Navigating Survivor Burnout: A Personal Journey

It feels heavy — like the light is being stolen from your soul the moment it comes into view. An email, a letter, an old craft supply on the shelf — any one of these things can hit you out of nowhere and leave you frozen, bracing for the weight you know is coming. It’s the kind of heaviness that sinks into your chest and makes you want to turn away, hide, or just pretend it doesn’t exist.

I didn’t know there was a word for this feeling until today. But the moment I heard it, it was like the fog in my mind began to lift. Survivor burnout. Sometimes called recovery burnout, it’s a deep mental and emotional exhaustion that happens after prolonged exposure to trauma, toxic environments, or high-stress situations. It’s what happens when you’ve spent so long fighting to survive that your body no longer has the capacity to process the aftermath. And it can creep up on you even when you think you’re “past it.”

The truth is — trauma doesn’t just end when the experience does. The body holds on to it. The mind replays it. And long after you’ve physically walked away, the emotional weight of it can still knock the air out of your lungs. I know this because I’ve lived it. And in sharing my story, my hope is that someone reading this — someone who feels paralyzed by their own past — can find a piece of themselves in my words and begin to name their own pain.

This is my story of survivor burnout — and how it nearly swallowed me whole.

I have been a volunteer with an organization for empowering young girls for the last 13 years of my life. It brought me joy, friendships, and a deep sense of purpose. I believed it was a part of my calling in this life — a space where I could make a difference in the world, help girls find their voices, and create meaningful change. It lit a fire within me, one that burned so brightly I could feel it in my chest every time I showed up.

I poured my heart into it. I spent countless hours planning camps, activities, and gatherings. I lived for the moments where I could look into a young girl's eyes and see her discover her own strength. It felt like magic — and I held onto it as tightly as I could. This organization became my second home, a place where I could step outside my own struggles and do something that truly mattered. I cherished every minute of it. Until I didn't.

I was invited to join the organization 13 years ago when my mom decided to become a leader for my 7-year-old adopted sister's group. I was 21 at the time, a young mom with a 1-year-old daughter of my own. The idea of my daughter growing up in a community like this one — surrounded by strong, empowered women — lit sparks in my chest. I never hesitated. I was all in.

My mom and I spent endless days and nights planning, preparing, and dreaming up experiences that would leave these little girls inspired. We bent over backwards, sometimes literally, just to create magic for them. I would come home tired but so deeply fulfilled. I loved every minute of it. I felt like I had found my purpose.

But like most love stories — this one came with heartbreak.

When COVID hit, everything changed. Life as we knew it flipped upside down. My business shut down. My kids were suddenly home 24/7. The weight of navigating a pandemic was unbearable — and yet, I still tried to show up. I did my best to host online meetings, keep the girls engaged, and keep the spark alive. But eventually, I crumbled. The stress was too much. I was drowning in the chaos of my own home life, and I didn’t have the capacity to keep leading.

Walking away was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made. It felt like I was abandoning a piece of myself. I hated myself for it. I told myself I was weak — that I should’ve done more. I carried that guilt like a stone in my chest. But the truth was, I didn’t have a choice. Sometimes life forces us to step back so we can survive.

By the time 2022 rolled around, I thought I was finally coming up for air. My business had bounced back stronger than ever. I was going on 5 years into running my home daycare, Carissa’s Creative Kids, and it was thriving. I poured my heart into creating magic for those little ones — monthly themes, daily crafts, and unforgettable experiences. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I was building something incredible. It was a dream I never knew I had — and it gave me purpose again.

But while my business was growing, my personal life was crumbling.

A short time after the pandemic hit, my father suffered a massive heart attack — a tumor in his heart ruptured his aorta. The days spent worrying about him were unbearable. Then, a tree root burst through our sewer line and flooded our basement, destroying my daycare space and forcing me to run my business out of our small living room for over six months. My husband lost his job, leaving my daycare income as the sole source of financial support for over two years. I was overwhelmed. I was exhausted. I was barely staying afloat.

