Confessions Of A Burnt-Out Journalist

Field Notes 002

February 19, 2025, mid-morning, sitting at my kitchen counter

I wish I could think without the fog. Inside my head is dense, muddied, unclear. The work I’ve spent a third of my life doing professionally, and pretty much all of my life, doesn’t feel right anymore. Putting pen to paper, telling stories, getting something, anything, out doesn’t feel possible, and I don’t know how to articulate this to anyone. I don’t know how to ask for help or admit I need it. So I lie. I say I’m fine.

I am not.

It’s 10 am. I’m on my third cup of coffee and didn’t roll out of bed until 8 am, which is late for me. I’m sleeping later. I’m eating later. I’m not going outside most days even when the weather is nice and goddamnit I cannot think.

The to-do list is long. Convoluted. I don’t want to do it. But, I’ll dissociate and go into autopilot and do it. It won’t be my best work. I haven’t done My Best Work in years, it seems. People will say otherwise when I “jokingly” bring it up at drinks or dinner. They’ll applaud me. I’ll say thank you. I won’t agree, but I won’t argue about it either.

April 5, 2025, early afternoon, lying face down into my pillow

Yesterday was my last day at New America. I went to bed last night and slept 11 hours. Somewhere between deciding to leave my job without another one lined up and questioning why I felt so strongly that I needed to do nothing for a while, I figured out—or admitted to myself, rather—that I had all the markings of someone who is ridiculously burnt out.