Me, My Life & Why Part 11

Part 11

Going viral felt cute for, like… 48 hours.

The digital equivalent of being offered a seat at the cool kids’ table, only to realise it’s made of reclaimed trauma and everyone’s eating vibes.

I woke up to a notification storm.

Twitter (sorry, X, which sounds like a drug I wouldn’t survive) had opinions.

Instagram wanted more rants.

TikTok had already turned my voice into an audio trend.

Some girl lip-synced over my “burnout is not a personality” moment while applying highlighter and holding a tiny dog.

I had arrived.

Apparently.

Then came the brands.

One sent me a pitch for “collaborative wellness granola.”

Another offered a free weighted blanket if I’d post a reel about how it “soothed my burnout journey.”

A productivity app wanted to sponsor me - me, a woman who thinks bullet points are a form of emotional violence.

The emails piled in.

People wanted quotes. Hot takes. Keynotes. Panel appearances.

Someone asked if I’d speak on an ADHD influencer panel.

I hadn’t even changed my socks.

Like… today. I hadn’t changed my socks. From yesterday.

And now they wanted me to be the face of executive dysfunction with lipstick on?

No.

Absolutely not.

Maybe?

…I didn’t reply.

Suddenly I was part of a system I’d just publicly quit.

I burned my metaphorical timecard and now the internet was handing me a microphone and asking me to keynote the ashes.

I was getting DMs like:

“You’re so inspirational. I wish I had your courage.”

Courage?

I ghosted my boss and cried into toast.

That’s not bravery, that’s Tuesday.

And here’s the part no one tells you about becoming “relatable” content:

The second people decide you’re inspiring, they expect you to stay that way.

Clean quotes. Sharable snippets. Digestible rage.

A personal brand of burnout.

But make it ✨resilient✨.

I tried to write something, just a little caption.

Five sentences in, I spiralled into a Google search titled “how to disappear from the internet without faking your death.”

Because what if I say the wrong thing now?

What if I stop making sense?

What if I have a bad day and they find out I’m not healed, I’m just well-fed and out of fcks*?

The internet loves a mess, but only if it’s aesthetic.

Only if it comes with filters and closure and product recommendations.

I had none of that.

I had unwashed dishes, three spoons, and a pile of laundry that had reached structural integrity.

So I stopped posting.

For a day.

Then two.

People noticed.

“Everything okay?”

“Where’s the next post?”

“Burnout babe, we miss you!”

Burnout. Babe.

What had I done?

I didn’t ask for this.

Didn’t want it.

Didn’t mean to start a movement, or a community, or an unintentional anti-hustle cult with me as the unwilling founder and unpaid content creator.

I just wanted a minute.

A breath.

A bowl of cereal without feeling like I owed the world a caption about it.

I thought about deleting everything.

Going back to being unknown, unseen, unbothered.

But then I remembered the comments.

The strangers who whispered “same.”

The people who felt less alone because I’d said the thing out loud.

So maybe I won’t delete it.

Maybe I’ll just take up space a little differently now.

Maybe I don’t need to monetise my meltdown.

Maybe I can exist without being branded, packaged, and panel-ready.

Maybe I can still be messy.

Still real.

Still wearing yesterday’s hoodie and questioning everything, and that’s the point.

And if the internet eats burnouts for breakfast, I hope it chokes on mine.