So when the opportunity of a lifetime came up — a chance to move to our family farm — it felt like the universe was finally throwing me a lifeline. We had been dreaming about this for years, and on October 31st, 2022, we did it. I closed my daycare that morning, packed our belongings, and by sunset, we were standing in our charming little cottage on the farm. I thought to myself, This is it. This is where we heal.

I was so sure that the farm would be my fresh start — a place where I could finally breathe, rest, and rebuild. And for a little while, it was. But the damage had already been done. My body and mind were still drowning in the trauma of the years before. And I was about to learn that trauma doesn’t just disappear when you change your scenery — it follows you. And it was about to follow me right back into the organization that had once been my safe place.

I needed a break. Closing my daycare and moving to the farm felt lighter — like I could finally breathe again. I was happy, but I missed my job and the kids. After a few months of resting and adjusting to farm life, my daughter and I decided to rejoin the organization. I thought it would be the perfect fresh start — a chance to step back into something I loved and help my daughter make new memories. I knew things would look a little different, but I was hopeful.

When we walked into our first meeting that January, it felt good. Familiar. Like I was reclaiming a part of myself. The unit had changed since I left — none of the girls my daughter grew up with were there, and all of my friends had walked away during COVID and never returned. But it didn’t matter. We were excited to be back.

The leader at the time, who I’ll call Karen, had decided to step down as the unit leader and take on the role of treasurer, so it would just be me and 12 girls moving forward. My mom wasn’t able to return since she was busy working and taking care of my dad. But I was determined to make it work. I threw myself into planning activities and trying to make it fun. My daughter, now 14, didn’t have any friends in the group — but we were both optimistic. We were here now, and we were going to make it great.

In hindsight, I can see the red flags clear as day. But at the time, I was too focused on making it work to notice them. The first red flag came when I asked Karen how much money was in our unit account. She brushed me off with vague answers like, “Oh, we’re fine. There’s enough in there,” but never once showed me any paperwork or gave me a number. That should have been my first sign. The second red flag came when parents approached me about Karen demanding money from them — even though the group had barely done anything in the months leading up to my return. But still, I shrugged it off. I told myself it didn’t matter because I was here now, and I was determined to turn things around.

And honestly — we did have a great year. It was just me and those 12 girls, and we made the most of it. I poured my heart into planning weekly meetings, activities, and events. I could feel the spark reigniting. About halfway through the year, we decided to pursue the ultimate goal of the organization: traveling to another country to give the girls a hands-on global experience. It was something my daughter had dreamed of doing since she was little, and I was determined to make it happen.

Karen agreed it was a worthy pursuit — after all, she had traveled a few times with the organization in the past. We started fundraising right away, even before our paperwork was approved. That was my first mistake. Karen assured me it was fine and just told me to keep it low-key. I didn’t think twice about it. I should have. I should have slowed down, asked more questions, and done my research. But my excitement blinded me. I take full responsibility for that. We were just so eager to make this trip happen that we raised $1,100 through bottle drives, candy sales, face painting, and a silent auction before we even got the green light.

That spring, after nine long hours of filling out paperwork, our trip was officially approved. I was elated. We scheduled a parent meeting to go over the trip details, expectations, and next steps. My mom even decided she’d come back to the organization the following year just so she could be part of this trip. Things felt like they were finally falling into place.

At the meeting, Karen took the lead. Things were going smoothly until she said something that stopped me dead in my tracks. She told the parents that she’d be cutting each family a personal check for the fundraising money their daughter had earned — meaning the $1,100 we worked so hard to raise for the trip would be handed back to the girls as cash. I felt my stomach drop. That was not how fundraising worked. Every penny was supposed to go toward the trip — not individual pockets. After the meeting, I pulled Karen aside and told her flat-out, “That’s not happening.” I didn’t care if we had to rework the paperwork or log it differently — I wasn’t comfortable with handing kids cash that was clearly meant for trip expenses. She seemed annoyed but let it go, and I tried to brush it off as a misunderstanding.

