I didn’t realise I was burning out.
I thought I was just tired.
Or lazy.
Or maybe not trying hard enough.
I became a Paramedic in 2014—keen, capable, and mildly addicted to being useful. I booked overtime like it was a competitive sport. I said yes to everything. I believed the more pressure I felt, the more valuable I was and I wanted to take on the world.
The uniform fit. I felt strong in green. I was confident… on the outside.
But underneath it, I was slowly disappearing.
I moved around roles in the Ambulance Service like I was chasing some mythical work-life balance… but I couldn’t find it. What I did find was more pressure, more responsibility, and even less time to breathe (or feel, or think). I stepped into management, shouldered the heavy jobs, and kept repeating the greatest lie in healthcare:
But I told myself, just keep going. One day the slog will feel like success, the exhaustion will feel like elation and one day it will all feel great again.
So I kept going.
I kept going long after I should’ve stopped.
In 2020, I moved into the Emergency Department as an Advanced Clinical Practitioner. I completed a master’s degree, moved house five times, got divorced and had 2 lot of knee surgery all in the space of 4 years.
Oh, and worked through a pandemic.
I pushed myself harder than ever—personally, clinically, professionally—but I still had no clue who I was underneath the chaos. I looked confident in what was now a new uniform, but outside of it? I was unraveling in silence, lost in the chaos and detached from feeling or meaning. But the response was still:
“I’m fine. Just another day in paradise.”
Then came the cherry on the burnout cake: shingles.
On my 33rd birthday.
What a treat.
It felt like a shock, like a sudden event that came out of the blue. But let’s face it. My body had been screaming STOP before I even had the nerve to whisper it.
I took two weeks off and called it “rest.” Spoiler: It was not rest.
And returned right back into winter pressures, caffeine-fuelled chaos, and full-blown autopilot.
And then came February 2025.
The real stop.
My body. My mind. My ability to human.
Gone.
Leaving the house triggered anxiety that made no sense, except that it made perfect sense. Because I hadn’t just hit a wall—I’d been dragging it behind me for years.
That was the moment.
That was the moment I realised. Whilst spending years studying, working relentlessly, trying to be everything to everyone, I’d forgotten about one important part – me.
Since then, I’ve been (very slowly, very imperfectly) learning what healing actually looks like. Not just recharging enough to return to chaos, but asking:
What if I don’t want to run on fumes anymore?
This blog—Duty of Care—is part of that process.
It’s where I put the pieces down. Where I make space for reflection, rage, recovery, and ridiculous honesty .
It’s for the healthcare humans who are frayed, fried, or just starting to wonder if maybe—just maybe—this isn’t how it’s supposed to feel.
It’s for the ones holding it together with caffeine, sarcasm, and the occasional meltdown. It’s for anyone who’s ever Googled “am I burned out or just being dramatic?” (Hi. Welcome.)
I don’t have all the answers here and it’s not all doom and gloom.
I’ve got truth, some dark humour and a fierce belief that healing is possible—even for the ones who forgot how to rest.
If any of this sounds like you, pull up a chair & grab a brew.
You’re not alone anymore.
This is a safe space, a community and a chance to recover.
From overtime shifts to overdue healing.
– Duty of Care
Duty of Care 
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