Part 1. From Slow Burn to Return - A Dental Hygienist's Journey Back to Herself.

Part 1: The Slow Burn 

It started as a whisper, I’m not feeling like myself.  

It started as something I could ignore and push through. 

It’s my mindset, let’s just meditate a bit longer this morning.  

As a self-proclaimed personal development junkie, I could “personal development” myself out of any crummy mindset.  As if I could read enough books, learn enough tips, and climb my way out of this pit. 

I thought I could "personal development" my way out of burnout.

Why am I so exhausted?  I’d ask myself in my car on my lunch breaks. 

Throughout the day I’d catch myself day dreaming. 

Can we survive off of my husband’s salary? 

We have a good cushion, but maybe we should save more. 

I should start a podcast, that would be fun. 

I cannot believe they said that in the morning huddle…

Damn, my neck hurts. That's new. 

Maybe I’ll go get another Master’s Degree. 

I need to sharpen this sickle, yikes. 

Surely there’s more to life than feeling like this…

Gosh I want to get into speaking more. I could totally start another business. 

What if I just went all in on my social media business?  

Before I knew it, I was daydreaming.  All. The. Time. 

I was there, but not there.

Clocked in, but not locked in. 

At first it came in waves. I’d have great days filled with my favorite patients, good vibes in my op, and all the things that reminded me of my why. But before I knew it, the bad days were piling up. I worked part-time, a beautiful arrangement that served my family so well in the younger years, but even two days a week began to feel too much to carry. 

Why does two days a week feel so heavy? Get it together, Nina. Suck it up. You’re fine. 

You can do anything for two days a week, I would tell myself. 

It was an exhausting balancing act - the dichotomy of:

“I should be grateful,” and, “I am so fed up.”

“I worked so hard to get where I am,” and, “I hate feeling this way.” 

“It’s only two days a week,” and, “I have no support from above.”

“I love my patients,” and “I am withering away at this practice.” 

“What will everyone think,” and “who cares, it’s my life.” 

“I’m going to let so many people down,” and “I can’t continue to let myself down.” 

Burnout wasn’t talked about in my dental hygiene program’s curriculum. I had no idea what was happening to me, but I knew I had to give myself space to figure it out. 

I’ve come to learn that burnout isn’t always clean - it’s conflicting.

Which is why it’s so jarring to the system. 

Burnout is good at hiding. Sneaking in when you least expect it. Always lingering behind the corner, taking a peek at your most frustrating and vulnerable moments as if it is waiting to say, “told ya so.” 

I didn’t hate dental hygiene, but I didn’t recognize myself in it anymore. 

What happened? You used to be so passionate, so connected, so invested. 

You see - as a dental hygienist, I was all in. 

I went to my favorite annual conferences. I was a member of professional associations. I worked dental missions. I did dental health presentations at local Pre-K programs. I went above and beyond for my patients. I connected with colleagues. I mentored new graduates. I was the one everyone came to in their crisis; I could not afford to have my own. 

My personal theory is that burnout hits the most passionate ones the hardest. The most passionate ones are the ones with the biggest flames, the strivers who go beyond what’s expected and pour into their calling. The strivers are the ones who stay late, the ones who don’t cut corners, the ones who go the extra mile - their flame starts bigger, and the burn hits them the heaviest. The final blow out, brutal. 

What started as whispers turned into constant reminders that something was out of alignment. On my second day of the week I would come home, shower, and get into bed by 6pm. Not scrolling, not decompressing, not wanting to unpack my day, just laying there. My husband would later admit that it was alarming to see me with such low energy and low gusto. As an energetic and highly active fitness professional, low energy is not normal to me. My body would ache, my head would be foggy, and my spirit felt crushed.

It was as if my tears and I would arrive home at the same time.

I would get the kids inside, close the door, let out a sigh of relief, and scatter to my room so the tears could find a safe place to land. 