But something inside me shifted after that meeting. Looking back, I think that was the moment the cracks really started to show — and I just didn’t know it yet.

After that day, it felt like things just kept unraveling — one blow after another. It was like the universe was throwing every obstacle in my path, testing just how far I was willing to push for these girls and this trip.

Not long after the money incident, one of the parents — Karen's close friend — called me, asking if she could join us on the trip as a chaperone. I explained to her, as politely as I could, that our policy required all attending adults to be official leaders. However, I reassured her that if she was willing to sign on as a leader, she'd be more than welcome to join us. Simple enough, right?

Wrong.

Her response was harsh and immediate. She scoffed at the idea of becoming a leader, said she didn’t have time for that, and told me to count her daughter out of the trip entirely. I was caught off guard but respected her decision and later relayed the conversation to Karen, just so she was aware.

But instead of understanding, Karen defended her friend.

I was floored. Karen knew the policy. She knew how hard I was working to stay within the rules and make this trip happen — and yet, here she was, taking her friend's side like I was in the wrong for simply enforcing the rules. I felt my stomach turn. This was the first time I realized how deep Karen’s personal bias really went… and I had no idea just how much worse it would get.

By November, I was getting anxious. We had been fundraising hard, and I wanted to know where our unit account and trip account stood. I asked Karen multiple times for a balance update. Every time, she’d brush it off. “Oh yeah, there’s enough money in there. Just tell me what you need, and I’ll let you know if we can cover it.” Or “I’ll get you the totals this weekend, no problem.”

But the weekend would come and go. No totals.

A pit started growing in my stomach. Something was off.

Finally, one day, I couldn't ignore it anymore. I flat-out asked her, “Where are we actually at with the money?” The conversation exploded into a full-blown argument. She snapped at me, claiming that any money fundraised by a girl should stay with that girl. That was completely false. Any fundraising money was supposed to stay with the unit and go toward whatever we had raised it for — in this case, the trip. She knew that. I asked her point-blank, “Did you give the money to your friend?”

She denied it. Over and over.

But my gut told me she was lying.

We didn’t speak again until January. Out of the blue, she messaged me to apologize — blaming her outburst on pregnancy hormones. I was taken aback but accepted the apology, hoping we could just move on and finally get some clarity on our accounts.

But still… no account totals.

And now I know what you're probably thinking — why didn’t I escalate this higher up? Believe me, I thought about it. But here’s the catch: Karen was higher up. She wasn’t just another unit leader — she was considered my leader’s leader. She oversaw all the units across the entire city, including mine. And since I had no access to view the unit accounts myself, I had no hard proof of anything shady going on. All I had was a gut feeling, and a whole lot of gaslighting.

The air in the entire organization had turned toxic. I’m not exaggerating when I say that year felt like a slow, suffocating death of everything I once loved about this group. My direct leader — the one who was supposed to have my back — actually tried to reprimand me for something I wasn't even involved in. Conversations felt hostile. Passive-aggression hung in the air like poison. And no matter how much I kept pushing forward for my girls, the walls around me kept closing in.

Then, the final straw.

We were allowed to fundraise only in the small town where we held our meetings — a town of about 500 people. If we wanted to fundraise in any surrounding towns, we needed special permission. Since I didn’t have permission, I gathered the girls and took them to fundraise in our designated town. Simple. Clear-cut. Policy-abiding.

But then Karen — who was still pretending to be on my side — said, “No one has hit up my street yet. Just bring the girls to my neighborhood. It'll be fine.” I trusted her and we went.

Well… that unleashed hell.

The other leaders lost their minds. Apparently, they had created some unspoken rule that only the younger girls were allowed to fundraise in town — older girls had to get permission to fundraise elsewhere. I was baffled. I asked, “Why wasn’t I told that?” No answer.

