Why Writers Are Tired of Hearing About Burnout

Burnout isn’t breaking news—it’s an old headline that keeps recycling without resolution.

Let’s be real, burnout has been on the docket for so long that it’s part of the monthly newsletter template at this point. What began as a red flag has become ubiquitous in every performative self-care article, productivity blog, and wellness reel. But what’s the real story about “why are writers tired?” It’s not because we haven’t tried to recover—we’ve tried unplugging, stretching, meditating, and even pretending the planner isn’t judging us. However, the discussion around burnout continues to be a conversation that skims the surface. What is often offered up as solutions, as with anyone who suffers from burnout, are tangible prescriptions, things you can fix with water and/or ambiance.

And the language of burnout doesn't sit anywhere near wilted; it's simply a weight. This is not something you revive or fix by changing the ambiance and smell; this is something that accumulates quietly under the weight of creative pressure and emotional labor combined with unceasing expectations to do. And when something is offered so nonchalantly, like “just meditate” or “just drink more water,” it disregards the genuine experience. That void produces shame and guilt. Because if wellness advice fails, we start to ponder whether there is something broken in us instead.

Writer and essayist Anne Helen Petersen helped me articulate a feeling I didn’t know how to name. In her essay "How Millennials Became the Burnout Generation," she does not merely describe exhaustion; she interrogates it. What I found most salient was her notion of "errand paralysis," where even the most basic efforts can feel impossible. It is not laziness, she argues; it is the consequence of living in a system that requires optimization on every front, where to rest is to fail and to create productivity is the only legitimate currency. That framing allowed me to see that my burnout was not a function of being tired; it was a consequence of performance, guilt, and invisible expectations. Petersen’s work allowed me to see burnout not as a character flaw but as a societal condition. And that shift in perception is all I wanted when writing this piece. But what stayed with me was her view that rest exists in a space of shame.

I can't believe how acceptable it is to feel guilty over even wanting to nap. Anne Helen Petersen's writing made me wonder: do I ever actually rest or only take a break, just before I optimize, again?

Poet Ocean Vuong’s reflection hit differently. Writing as a ritual of healing sounds great until pain becomes commodification, and the world expects you to offer trauma as art. Vuong's experience reminds me of how easily writing, a space we revere and designate as personal, can be performance. Suddenly, something that was meant for healing becomes expected, and, therefore, something to be observed. It felt, at times, that vulnerability came with a publishing schedule.

When Megan Fernandes said, "I feel like I've lost language," she articulated something I was feeling in full. It is not writer's block; it is the soft disappearance of the words that help us make sense of the world. And that can be a confusing space for a writer. Language is not just a craft for a writer; it's connection, memory, and survival. I’ve stared at blank pages before, hoping silence was my new way of speaking.

Honestly, no wonder you are exhausted from burnout. It's the same article cloned and pasted on self-care blogs with different fonts and fresher stock photos. Because it is the same article over and over again: “Here is how to beat burnout!” followed by mindless advice that sounds like a brochure for a vacation, not a solution to burnout. “Try breathing exercises” is helpful unless you're hyperventilating over six deadlines. Telling a writer to fight against burnout with deep breaths is like giving them an umbrella in the middle of a hurricane—useless, flimsy, and a little bit patronizing.

What the writing industry asks of its writers isn't to simply produce - it requires all of that to be perfect, relevant, engaging, and flexible. Emotional and creative labor meet in a nasty cocktail of demands - as well as a deadline, and a bill." And those go-to responses? Most often feel invalidated anyway. I can only imagine someone saying, "Just go for a walk!" Sure. As if a brisk walk around the block is going to do anything to erase the existential dread over my underpaid creative hustle.

Writers don't always need just the advice—we need a recalibration. First, reimagine productivity for yourself. Let go of the relentless drive to create output, and get back to the process.

Ask yourself: Did I connect with my voice today?

As well as allowing space for creativity that doesn't have an attached price tag, journaling, doodling, or that really weird short story about a talking toaster that you've been scared to write.

To be completely honest, I’ve given the advice a shot. I’ve walked. I’ve watered my plants. I’ve journaled in scented ink. But none of it got to the root of the burnout because burnout isn’t just physical. Burnout is spiritual. It is looking at your work and wondering who you are under it.

It’s wondering if your words are yours or merely a reflection of some sort of algorithm to get clicks and likes. And sometimes, it is sitting down to write about burnout and realizing that you are dealing with being burned out while you are writing about being burned out.

Burnout happens in isolation and is reduced in connection. There are so many writing circles, writing forums, and accountability pods where you can share your work and share that you are struggling. It might help you feel less heavy about the craft.

You may need to adjust your expectations for yourself as well as your inspiration. Every morning can't yield a masterful work. Often, the benefit is simply showing up. Do your best to silence your inner voice judging yourself, and allow yourself to be mediocre once in a while. It's oddly satisfying.

Then there is the more comprehensive conversation about structure. Writers should feel comfortable pushing back against unreasonable deadlines, have honest discussions about rates with clients, and feel entitled to compensation more than just the applause for working themselves to the bone.

To be completely honest, I’ve given the advice a shot. I’ve walked. I’ve watered my plants. I’ve journaled in scented ink. Burnout isn't simply fatigue—it is erosion. The slow erosion of clarity until your work is less an expression and more a mimicry. You find yourself staring at a screen, wondering if the words still belong to you, wondering if you've been writing for metrics instead of meaning. And sometimes, it is sitting down to write about burnout and realizing that you are dealing with being burned out while you are writing about being burned out.

And last but not least, remember that rest isn't an indulgence, rest is writing, and resting. Stare into space, read for fun, go balmy, watch the clouds, imagine! Inspiration requires space.

Bath bombs and to-do list apps won’t solve burnout. Writers want limit-setting, solidarity, fair pay, and, above all, rest. Not aestheticized wellness. Not just another so-called life hack. Structural respect. Burnout is not a personal flaw to be managed; it is a byproduct of being too thin, paid too little, in a culture that glorifies hustle and punishes pause.

Burnout is exhausting to read about because we are ready to do something about it. So maybe the first step is recognizing that we are humbled and exhausted--and laughing at ourselves, because that is what writers do.