I gave up
A tale of burnout, writing, and where my mind is at right now.
This is going to be long, so brace yourself. As usual, if you like what you read, share it.
And sorry for how long this is. Here is an album to listen to while reading.
I haven’t written an intro.
I seriously thought about writing one. Something cute. Something that would say, “hey! Long time no talk! I was busyyyyy.” but this wouldn’t be true. Or maybe it would. I don’t know anymore. It is true. I have been busy.
But the genuine answer has nothing to do with being busy. It has nothing to do with me enjoying the summer or taking some well-deserved time off. No, the answer is something I didn’t expect myself ever to say.
I published my most prominent article ever, and… well, that’s it. I had some editing to do on articles and comments, and my self-doubt crept in. What if my writing is terrible? I can’t write. I thought I could, but I can’t.
And this is how I stopped writing.
I won’t bother you with the details, but I was drained. Completely drained. I was working 60 hours a week, writing daily, and barely having time to think. Reports, articles, columns, interviews, features… I was a writing machine, a writing robot, producing more than my brain could take. Finally, I unexpectedly shut down — or, expectedly, since my friends and family saw it coming. For a while. For all summer. For as long as it would take. Maybe I wasn’t as good as I thought.
I talked about it in therapy. I used my time off and overtime to work four days a week this summer. I started to sleep in more. Somedays, I’d even have a hard time getting out of bed. I couldn’t focus on anything. My capabilities were reduced. I would sit down and cry—a lot. I was burnt to the ground. I couldn’t sustain my workaholic tendencies anymore.
I’m not here to justify my long break. I was just… tired. I couldn’t do anything. Emotions felt all wrong. Everything in my life felt wrong. What if I just wasn’t meant for all of this? For a while, I gave up. I did. I didn’t write anything.
(Ok. Well. It’s not true. I did write. I wrote a lot. Enough for me to reconnect with myself and to have 70 pages of personal writing, but that’s another story.)
So what happened? Why stop after kickstarting a great career as a columnist, a culture journalist? Why stop at the beginning of said career? And mostly, why is the constant feeling of suffocation taking over my body?
Burnout.
I never thought I could burn out from something I loved. Something I excel at. But it happened. When I took my Fridays off, I decided to wander around and reconnect with people I never thought I’d reconnect with. I took the time to read a lot, to cook a lot, and to breathe a lot. I settled into silence and non-eventful days. I got away from what used to make me vibrate as it made me feel nauseous. And then, I sat with myself.
I’ve always feared my thirties. The weight of decision-making and commitment scares me. I need to be serious and successful enough. I have to have my shit in order. Does anyone have their shit in order?!
Anne Helen Petersen, one of my favourite writers, wrote a gazillion times about burnout and millennials.
“Was I just bad at my job now, or bad at life?” she asks herself in the first part of a 2019 Substack post about her own burnout.
Oh, how I relate to this sentence. When I first thought of taking a break, I wrote to my editor that I needed some time out and would return two weeks later…
Those two weeks turned into two months.
Going back to Petersen’s writing about burnout, in her essay for Buzzfeed News (RIP), she explains why burnout seems to be a Millennial condition.
“Why am I burned out? Because I’ve internalized the idea that I should be working all the time. Why have I internalized that idea? Because everything and everyone in my life has reinforced it — explicitly and implicitly — since I was young.”
And yes, rest was never an option in my life. I learned very young that as a brown Arab woman, I must work hard to achieve my dreams. I was surrounded by people who’d work night and day to provide for me. And most of all, I felt like I couldn’t show that I was tired at any moment cause I was easily replaceable by some white person who’d be better. I was ambitious, ready to fight and prepared to work tirelessly to get a little bit further. But was I burnt out for the same reasons as Petersen?
Petersen’s piece is an excellent explanation of burnout in Millenials. This being said, my burnout is different than what she explains. It is a racial burnout. I’ve burnout because of the expectations society has about BIPoCs. (Petersen acknowledges she doesn’t have the expertise to talk about burnout in Black and Brown people.) Poet Tiana Clark has a whole thread on Twitter explaining her experience with burnout, one that I identify way more with.
The consequences of burnout for a brown or black woman are severe enough to impact a whole career. Saying no to an opportunity can close doors I want to keep open for when I feel better. I’m often a second thought, so I take it when I become first of mind.
The cycle continues endlessly. I’m born from generational trauma, from immigration, from separation. I unconsciously carry the weight of my ancestors’ trauma on my shoulders. I’m a tall tree growing on land that wants to cut my roots. They damage my trunk but never manage to put me down. But sometimes, I wish they did so that I can rest.