A heated group chat argument erupted — multiple leaders ganging up on me, accusing me of “breaking the rules” even though I had permission from Karen herself. It became glaringly obvious — they weren’t mad about fundraising rules. They were mad at me. The energy was like they were just waiting for me to make a misstep so they could tear me apart. I felt like an outcast in my own organization. And where was Karen? She sat back and watched as the entire group brutally attacked me over chat, then played ignorant when I tried to defend myself and told everyone what she had told me. 

I broke down that night. Like full body sobs.

And yet… I kept going. For my daughter. For the remaining girls who still believed in this trip. For the purest intentions I walked in with from the start.

But the weight was unbearable. Girls started dropping out of the trip — parents quietly pulling them without much explanation. We were now down to six girls. The self-doubt crept in hard. Was I the problem? Was I pushing too hard? Was this trip simply not meant to happen?

But deep down, I knew my heart was in the right place. So I kept pushing.

 I pulled my mom into the fundraising efforts. We did full-day, 20-kilometer roadside clean-ups. We held community barbecues, flower sales, chocolate drives, farmers markets — we were giving it our all. I was running on fumes, both mentally and emotionally, but I couldn’t quit.

And still… no account totals.

By spring, I was desperate. I asked Karen again where the accounts stood. She brushed me off again. She even started getting snippy, asking “Why does it matter? We have enough money for what you need.”

But I knew something was wrong. I could feel it.

And I was about to find out exactly how deep the betrayal ran.

By spring, the year was wrapping up — and Karen still hadn’t given me a total for our unit or trip account.

I KNEW something was wrong. I could feel it like a rock sitting in my stomach every time I thought about it. But after everything I had already been put through — the manipulation, the gaslighting, the constant power plays — I had developed a full-blown physical response anytime my brain even considered questioning it. My chest would tighten, my throat would close up, and I’d have to talk myself out of a panic attack just to stay afloat.

But still, I kept hoping. Maybe it was all in my head. Maybe she was just busy and hadn’t had time to total things up. I mean, she wouldn’t actually screw me over… right?

But deep down — I knew better.

May and June felt like a complete out-of-body experience. Nothing felt real anymore. The passive-aggression from other leaders, the constant feeling of walking on eggshells, and the suffocating dread that our entire trip was falling apart was consuming me. I could barely function.

But there was one thing that kept me pushing forward — the $5000 community grant I had secured over the winter.

Let me tell you something about that grant — I bled for it.

I spent over 72 hours of my free time writing up that grant proposal. And I’m not talking two hours a day for three days — I mean I poured weeks of my life into it. Countless nights sitting at my dining room table, combing through receipts, researching vendors, finding the best prices — just so I could stretch that $5000 as far as humanly possible.

Our district camping supplies were ancient. The cooking kits were missing very necessary pieces, imagine getting to camp and discovering you dont have a knife or even a frying pan to cook with, our pans alone looked like they were old enough to be made of led, and any time we went geocaching, we had to rely on my personal cell phone because the district didn’t even own GPS units. So, I outlined a plan — use the $5000 to buy new camping equipment and GPS units that the girls could use for geocaching and outdoor education. Not only would my unit benefit, but every single unit in the district would have access to the supplies.

It was for the girls. It was always for the girls.

Karen wasn't heavily involved during this grant process — she did give her input, but not in a productive way, more like a “mentor” I could bounce ideas off of. I’d call her to get feedback or input, and she’d happily oblige. I trusted her. She had once been the district leader, and now she oversaw the area council, so I thought she had my back.

I was wrong.

A short while after I got approved for the $5000 grant, Karen called me. And that’s when she dropped the bomb.

"That’s a lot of money,” she said casually. “I think it would be reasonable if some of that went toward a shed for my yard… you know, since I’m storing all the district’s camping supplies in my garage.”

I froze.

A… shed?

This $5000 was for the girls. For new camping equipment, GPS units, led free pots and pan — things that would benefit the entire district. And she was suggesting we divert that money to buy a shed for her own personal yard?

I stammered out something neutral like, “I mean, I get that… but I was really hoping to use it for the GPS units.”

