There’s a particular kind of tired that seeps right into your bones. It’s not just the “I didn’t sleep well” tired, or the “I’ve had too many busy days in a row” tired. It’s the kind that settles in after you’ve poured out every ounce of yourself, body, mind, and heart, and somehow still find more to give because the work matters that much.

I love my job. I love the people I serve, the stories I’m invited into, the purpose behind the long hours and endless to-do lists. Deep down, my heart still beats fast when I talk about what I do. But lately, the passion and the fatigue are tangled up in a complicated knot.

Some days I wake up buzzing with ideas and hope. Other days, I stare at the calendar, wondering how I’m going to summon the energy to get through another week. The to-do list doesn’t care that I’m running on fumes. The needs around me certainly don’t.

Burnout isn’t always a sudden collapse. Sometimes it’s a slow fade, a gentle dimming of energy, creativity, and joy. And when your work is tied so tightly to your identity, admitting you’re running on empty feels almost like betrayal. Shouldn’t I be stronger? Shouldn’t the passion be enough to carry me?

Right now, I’m back home in Scotland. It’s strange to press pause when there’s so much still to be done in Sierra Leone, but I knew I had to step back before I broke completely. I’m here to rest and refuel, to walk by the sea, drink tea without watching the clock, and sleep without setting alarms. I’m here to let my body and my mind recover so I can return to the work I love with energy and excitement rather than dread and exhaustion.

There’s a temptation to feel guilty for this break, as though stepping away makes me less committed. But rest isn’t laziness, it’s maintenance. Boundaries aren’t selfish, they’re the scaffolding that keep you standing. You can’t pour from an empty cup, and sometimes the most faithful thing you can do for the calling you love is to protect your own capacity to answer it.

So, I’m relearning the rhythm of breathing in and breathing out. Saying yes to stillness and no to unnecessary busyness. Letting myself feel proud of small wins. Trusting that the world and the work will still be there tomorrow.

I am not done yet. But I am choosing to be honest about where I’m at. Because I think we need more conversations about how you can be deeply in love with what you do and still be utterly exhausted.

Yes, bravery can be showing up when everything feels heavy, but it can also be knowing when to pause, breathe deeply, and gently remind yourself that you are human.

And here, in Scotland, the sea air is slowly unknotting the tension in my shoulders. The slower pace is teaching my heartbeat a gentler rhythm. With each quiet morning and unhurried conversation, I feel a little more like myself again. Soon, I’ll step back onto Sierra Leone’s warm soil, not as someone dragging herself over the finish line, but as someone ready to run again. And when I do, I’ll bring back a heart full of passion and the strength to pour it out well.