I Got Burned Out. Then I Was Pulled to Paint

Seven years in marketing, grinding out ad campaigns, chasing KPIs, and dodging my boss’s whims. Then, like a candle snuffed out, I was done. Burned to ash. Not fired, just broken. My inbox was a war zone, every email from Karen a little jab. One day, she’d chirp, “Let’s make this campaign SPARKLE!” The next, a curt “Where’s the Q2 report? This was due yesterday.” It was like working for a caffeinated parrot with a corporate credit card. My breaking point? A Monday when I stared at my laptop, chest tight, unable to click “join” on another Zoom. I quit. No plan, no savings, just a desperate need to breathe.

The weeks after were a fog. I’d scroll job boards, but every post—“Seeking a rockstar team player!”—felt like a one-way ticket back to misery. I was halfway through a mindless Netflix marathon when a small thought crept in, soft as a whisper: I used to paint. In college, I’d lose hours in the art studio, mixing colors, swept up in the dance of a brush. Those canvases were probably rotting in my mom’s garage. When did I let that part of me go?

I tried to brush it off. Painting’s not a career. It’s for eccentric aunts selling coasters at craft fairs, right? But the thought kept nagging, like a song I couldn’t shake. Just try it. Pick up a brush. One stormy afternoon, I gave in. I dug out my old acrylics from a dusty box, tubes cracked, brushes stiff as twigs. I squeezed out a glob of cadmium yellow, and something in me clicked. I painted a messy sunset—streaks of pink and gold, nothing fancy. But for the first time in months, I wasn’t just surviving. I was alive.

That was the pull. Not a grand epiphany, but a quiet tug, like a tide drawing me back. I started painting every day. A shaky sketch of my coffee mug. A wild abstract born from a bad day. A portrait of my cat, who’s honestly a better model than most TikTokers. Each stroke was a rebellion against the life I’d escaped. But it’s not all rosy. Doubt creeps in like damp rot. What if I’m no good? What if this is a dead end? The fear of pouring my heart onto canvas and getting nothing back—crickets, rejection—keeps me up some nights.

Still, I keep going. I’m learning to trust that pull. I’ve shared a few pieces on Instagram, and yeah, the first posts got maybe 14 likes (thanks, Aunt Linda). But slowly, folks are noticing. A local café asked to hang one of my paintings, and I nearly bawled. I’m not quitting the job hunt—bills don’t pay themselves—but painting’s more than a hobby now. It’s my lifeline. My plan? Paint daily, even when it’s hard. Take an art class to sharpen my skills. Maybe submit to a gallery, even if my hands tremble hitting “send.”

The burnout shattered me, but it let something new spill out. I’m scared, no lie. Failure looms like a dark cloud. But when I’m painting, I’m not just getting by—I’m building something real. It’s messy, it’s terrifying, and it’s mine. That’s enough to keep me picking up the brush, one wobbly stroke at a time.