Karen didn't push it — not right away. But in the following days, she started flooding my inbox with links to other grants I could apply for to get the GPS machines. It was clear — she wanted that shed, and she wanted me to get another grant so she could have both.

Ohhhh, I was fuming. But honestly? I wasn’t even surprised anymore. Karen had made it crystal clear that her own interests came first — the girls came second.

And still — I pushed on.

The Moment It All Came Crashing Down

Then, at the end of June, as we were wrapping up our year, Karen finally had no choice but to give me the account totals.

I had been begging for them for months — and every time I asked, she brushed me off. But now? Time was up. She had to give me the numbers.

I opened her email and my heart immediately sank. Tears welled in my eyes as I scanned the account statements. It was a disaster.

• Over $1100 was missing.
• Bills that were supposed to have been paid back in January were still outstanding, despite me reminding her multiple times.
• Money that was meant to be sitting in our trip account had been deposited into our unit account instead — and if you know anything about organizational policies, you know that moving money out of a unit account to fund a trip is nearly impossible.

I could hardly breathe.

I texted my leader — the one below Karen — and laid everything out. I told her about the missing money, the unpaid bills, and the mix-up with the accounts. I was desperate for someone to help me fix this.

And guess what?

She didn’t even reply.

The Phone Call That Changed Everything

Hours later, my phone rang. It was Karen. I knew this call was going to be bad — but I never expected what came next.

I answered, my voice already shaky.

"Karen… what happened to the money?"

And without skipping a beat — like it was the most casual thing in the world — she said:

"Oh, well… I gave it to my friend. Her kid wasn’t going on the trip anymore, so I figured it was only fair to refund her."

I froze. My stomach dropped.

"Karen, that’s fraud," I said slowly, my voice barely above a whisper.

And that’s when she completely lost it. Like a wild animal backed into a corner, she exploded. Screaming. Name-calling. Berating me over the phone like I was the one in the wrong.

"You’re making a big deal out of nothing!" she yelled.
"This trip is never going to happen anyway, not as long as I’m in charge!"

I sat there in silence, my phone on speaker as my mom sat next to me — both of us just listening in shock. Karen was completely unhinged.

And in that moment — I realized exactly who I was dealing with.

She wasn’t just mismanaging funds. She wasn’t just lazy. She was abusing her power and now that she was caught, she was going to scream, gaslight, and bully me into silence.

But I wasn’t going to let her.

Desperation, Exhaustion — And One Last Attempt

I didn’t know what else to do.

I was emotionally wrecked. The constant fighting, the stonewalling from Karen, the unbalanced accounts — it had chewed me up and spit me out. But despite how burnt out I was, there was still a sliver of hope buried somewhere deep down.

So I did what felt like my last shot. I wrote a long, detailed letter to the provincial leader — the person directly above Karen. And when I say long, I mean long. I poured everything into that email. I laid out the $1100 missing, the bills that hadn’t been paid, the money that was stuck in the wrong account — and most importantly, the fact that Karen admitted to redirecting money to her friend without permission.

Writing that letter took everything out of me. I cried the entire time I typed it. Not because I was sad — but because I was so emotionally drained I could barely keep myself upright. But I needed someone to understand the magnitude of what was happening.

So I sent it. And then I just sat there… numb.

A few days later, she responded. She actually seemed understanding. She apologized that I was dealing with this and told me she would escalate it to the provincial treasurer — someone higher than Karen — who would personally step in and sort out my accounts. She even scheduled a Zoom meeting with me and my mom the following week so we could go over everything.

And I remember thinking, Okay. Finally. This is it. Someone is finally going to make this right.

During the meeting, I laid everything out — the fights with Karen, the missing money, the grant, the unpaid bills — all of it. She listened carefully, promised me that the treasurer would audit everything, and assured me that Karen would be held accountable.

And for the first time in months, I exhaled a little. I let myself believe that help was finally here.

But Then — Silence.

The following weeks were quiet. I told myself it was fine — it's the summer, audits take time, right?