Through my burnout, I’ve grown. I’ve become a more mature woman. I’ve found my voice again. I’ve tried writing freely without worrying about deadlines or other things. I’ve become a reliable friend again. I’ve said no a bit more. I fell in love with myself again. I’m still falling in love with myself. I’m learning to compose with this complex trauma I have inside of me and to live with it, for better or for worse. And mostly, I’m reevaluating what I want in my life. I’ve never valued time off as much as I value it today. It helps me find myself when everything seems to overwhelm me.
So what now?
Now, uh… well, I’ve said I’ve written during my burnout. And what came out is interesting enough for me to have a manuscript. I wasn’t expecting anything from it and didn’t think I’d have a manuscript in 2 months, but here we are—70 pages of something.
I wrote in French, sorry about that. French is still my first language, and I have a way with words in French that I don’t have in English. Totally normal. I’ll say the following, which I’ve told friends: French is my poetry, my fiction side. English is my essay, my non-fiction side. This is how my brain operates. I hope one day I’ll be able to fictionalize in Sally Rooney’s language. I’ve noticed I started writing without translating what’s in my head, an upgrade from before. My brain is beginning to switch off the French part of my brain when I write in English and switch off the English part when I write in French. I’m getting somewhere.
I’ll keep you all posted about the manuscript. But for now, this is it. I appreciate what I’ve given birth to. In a period of darkness, I mustered the ability to write something beautiful. I think.
About writing
My goal was to reconnect with myself during this period, and I’ve achieved part of it. I’m not totally over the slump, but I’m seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. Last Saturday, after Ramy Youssef’s show at Just For Laugh, a young girl approached me in the washroom while waiting for my turn to pee in a stall. She had a spark in her eyes. She exuded optimism and glowed.
“Are you Yara?” she asked shyly.
I answered in the affirmative. I was ashamed I didn’t recognize her. I forget faces and names so quickly… But she told me she didn’t know me. She recognized me from social media. And proceeded to tell me she was a fan of my writing. My writing. MY WRITING. She looked up to me and decided to take the plunge and launch her Substack. She decided to write because of my writing.
Yes, it happened in the bathroom of the Gesu, which, honestly, I can’t make this thing up. But it made me realize that maybe I had underestimated my power with words. I told stories that inspired people. Perhaps I should try to write again for others. Like I’m writing now.
Actually, this whole Substack post is because of her. I had to reckon with the pain and state I was in to be able to write again. I had to realize that writing was my calling. And it is a beautiful calling.
So, thank you, Judynn, for coming up to me. You don’t know how much I needed this. Maybe you knew more than I ever knew.
So what is going to happen to this Substack now?
Well, the colours here have changed. As did the logo, it’s a bit more… simple. I still want to write here. With Canadian media being blocked on social media and all that going down with the C-18 bill, maybe my future is through Substack rather than traditional media. And yes, I’ll continue writing this newsletter in English as I want my writing to improve.
I'm working on my manuscript for the next few weeks/months. So I’m still kinda MIA. But rekindling my love for writing means writing more about things that matter to me. I’ll continue doing this on this platform; I don’t want to promise when or if it will be frequent enough. For once, I’m going to go at my own pace.
Will I still feature music and musing about music? Of course! I’m planning on talking about Julia Jacklin soon! Y’all think I’m going to stop talking about what gives me life?!
Where do I want this newsletter to go? I still want this newsletter to have a pop culture aspect. I have a ton of ideas to this day. For example, I’m thinking about an essay about Tiktok girls making the “female writer living in Montréal” persona a pain in the ass, an essay about Millennial Influencers, an essay about getting back into fashion in your thirties… a ton of ideas!
And so, should we stay subscribed? Yes! I mean, I won’t force you. But I think it’s worth it, and I want to explore my writing for a while. As I said, writing without deadlines or expectations has been good for me. I’d like to continue.
This is how I’m ending this newsletter. I haven’t even edited it. Sorry in advance for the typos, the weird sentences and the repetition. I think I just needed to get it out. Also, big thanks to Grammarly. It helps! (This is not sponsored in any way by Grammarly. I’m not hot enough for this.)
I have nothing to add. Other than it’s been a pleasure writing again.
It feels good.
Thank you for reading me, even if it was fucking long. Not sure I could have done it all. Not sure I could have gotten to the end of it myself.
And mostly, thank you to everyone who told me not to give up. In my darkest hours, your words were the light I needed.
Merci.
Thank you for writing this! It’s beyond relatable and extremely heartfelt❤️
If you'd like to talk, let me know.