I did it. Two days a week. Done.  I could have the rest of the week to work on my things. At the time, I had a growing social media business, was thriving as a curriculum consultant on short-term projects, and instructing at an indoor cycling studio. Ever since the pandemic, I’ve prioritized having multiple income streams for myself. I had plenty of things to keep me distracted from the dumpster fire that my clinical life had become. 

And then, on Sundays - the day before returning back to the op - I would get quiet, anxious, and irritable. I did my best Sunday evening rituals: week-ahead forecasting, mindset work, calling to mind intentions, and writing out any worries that were brewing. Quietly dreading clocking back in. 

This isn’t normal. I don’t hate what I do. 

Did I change? Did my environment change? 

What is this internal resistance I’m feeling?

Wait…is this what burnout feels like? How did I get here? 

Looking back, I can pinpoint specific moments before my burnout season that gradually blew out my flame. 

One of the biggest hits was the sudden passing of  a mentor and office manager. This was someone who saw me, advocated for me, and respected me. Someone who made me feel like I had a safe place to grow. 

Simply put, it was a shock to the system. A defining moment not only in my career, but in my life. 

The days, weeks, and months following were a blur but I still recoil in the feeling I had waiting for them to walk back in the office, as if it were just an extended vacation. It taught me that life is short and that if something feels off, get curious, don't just bury it. 

In the months following the loss, events began to pile up. 

What happened next is what I like to call The Slow Burn. 

I thought it was just a season following a difficult time at my office. 

Before I knew it, this season turned into my norm. 

What happened to my flame? I would ask myself. 

Over time, my flame could not take anymore gusts or even light winds. I couldn’t handle office politics or snide comments from the people I thought were leaders.  I was checked out. Only there for my patients. 

My patients need me and I need them, I am here. They need me. 

I still look back at that time so grateful for my patients. None of them truly knew how much joy I found in being able to care for them and stay connected to my calling, despite feeling so drained. 

I am also grateful to my teammates for keeping me buoyed. Laughter is the best medicine, and we got many doses during those days. Even though all of us were reeling in work culture shifts that we couldn’t quite put our fingers on, we could cackle in sterile, break away for lunches at our favorite Mexican restaurant, and throw around breakroom banter - all of this brought light to those dark days, even if just for a moment. 

When the whispers turned into screams, I kept telling myself it wasn’t that bad…but time and time again my body and mind were telling a different story. The exhaustion, the day dreaming, the disconnect, the irritability - I was not myself anymore. My mental health was suffering in ways I hadn’t felt since my postpartum years.

I was numb. Alarm bells were going off but I couldn’t find the emergency button. 

With the bad days piling up and the exhaustion and emotional turmoil accumulating, I knew something had to change. I knew this trajectory was not feasible. It became clear that this wasn’t something I could or “mindset” or “personal development” my way through. There wasn’t anything to push through, this was a complete and utter absence of my flame. I had to find my flame again.

For the first time in my professional career, I wasn’t sure if the op was for me anymore. I was no longer in an environment conducive to my longevity. I was struggling with my mental health, I was struggling with my body, and I was struggling with my ability to be honest with myself. If I did not make a change, it would be a matter of time before it would leach into other areas of my life.  Perhaps it was time to create an environment where my flame could return. 

I had a good run, almost 10 years, I told myself.

Maybe I’m not cut out for this anymore, I questioned myself.

It was a realization that I had that didn’t feel compatible with my internal make up. 

Who am I if I’m not in the op? I would ask myself. 

I would soon make a decision to step away from the op.

But not without a lot of waiting, fear, doubts, uncertainty, and questions (both from myself and from others). 

I wish I could tell you that the leap was easy. It wasn’t. But it was necessary. 

In Part 2, I will dive into The Leap - the moment I finally decided that I needed to leave the op and how I created a landing zone. 

If you’re reading this and something feels familiar, I want you to know that you’re not alone. 

If you have questions or simply need a listening ear, please reach out to me. 

There is life after burnout and it is good. 

This is part one of a four-part series titled From Slow Burn to Return - A Dental Hygienist's Journey Back to Herself. It is my journey to and through burnout as a clinical dental hygienist. All views and opinions are mine.