. Maybe you know that feeling too, when your mind opens like a window and suddenly everything is clear, everything flows, everything feels possible.

I write for hours without noticing the time. Ideas stack on top of each other like soft, glowing bricks. My thoughts turn into storms of brightness, into constellations I want to capture before they vanish. But somewhere in that intensity, a shift happens.

The mind that felt spacious becomes tight around the edges. The very excitement that fueled me now hums too loudly, asking for silence I didn't know I needed.

That's the deceiving part about eustress: it begins as a spark and ends as smoke.

Joy can quietly become a form of exhaustion — the gentle burnout no one warns you about, because from the outside it looks like passion. It looks like purpose. It looks like everything is going well. But inside, your nervous system is whispering, "Slow down. Please."

The art of stopping even when it's good

It's easy to stop when something feels wrong. It's much harder to stop when everything feels right. How do you tell your heart, "enough for today," when your heart is finally doing what it loves? How do you pause the momentum when it feels like joy is finally flowing after months of stillness?

I'm learning — slowly, imperfectly — that rest is not rejection. Stepping away from what you love doesn't mean losing it. It means holding it with tenderness rather than grip. It means honoring your future self who also deserves the version of you that isn't drained.

Now, when I feel that familiar pull — the urge to do just one more idea, one more paragraph, one more task — I try to soften it.

I make tea.
I lie down with my boy.
I stare at the ceiling for a moment and let my mind unclench.
I remind myself that ideas do not disappear overnight;
they settle, they steep, they wait for me.

Just like I wait for myself.

Learning to balance passion and peace

Eustress teaches us something important:

✨ even good things need boundaries
✨ creativity thrives on spaciousness
✨ joy requires rest just as much as effort
✨ our nervous system doesn't differentiate between "happy stress" and "hard stress"

Slow living isn't about doing less of what we love.
It's about loving ourselves enough to pause before the joy turns into depletion.

It's about leaving breath between ideas.
It's about remembering that inspiration needs room to echo.
It's about realizing that even the softest passions can become heavy when we try to carry them without rest.

And ultimately, it's about returning to ourselves — gently, consistently —
so we can keep doing what we love with a heart that is full, not fractured.

Reflection for you

When was the last time you felt tired from something you truly enjoy?
How might you give yourself permission to pause — not because you're done, but because you deserve to breathe?

Before you move on, let's slow down for a moment.
Unclench your jaw.
Drop your shoulders.
Take one gentle breath in — and let it out slowly.
Nothing to fix. Nothing to figure out. Just this moment. 

And if this reflection resonated with you, you can find more soft musings on healing, creativity, and slow living on my Instagram @selflavie. A gentle space for rest, reflection, and renewal. 🤍

Soft hugs,
Selflavie