(The Burnout Was a Message. I Finally Listened.)

The cracks started to show in early 2019.
And not the kind you ignore with a little drywall patching and denial.

The U.S. government shut down.
As a contractor, I wasn’t getting paid for 35 days.

And then, a few weeks later, my house caught fire.
Yes, fire. Real flames.
The tenants vanished. Insurance took its time. I was suddenly managing a property crisis I hadn’t budgeted for—in time, money, or emotional capacity.

I got through it. Renovated. Repaired. Sold it.
At the time, it felt like a loss.
But with distance, I see what it really was: a reset I didn’t know I needed.
The sale gave me enough of a financial runway to pause, to actually breathe—after years of immigration hurdles, an abusive marriage, a gut-wrenching divorce, and a series of workplaces that were more extractive than empowering.

It wasn’t just a house.
It was the beginning of the era of the end of survival mode.

Soon after, I met a founder with a magnetic vision and a gift for momentum.
Big plans. Big energy.
I said yes to joining his startup. I saw potential. And, frankly, I saw myself in the build.

I poured in my time, my talent, my belief.
But when it came to equity, I didn’t negotiate.
I waited too long.
For him to bring it up. For the conversation to feel “right.” For something official to land in writing.

Why is it that we, especially as women in leadership, often wait to be recognized rather than declare our value outright?

Because I still thought humility was a virtue in business.
Because I didn’t want to seem “difficult.”
Because I was still healing from shutting down my own company, and some part of me hadn’t fully forgiven myself yet.

Looking back, I was co-architecting something powerful.
But I hadn’t caught up to the idea that I wasn’t just helping someone else build—I was the asset being built upon.

And so, when the money ran thin, I did what high-functioning burnout survivors do:
I downsized.
Moved into a cheaper apartment.
Sold my car.
Tapped into savings.
Kept working. Always working.

I told myself it was intentional.
Minimalism. Lean living.
But let’s be honest—it was a recalibration, not a lifestyle brand.

And yet, somewhere in the quiet, something started to flicker.

I began recording podcasts—other people’s stories.
And every story I edited, every voice I amplified, sparked something in me.
My own voice? Still in the shadows, but watching. Waiting.

I hosted small social events.
Just for fun at first. Then, they evolved—into real, soul-centered spaces.
Places where people could show up as they were.
Places where I showed up fully again.

I started dating.
No shame. No second-guessing.
I wasn’t apologizing for being divorced.
This time, I wasn’t chasing love. I was choosing from it.

And just as life began to hum with possibility again—COVID hit.

The startup paused. The world held its breath.
And in that collective silence, I made a private vow:

No more going back to burnout.
No more shrinking to fit into other people’s visions.
This time, I’d bet on myself.

I pivoted. Product management had always intrigued me, but I felt just out of reach.
So I started small.
One course. One module. One uncomfortable Zoom session after another to build my community.
Confidence shaky. Focus locked in.

And by March 2021?
I landed the role.

Product Manager.
West Coast opportunity.
Dream company. Supportive team. Real growth trajectory.

The kind of role you say yes to, and start shopping for ergonomic chairs.

But my nephew had just been born.
And every time I held him, I knew: this moment won’t come again.

So I made the call.

I turned down the dream office.
Opted for a remote role at a smaller startup.
Not less ambition. Just more alignment.

Not more “soul” in terms of workplace perks.
More soul in the form of presence. Of family. Of self-trust.

And that changed everything.