Now that I have introduced you to the farm, well most of it anyway, along with some of our story, most of my post will be random.

So lets start with something that has been on my mind lately.

I don’t remember the exact moment I realized I was burned out. I think that’s the thing about burnout—it doesn’t arrive all at once and sometimes it comes in waves, in and out. It creeps in quietly, little by little, until one day you look around and realize you’re exhausted in ways sleep can’t fix.

I became a nurse because I cared. I wanted to help people, to make a difference, to show up for others on their hardest days. And for a long time, I truly loved my job.

But somewhere along the way, the long shifts turned into longer weeks. The emotional weight followed me home. I started feeling drained before my shift even began. I was giving everything I had at work and coming home with nothing left to offer my family—or myself. I had zero desire to be at work.

Burnout didn’t look dramatic at first. It looked like dreading my alarm.  Like feeling numb when I knew I should feel something. It looked like pushing through because that’s what nurses do—we show up, we power through, and we don’t complain.

Except eventually, powering through comes at a cost.

I carried guilt constantly. Guilt for feeling tired when others had it worse. Guilt for not being more present for my patients.  Guilt for wondering if I could keep doing this forever. Guilt for not having enough empathy. Guilt for being so cranky to my co-workers.

There were days I questioned if I was cut out for nursing anymore. If stepping back meant I was failing. If wanting something different meant I didn’t care enough. There were many days I wondered what else would I do? All I have ever wanted to be was a nurse, its all I know.

What I’m slowly learning is this: burnout doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you’ve been strong for too long without enough rest.

This was a few years ago that I had lots of these feelings.

I’m still a nurse. I still care deeply. Our patients are sicker now, upper management is more involved with staffing being the least of their worries, its just not what it was 10 years ago, shoot even 5 years go.

The shift of how I got back to loving my job was slow I feel like and that burnout does tend to creep in occassionally on those hard days. But sometimes its bonding with my patients, or their parents  or watching a baby be born to just remind me at the end of the day THIS feeling is why I became a nurse. THIS is why I love my job, why I love babies and moms.

But I’m learning to create boundaries, to listen to my body, and to give myself permission to rest. I’m learning that it’s okay to love a career and still need space from it.

If you’re a nurse—or anyone in a caregiving role—feeling this same heaviness, you’re not alone. And you don’t have to justify your exhaustion to anyone.

Your well-being matters too.

And choosing yourself doesn’t mean you stopped caring. Sometimes, it’s the bravest thing you can do.