From Finance to Facilitator: What Burnout Actually Taught Me

Back in 2019, I experienced one of the hardest years of my life.

I was seven years into working at financial institutions in New York City, and I was deeply burned out, even if I didn't have the language yet.

On paper, everything looked stable. Respectable. Successful.

Inside, my soul felt like it was dying a slow, torturous death.

I remember the wave of depression that came over me that winter. Heavy. Suffocating. Like carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders with nowhere to set it down.

Stuck. Stagnant. Unmoving.

Even as I write this now, I can still feel the pang in my belly.

The version of me that tried to cope

I felt empty. Depleted. Worthless in a way that didn’t make logical sense.

So I distracted.

I went drinking with friends, I spent weekends in the Hamptons. I wore brightly colored avant-garde outfits to the private equity firm where I worked, pretending I was stepping out onto the Burning Man playa instead of into Midtown Manhattan.

And then I would secretly run to the bathroom, cry in the stall for ten minutes, wipe my face, and give myself a pep talk that I should be grateful for what I have and to just "get through it".

On days I missed the sun, I’d sneak downstairs to the corner of Park Avenue and 52nd Street and stand in the reflection of sunlight bouncing off a skyscraper.

Twice removed from the real thing.

That detail still breaks my heart a little.

I didn’t check my vitamin D levels that winter, but I can guarantee they were bleak.

The company was kind. Supportive. Encouraging.

I was making decent money. I was making big companies bigger money. Booking private jets. Managing calendars.

I was good at it.

But there was an ache in my chest that said:This isn’t it.

The longer I ignored that voice, the heavier I became.

Burnout didn’t feel like exhaustion. It felt like disappearance.

Getting out of bed started to feel impossible.

Burnout isn’t just exhaustion. It’s nervous system depletion. It’s what happens when output consistently outweighs recovery. When performance replaces presence.

I lost interest in social interaction. I felt robotic, doing what needed to be done, but not actually there.

It was a slow erosion.

Eventually I started seeing an art therapist. She was the first person who named what I couldn’t:

I was deeply burned out.

Years of people-pleasing. Over-performing. Being constantly available.

My nervous system had no reserves left.

I truly felt something inside me shutting down.

The leap

One spring day, I booked a spontaneous trip to Mexico City.

I had never been.

The moment I arrived, something in me shifted and I felt a spark of aliveness peeking out.

Plants cascading down buildings in Condesa. The smell of fresh tortillas. People lingering over meals. Laughter that felt contageous and spacious.

I felt alive in a way I hadn’t in years.

I decided I would live there one day.

Then I landed back in New York and thought:

Why not now?

At the time, I was working full-time in private equity, enrolled in a year-long health coaching certification, seeing a therapist, and working with a career coach.

Burned out? Yes.

But clear.

Clear that my purpose wasn’t to optimize systems for capital.

Clear that I wanted to create spaces where people felt safe, grounded, and connected to themselves.

I didn’t know exactly how that would look.

But I knew I was ready to find out.

I finished the year. Saved money. Put my belongings in storage.

The day my bonus hit, I bought a one-way ticket to Mexico.

No plan. No friends there. Just a large suitcase and a very tender heart.

The body remembers

I landed in Tulum first.

On day one, I received an energy bodywork session. The practitioner told me my nervous system was so dysregulated it was close to shutting down.

I don’t know if that was medically precise. But I do remember the relief I felt afterward.

My body softened for the first time in years.

The inflammation in my face went down. My breathing deepened. The world felt less hostile.

That was the beginning. Of rebuilding my nervous system from the ground up.

The messy middle

I eventually moved to Mexico City.

I made friends in the most unlikely ways. Fell in love. Moved into a house in Tepoztlán during Covid.

And then depression returned, stronger.

No stable income. No clear path forward. Retreat plans dissolving under lockdowns.

I didn’t know who I was without my former identity.

So I did the only thing I knew to do:

I hiked the mountain every morning.

Tepozteco became my anchor. Meditation at the top. One foot in front of the other.

I started dreaming again.

A friend and I began plotting a retreat. We got rejected. Lost money. Almost quit.

Three days before guests were set to arrive, I found a hacienda.

It felt held. Restorative. Possible.

And the retreats began.

Candlelit dinners. Co-working tables. Daily yoga. Breathwork. Temazcal. Mushrooms. Laughter after months of isolation.

People came depleted and left lighter.

But here’s the part that matters:

I learned the hard way that hosting for three months straight will dysregulate my own nervous system.

Healing doesn’t exempt you from limits.

What burnout actually taught me

Burnout didn’t just force me to leave finance.

It taught me:

• My nervous system always tells the truth.

• People-pleasing is not the same as purpose.

• Over-functioning is often unprocessed fear.

• Rest is not a reward. It’s foundational.

• Alignment feels quieter than ambition, but steadier.

If you are curious about burnout, I wrote more about the nervous system side of burnout here.

Who I've Become

The woman who used to tremble at the thought of speaking in front of three people now leads breathwork and meditation sessions for groups of up to a hundred.

She facilitates deep, transformational 1:1 work with high-functioning individuals navigating their own crossroads. She designs and leads multi-day retreats that create the kind of safety and aliveness she once desperately searched for herself.

I didn't get here by having it all figured out. I got here by putting one foot in front of the other, over and over again, even when I had no idea where I was going.

I still have hard days. Doubt shows up. Fear makes itself at home sometimes.

But I feel something now that I didn't feel for years: a deep, rooted power in my own body.

A steadiness in my feet. A life that is genuinely, completely mine.

And I wake up grateful for it every single day.

If Any of This Resonates

If you recognized yourself somewhere in this story, in the bathroom stall, in the borrowed sunlight, in the ache of knowing your life is supposed to feel different than this, I would love to hear from you.

And if you’re in a season of transition, whether career, relationship, identity, and you want support rebuilding from the nervous system up, I’d love to support you.

Reach out and tell me where you are. If you feel called to go deeper, through a retreat, a 1:1 session, or simply a conversation, I would be honored to explore that road with you.

If you're in a season of burnout or transition and want grounded support rebuilding from the nervous system up, you can learn more about working with me here.

I've been in the dark. I know the way through.

Here is a photo of me and a dear friend at my home in Ibiza, the wellness deck in which I lead weekly breathwork session, work 1x1 in person with clients and practice somatic work.

While most of my sessions are online, if we are ever in the same place I love the texture of in person.