When I was invited onto the DAYnamics Show podcast, we ended up talking about something I don’t think gets named often enough, especially among high-achieving women in STEM.
Burnout doesn’t always look like falling apart. Sometimes it looks like functioning, performing, and being relied on, while quietly feeling less and less like yourself.
In our conversation, we explored how this happens, what it can look like in real life, and why small creative practices can be a powerful way to support your nervous system when your mind won’t shut off.
For me, this story started with a season that didn’t come with a dramatic breaking point.
No slammed laptop. No public declaration. No single moment where I said, “That’s it. I’m done.”
The shift happened quietly, long before it showed up in my job title.
During the pandemic, my company took on a large emergency ventilator contract. The work mattered. It was urgent, meaningful, and needed. I felt proud to be part of it.
At the same time, my kids were home navigating online school. I was answering regulatory emails while helping with calculus at the kitchen table. My laptop rarely closed. My mind almost never did.
From the outside, I was still performing. Still competent. Still reliable.
Inside, everything felt grey.
What I began to notice wasn’t collapse. It was constant mental scanning.
I would fall asleep thinking about what I hadn’t finished and wake up already planning what could go wrong. My brain stayed in review mode. Every detail felt high stakes. Every decision felt heavier than it should have.
And yet, I wasn’t falling apart. I was functioning.
That’s what made it confusing.
There were no dramatic mood swings. No obvious breakdown. Just a steady flattening of colour. Even milestones that would normally feel satisfying landed quietly. No real highs. No deep lows. Just a muted sense of moving through the day.
If you’ve ever felt capable and depleted at the same time, you know this feeling.
It’s not failure.
It’s nervous system overload.
I’m a fine artist. Creating has always been how I process and regulate. When something feels tangled, I draw. When I’m overwhelmed, I paint.
But during that season, I would walk into my studio and feel nothing. The colours felt like noise. The blank canvas felt like another obligation.
That was the moment I knew something had shifted.
When the thing that normally steadies you starts to feel unreachable, it’s worth paying attention.
The turning point was small. During a long Zoom call, I picked up a pen and started drawing simple shapes. No plan. No intention. Just repetitive lines.
Within minutes, I felt my shoulders soften. My breathing slowed. My jaw unclenched.
It wasn’t dramatic. But it was data.
Something about moving my hand across the page was helping my body settle.
Later, I would learn the science behind what I had stumbled into.
When you focus your attention intentionally, especially through rhythmic movement, you engage different parts of the brain. The visual system. The motor system. The parts responsible for planning and awareness. Instead of looping on the same thoughts, your brain has a new pathway to follow.
Creative focus acts as an anchor.
For women who live primarily in analysis and problem-solving, this shift can feel surprisingly grounding. You’re not trying to solve anything. You’re not trying to improve yourself. You’re simply present with a mark, a colour, a shape.
And presence interrupts panic.
One of the simplest exercises I teach is two minutes of drawing in rhythm with your breath. As you inhale, your line expands. As you exhale, it softens. Often, the lines begin tight and jagged. Gradually, they open into slower loops.
Your nervous system follows your hand.
Another is a quick stress map. Draw a simple outline of your body and use colour or shape to represent where stress is living. Heavy shoulders. Tight chest. A buzzing mind. Seeing it on paper makes the experience concrete instead of abstract.
You move from “something feels off” to “this is what I’m carrying.”
That shift alone is powerful.
What I realized during that season is something I see repeatedly now in my work.
High-achieving women don’t need more productivity advice. They don’t need another optimized morning routine. They don’t need to try harder.
They need tools that help their nervous systems stand down.
Many of the women I work with in STEM describe the same pattern. Overthinking that won’t stop. Mental fatigue that lingers even after rest. A subtle emotional distance from things that once felt meaningful.
They are intelligent and capable. But their systems are tired.
Creative practices offer a low-barrier way back. Not because they are artistic, but because they are regulating.
And regulation rebuilds clarity.
Let’s slow this down for a moment.
When you think about your mind right now, what feels most familiar?
Is it constant analysis?
Is it heaviness?
Is it that flat grey feeling where nothing feels especially wrong, but nothing feels especially alive either?
There is nothing wrong with you if you recognize yourself in one of those.
Sometimes your nervous system is simply asking for a different kind of support.
If you want to experiment this week, keep it small.
Set a timer for five minutes.
Draw lines that match your breath.
Let your hand move without judging what appears.
Notice your shoulders. Notice your jaw. Notice your thoughts.
You are not trying to produce something beautiful.
You are giving your system space to settle.
That is enough.
If this story resonates, I want you to know that you’re not alone in it.
There is nothing weak about needing recovery. There is nothing indulgent about wanting your mind to feel steady again.
If you’d like guidance, the 5-Day Creative Reset Challenge offers short, simple practices designed to fit into real life. No art experience required. Just a few minutes and a pen.
You can also join The Creative Shift, where I share grounded reflections and creative wellness tools for women in STEM who want to feel more like themselves again.
You don’t need a dramatic career pivot.
You don’t need to burn everything down.
Sometimes the shift begins quietly.
Sometimes it begins when you realize that grey isn’t permanent.
And sometimes, it begins with a single line on a page.