Tending the Flame: Embracing Vulnerability in a Season of Burnout

I lit a candle today, and as I sat watching the flame flicker and dance, I was mesmerized by its gentle yet powerful presence. That tiny flame, so unassuming yet captivating, drew me into a deep reflection on where I am right now. It felt like a mirror to my own existence—a small yet vibrant source of energy, simultaneously beautiful and fragile.

But unlike the candle, my flame is fueled by a relentless pace, an unyielding drive to do and be more, constantly pushing forward. This season of burnout has illuminated something I’ve avoided for too long: my tendency to run from pain and vulnerability, masking it with busyness and ambition. It hit me, watching that flame. My high energy isn’t just motivation—it’s a distraction. If I stay in motion, I don’t have to slow down. If I don’t slow down, I don’t have to face the emotions I’ve been outpacing for years.

This week, though, I can feel it catching up to me. The exhaustion is settling in, deep and heavy. Creativity feels out of reach, tears come unbidden, and doubts creep into every corner of my mind. I can’t pull myself out of this funk, and it scares me. A friend gently urged me to slow down, to sort through the chaos and prioritize. I understood her advice, but truthfully, I dismissed it. To follow through would mean getting honest with myself—acknowledging emotions I’ve spent a lifetime burying.

I know this pattern well. It’s the trauma response that shaped my protector self: stay busy, stay safe. Running has always felt like survival. Slowing down, on the other hand, feels like danger—like facing the wounds could break me. But the truth I’m beginning to grasp is this: there’s no outrunning what’s inside me.

Acknowledging the pain doesn’t mean succumbing to it; it means validating it, sitting with it, and allowing myself to heal. That’s where the vulnerability comes in, and it’s fucking hard. I’ve spent so much of my life believing I have to be strong, that stopping to feel the weight of my wounds could mean everything might unravel. But I’m learning that denying my emotions doesn’t make them disappear. It just leaves them to fester, slowly dimming my light.

Watching the candle, I realized something else. Flames don’t burn brighter by ignoring their limits—they burn steady when they’re protected, fueled, and tended to. I owe that to myself. I’ve traded one season of burnout for another because I thought running would save me. But if I don’t slow down, if I don’t pause to honor my story, my experiences, and my emotions, this flame—the essence of who I am—will extinguish.

It’s time to embrace the stillness I’ve been avoiding. To remind myself that my worth isn’t tied to how much I can do or how brightly I can burn. I don’t have to keep running to prove I’m strong. Strength is found in the quiet moments of honesty, in the courage to lean into the pain, and in trusting that I can let go without losing myself.

This lesson isn’t easy, but I owe it to myself to keep this flame alive—not by running, but by tending to it with care. There’s beauty in slowing down, in holding space for vulnerability, and in trusting that my story holds power, even in the stillness.

So, I wonder—what might happen if I stopped seeing my vulnerability as a weakness to outrun and instead embraced it as the very thing that keeps my flame alive?

Perhaps the answer lies not in how fiercely I can burn, but in how intentionally I can nurture my light. To tend to myself is to honor both the strength and fragility within, allowing my flame to dance steadily, illuminating the path ahead. It’s a path I am learning to walk, step by step, with grace and intention.

What about you? How do you tend to your own flame when the weight of life feels overwhelming?