The Shattering of Expectations

Burnout was inevitable. It wasn’t the result of overwork or exhaustion in the traditional sense; it was the product of an emotional implosion. It began with a single, devastating moment of mortification: being told there were no opportunities for upward mobility. Those words struck with the force of a wrecking ball, shattering the carefully curated sense of superiority that had carried me through every meeting, every project, every ambition.

I had always believed leadership was my destiny, that recognition was not just deserved but inevitable. To be told otherwise—to be told I had reached a ceiling—was unthinkable. It felt like a betrayal, as though the world had failed to see me for what I truly was. The feelings of inadequacy surged, and failure loomed like an unwelcome shadow.

Then came the final blow: the introduction of a new middle manager into the hierarchy. Their arrival was a silent yet deafening statement that my current position and capabilities were insufficient. It was as if the company had taken my ambitions, crumpled them like a discarded memo, and handed them to someone else. Bypassed, neglected, humiliated—these feelings swirled into a tempest of frustration and resentment.
The new manager represented everything I despised: a challenge to my authority, a living reminder of my perceived shortcomings. Their presence diminished my standing, casting me into a role I no longer wanted but could not escape. Every decision they made, every directive they issued, felt like an erasure of my significance.

I couldn’t bear it. But instead of confronting it directly, I regressed. My response was infantile, a passive-aggressive rebellion cloaked in professionalism. I grew resentful, curt in emails, withdrawn in meetings. My tone became barbed, my compliance half-hearted. Yet, none of it eased the sting of humiliation.
Finally, I found my revenge—not in confrontation, but in absence. I went on medical leave, citing burnout as my reason. It was true, in a way, but it was also strategic. My absence created a vacuum, a subtle yet pointed statement: “See how you function without me.” It was an act of defiance disguised as self-care, a way to reclaim power in a situation where I felt powerless.

But the leave didn’t bring the satisfaction I hoped for. Instead, it left me with the time and space to confront the truth I had been avoiding: my sense of entitlement had set me up for this fall. I had believed leadership was my birthright, that recognition was guaranteed. When those beliefs were challenged, I collapsed under the weight of my own expectations.

Burnout, I realized, wasn’t just physical or emotional—it was existential. It was the result of my identity cracking under pressure, of my ego faltering in the face of reality. And yet, even in the midst of that pain, I couldn’t help but wonder: was the problem with the world for not recognizing my worth, or with me for demanding it in the first place?