In 2019, I didn’t have a diagnosis.
I had a calendar that was always full.
A reputation for being reliable.
A leadership role that mattered.
And a body that was quietly running out of capacity.
That valley didn’t announce itself loudly.
It arrived as tiredness I pushed through.
As resilience that kept me going — and going.
As “I’ll rest later” thinking that slowly became my normal.
Burnout didn’t stop me.
It eroded me over time.
And because there was no single event, no medical label, no obvious permission to pause, I kept going longer than I should have.
A different valley
In 2023, the valley looked very different.
This time, there was a diagnosis.
There was a treatment plan.
There were specialists everywhere, oncologist, surgeons, nurses, allied health professionals — with appointments, scans, and follow-ups filling my days.
Care was structured.
Support was visible.
I wasn’t expected to manage it all by myself.
You get the drift.
The stress was real.
The fear was real.
But so was the support.
I leaned on their expertise to guide me through a health crisis I didn’t choose and couldn’t control.
The trust in them was inevitable, not because I knew them personally, but because care was built into the system.
What the mirror showed me
Looking back, I can see how differently these two valleys asked me to relate to stress.
Burnout was invisible and chronic.
Cancer was visible and acute.
With cancer, my humanity was protected.
With burnout, my capability was tested.
With cancer, rest was expected.
With burnout, rest felt like weakness.
With cancer, I was allowed to say, “I can’t do this alone.”
With burnout, I believed I should be able to.
That contrast has stayed with me.
From my personal album.
Trust under pressure
Both valleys reshaped how I understand trust in very different ways.
Burnout showed me how easily trust erodes when people are expected to keep functioning without safety, clarity, or support.
Cancer showed me what trust looks like when it’s held with care through clear communication, steady presence, and permission to slow down.
They didn’t teach me to push harder.
They reshaped how I think about trust.
They taught me when to trust myself enough to stop,
when to trust others enough to ask for support,
and how to lead in ways that don’t cost people their health.
A quiet leadership question
These days, when I work with leaders who are quietly exhausted, I listen for what sits beneath the surface:
Who are they trusting?
And where are they being asked to carry stress alone?
Because stress isn’t the problem.
Unacknowledged stress is.
A gentle pause for you
If you’re reading this and something stirs, I invite you to consider:
Which valley have you been walking through — one that’s visible, or one that’s been easy to dismiss?
And what would change if you treated your exhaustion with the same seriousness as illness?
Burn bright leadership doesn’t begin with pushing harder.
It begins with noticing what kind of care is actually needed — and giving yourself permission to receive it.
What you’re feeling is real.
And so is the possibility of support.
If you’d like to reach out, my door is open.
You can reply directly to this email: [email protected].
I read every message.
Until next week,
Mary