04: When AI Fast-Tracked My Burnout
A story of collapse, survival, and the long road back to myself.
Burnout wasn’t just exhaustion for me.
It was a full-body collapse — my nervous system finally giving out after years of running on fumes and calling it resilience.
I lost everything.
I ended up back at my parents’ house in Renton, Washington — while my kids stayed in San Diego to begin a new school year. My daughter starting sixth grade. My son starting eighth.
I missed first-day photos. I missed walking them into classrooms. I missed the ordinary moments that make up a life.
As their mom, it ripped me apart. But I couldn’t bear the thought of uprooting them again — stealing their stability when mine had already shattered.
So I told them — and myself — that for the first time in my life and theirs, I needed to take care of me first… because I can’t pour from an empty cup. That this was the fastest path back to being the mom they deserve.
And still, the shame swallowed me whole.
When the Collapse Came
This wasn’t sudden. It was years in the making.
I had been running from grief, staying in motion, hiding behind constant building, pretending things were fine. But beneath all of it was a decade of self-abandonment.
In the name of building, I hid behind AI — producing, pushing, doing everything faster. And while it gave me momentum, it also fast-tracked my burnout.
After my divorce, my identity was gone. Completely erased after years of coercive control. My self-esteem depleted. My confidence non-existent. I thought I was worthless in the choices I made and the way I lived.
I didn’t prioritize myself at all. I had zero love for myself. The only thing kept me on this earth was the thought of my kids. Because as much as I wanted to disappear, I couldn’t show them that giving up was an option. I wanted them to see that even when life breaks you, there’s another way forward.
But you can’t live in armor forever.
Eventually, it becomes the weight that breaks you.
And when I finally broke, I broke hard … I shattered.
It was two and a half years of unraveling. Of trying to rebuild every aspect of my life — my identity, my income, my faith, my self-worth. All while clinging to the promise I had made to my kids: everything is going to be okay.
But the shame of not being able to keep that promise — and the fear of failing them — kept me in a loop of survival. I couldn’t see beyond just getting through the next day.
And then, this past June, I hit my rock bottom.
The months leading up to the collapse were the darkest of all.
I felt frozen, like I was sinking in quicksand — just watching my own life fall apart in slow motion, like a horror movie I couldn’t stop.
I couldn’t focus. Couldn’t write a simple email. Couldn’t take calls without crying — or without looking visibly fried. All the things that used to work for me, all the masks I wore to keep going — they stopped working.
And underneath it all, I felt like a failure.
I was angry at everyone who stood and watched me.
I was angry at the people I felt had let me down — who saw me struggling, even when I asked for help.
And I was angry at the person I blamed for robbing me of so many experiences — and for rewiring how I saw the world, and even worse, how I saw myself.
And before the truth landed, I was furious — at the world, and even at the people I loved. I hated that they could watch me fail and seem okay with it. I got to a point where I lost faith in humanity altogether.
But sitting in that anger only kept me in a loop of victimization. It held me in place, circling the same pain, unable to move forward.
The truth I finally had to face was this: only I could save me.
And there was nothing anyone could do for me if I couldn’t save myself first.
And saving myself meant letting go. It meant feeling the things I had buried for years.
And when I couldn’t stop myself, when I couldn’t let go on my own — God did.
He stripped me down to nothing, forced me into stillness. And as brutal as it was, it became grace. Because in that stillness, I began to see what I really needed.
I had to take responsibility for my own healing.
I had to forgive myself for the years I abandoned me.
I had to loosen my grip on the shame I’d been carrying.
I had to let go of the old stories that kept me in hiding.
I had to learn to love myself again — not in theory, but in practice, maybe even for the first time.
And I had to accept. Accept what was lost, what would never be the same, and also what could still be rebuilt.
The First Fragile Signs of Joy
And in that acceptance, something small began to return.
At first, it was almost invisible — the tiniest sparks in a long, dark season. A song I caught myself humming. A laugh that slipped out while I was cooking with my mom. The way sunlight warmed my face on a walk, and for once, I actually let myself feel it.
It wasn’t an instant transformation. It was the slow re-entry into myself. The reminder that even in wreckage, joy can still find a way back in.
Fragile, imperfect, but mine.
Rebuilding the Hard Way
When I started my business, I thought: I know how to use AI. I can build systems in my sleep.
And since starting, I’ve built a reputation for showing others how to do the same — the transformation of digital agency.
But the truth is, the hardest work wasn’t the strategy or the systems. It was me.
It was facing my fear of being seen. My relationship with money. My worth. My voice.
That’s been the real rebuild. Not the business or the brand. But the woman beneath it all.
The Larger Concern
What scares me most is knowing how easily my story could become everyone’s story.
Because as AI gets adopted, I see a world chasing output. Demanding more from humans without changing the way we work.
All in the name of innovation. And that is the perfect recipe for burnout on repeat.
I know, because I lived it.
The Lessons Learned
We’re all still figuring this out — what kind of relationship we want with this technology, and where the line is between support and self-abandonment. Just because you can use AI for everything, doesn’t mean you should.
For me, AI became the mirror that showed me how much I didn’t trust myself. How often I turned to it instead of putting myself out there. How I hid behind “perfecting” with AI instead of letting myself be seen.
That’s the real lesson it gave me: that it has to be done with balance.
Because burnout taught me this:
Getting things done doesn’t mean much if you’re too depleted to enjoy it.
Success without safety never lasts.
And maybe most importantly — you should’t have to rebuild alone.
Burnout stripped away the noise and made me see how much I’d been running — from myself, from my pain, from the very life I wanted to build.
This is The Becoming.
This is The Belonging.
And maybe, it’s The Balance too.
But more than anything, this is just a short chapter of my Rebuild.
To E&E
And to my kids — I am sorry. I know you’ve felt my absence. I can’t wait to hold you again. I’m coming home. Not from a place of survival this time, but from a place of being grounded, whole, and present.
Imperfect mom, yes. But this time, a present mom.
To finally do the thing I’ve said I wanted all along: to build a life where I can be with you. Where I can be present. Where our home is filled with laughter, love, joy, and peace — and the permission to simply be.
One day, I hope you’ll understand. I did this for you, too. To make sure I don’t hand you the same wounds I carried. So you don’t have to grow up carrying what was never yours. So you can live free, and whole.
That’s what this has all been for. I love you.
🖤
Diana