But as weeks turned into months… that pit in my stomach came creeping back.

The accounts never got fixed. The $1100 was still missing. The $5000 grant money I had worked so hard to secure? It was taken from me — absorbed by the district. Not stolen, just… taken out of my hands. After all those sleepless nights writing the grant, all the detailed breakdowns of how the money would benefit the girls, all the heart I had poured into it — the district decided that they would be in charge of how it was spent now.

It stung. Bad.

But what hurt even more was the fact that the bills I had personally covered still hadn’t been reimbursed. I had paid out of pocket for activities we did months ago — and despite promising to look into it, nobody was making any effort to pay me back.

The provincial leader, who once seemed so helpful, just sort of… disappeared. Every now and then I’d get a short, empty email like “We’re still working on it”, but nothing ever came from it.

And the hardest part? I didn’t have the energy to keep following up. I was completely spent. My body literally rejected the thought of dealing with it anymore. I couldn’t stomach sending another email. I couldn’t handle another phone call. Anytime I even thought about the situation, my throat would close up and my chest would tighten.

I was drowning in burnout — and they knew it.

And honestly? I think they were counting on it.

Because if they could just keep me quiet long enough, eventually, I’d give up.

And they were right.

By the time September rolled around, I didn’t have an ounce of fight left in me. I was emotionally destroyed.

So I did the only thing I could do to protect myself.

I shut down.

By the time September rolled around, I had nothing left to give. But even as I tried to move on, the messages kept coming.

“When are meetings starting up again?”
“any word on whats happening?”
“My daughter keeps asking when she’ll see everyone again!”

Each text, each email, each phone call was like a gut punch. They had no idea what had happened behind the scenes. They didn’t know that the accounts were still a mess, that I had been fighting for months just to get straight answers, that I was barely holding it together.

I wanted to reply. I wanted to tell them everything. But every time I thought about it, my chest tightened, my hands shook, and I felt that familiar wave of exhaustion crash over me.

So instead, I distanced myself.

I sent vague replies — “Not sure yet!” or “Still waiting on some things to be sorted out!” — but the truth was, I had nothing left in me to keep pushing.

I had fought so hard. And I had lost.

There hasn’t been a happy outcome to this story. Karen is still in power. I lost my voice. I isolated myself, avoiding even Facebook because she was still on my friends list—I didn’t want to touch it. I threw myself into building a business just to escape the pain. But little reminders would still set me off. A text from a mom asking if there would be meetings again. An email from the organization. A forgotten box of craft supplies on a shelf. Each one pulling me back into the grief, the anger, the loss.

The Recovery Process

Survivor burnout recovery starts with detaching yourself—physically and mentally—from the situation. Then comes the analysis, the emotional roller coaster: blaming yourself, resenting them, even feeling sorry for them. If your experience is anything like mine, you’ll go through all seven stages of grief before you can finally move on and try to pick up those millions of pieces of who you once were.

It's a long, exhausting journey. Processing the emotions is overwhelming. Every reminder—a notification, a casual question, a stray craft supply—had the power to send me spiraling, reliving all the gross feelings, the grief, the anger.

I won’t pretend I’ve fully healed. I’m still in the process of recovery. Some days, I feel like I’ve moved on. Other days, a small reminder drags me right back into the pain. But I’ve learned that healing isn’t about erasing the past—it’s about learning to live beyond it.

So what helps? Setting boundaries—giving myself permission to step away. Redirecting my focus—pouring my energy into building something new. Finding validation—talking to others who have been through similar experiences, reminding myself that I’m not alone.

If you’re in this space too, know that healing isn’t linear. Some days, you’ll feel strong. Other days, you’ll feel like you’re back at square one. But every step forward—no matter how small—is still progress.

Recognizing and Healing from Survivor Burnout

What you’re experiencing right now—the hesitation to even talk about it, the fear of retraumatizing yourself by reliving the details, the mental exhaustion of simply thinking about writing it all down—is survivor burnout.

It happens when you’ve fought for something for so long that your body physically cannot process any more of it without overwhelming trauma. That’s why you feel frozen. That’s why you don’t know what’s “left or right” anymore.

I didn’t know that what I was going through even had a name until a friend reached out. She had asked me how fundraising was going, and I hesitated before finally telling her everything—the bullying, the betrayal, my reluctance to send my story to the national level. I had poured out my pain, expecting maybe sympathy or a kind word. Instead, her response changed everything.

She wrote:

"First of all, I just want to say—I see you. I feel the weight of what you’ve been carrying, and I can hear the deep hurt, betrayal, and emotional exhaustion this has caused you. You didn’t just give your time—you gave your heart to these girls, to this trip, and to the organization. And what you got in return was complete negligence, gaslighting, and a breach of ethics from people who were supposed to support you.

What you’re experiencing right now—the hesitation to even report it, the fear of retraumatizing yourself by reliving the details, the mental exhaustion of even thinking about writing this email—is survivor burnout. It happens when you’ve been fighting for something so long that your body physically cannot process any more of it without overwhelming trauma. That’s why you feel frozen. That’s why you don’t know what’s “left or right” anymore."

Reading her words felt like a lifeline. Suddenly, I could name what I was feeling. It wasn’t weakness. It wasn’t cowardice. It wasn’t me failing to stand up for myself.

It was burnout.

That shift—being able to name it—gave me the strength to take my power back. It was the hardest day of my healing journey, but for the first time in months, I could see a way forward.

I sat down and wrote a long, detailed letter to the organization’s head office. I laid everything out, reliving every toxic moment, every betrayal, every unethical action. But this time, I wasn’t writing from a place of anger or despair. I was clear. I was firm. I told them I was walking away. I told them they could keep the ten thousand dollars my girls and I had spent a year fundraising for—money that would inevitably end up in Karen’s hands. Because in the end, my mental health was worth far more than any amount of money.

Walking away didn’t mean losing. It meant reclaiming myself.

Signs of Survivor Burnout

If you’re reading this and it feels familiar, you might be experiencing survivor burnout, too. Some of the signs include:

• Feeling mentally and emotionally exhausted, to the point where even thinking about what happened drains you.
• Avoiding anything that reminds you of the trauma because you can’t bear to relive those emotions.
• Feeling detached from yourself or emotionally numb.
• Struggling to regulate your emotions—going from guilt to anger to hopelessness in a cycle that feels endless.
• Feeling overwhelmed and unable to cope with the demands of healing.

Unprocessed trauma doesn’t stay buried. It finds ways to resurface when you least expect it.

For me, it came in small, unexpected ways. Seeing a leftover craft supply on the shelf. Getting an email from the farmers' market asking if I was bringing the girls back to fundraise. Walking into the building where we once held meetings. Each moment carried the weight of everything I had lost, and suddenly, I’d find myself spiraling all over again.

Healing isn’t linear. It’s not a straight road from pain to peace. It’s messy, exhausting, and unpredictable. Some days, you’ll feel like you’re finally moving on. Other days, a small reminder will hit you like a tidal wave. And that’s okay.

I am still in the middle of my healing journey, and if you are too, I want you to know this: it gets lighter. Slowly, the weight begins to lift. The memories lose their power. The emotions become manageable.

Even writing this—something I never could have done a month ago—shows me how far I’ve come. I used to feel consumed by guilt, questioning every decision I made, wondering if I had somehow been complicit in my own downfall. But with time, I see things more clearly. I can recognize that I was doing my best with the knowledge I had. I can remind myself that my intentions were always pure.

And most importantly, I can forgive myself.

Because at the end of the day, what happened wasn’t my fault.

I am resilient. And this trauma—painful as it was—has made me stronger, wiser, and more sure of who I am and who i want to be.

And if you’re walking this path too, I hope you know: you are not alone. And you will find your way through.

We are survivors, we are warriors, and we are going to be ok.