From Burnout to [Breakthrough]

I used to think a dream job was the one that kept me busiest.

515 classes taught in a single year looked heroic on a résumé; on my body it looked like a back spasm, a second-degree burn, and a month in bed wondering if I was depressed or just tired.

February was the month the universe stopped whispering and started yelling: first a thrown-out back, then a stupid, exhausted accident with a steamer that took me out of work completely. I finally did the math—16 classes a week is a part-time job stacked on a full-time job stacked on no weekends. So I did the scariest thing I’ve done since I moved to Boston: I quit. Not everything, but enough that people asked, “How will you survive?”

Answer: I don’t know. I just know I can’t survive like this.

I gave away more than half my schedule, kissed two studios goodbye, and promised myself the next thirty days were for nothing. No side hustles, no sub requests, no “just one class.” I was going to Florida with my mom to remember what rest felt like.

That’s when the text came: “[solidcore] is hiring.”

I rolled my eyes—me, the yoga-Pilates girl who still can’t parallel-park, teaching reformer-based, high-intensity, low-impact torture? But the application took ten minutes, and I was already saying yes to things that scared me. They invited me to audition the exact weekend I’d vowed to unplug. I sent a video with a sigh of defeat, certain no one hires off Zoom when hundreds of bodies show up in person.

Two days later: “Welcome to the team.”

Cue the panic: I just cleared my plate; why am I adding a five-week training?

Because something—burnout, intuition, the universe—had carved out space for a reason.

I showed up to day-one training still fragile, still icing my burn, still questioning. Then Theresa walked in, arms wide, and said, “Are you also here for the new coach training?” No side-eye, no who-do-you-know-here. Just open. By lunch I’d been hugged by 21 strangers who remembered my name, my injuries, and the fact that I like Monster energy drinks (white flavor only).

I’d spent years in a scene that mistook competition for community. These women mistake community for oxygen. We succeed together, flop together, text each other “You alive?” after 5 a.m. doubles. For the first time in I-don’t-know-how-long, I don’t feel lonely in a room full of people.

So the money is tighter, and my calendar is somehow both lighter and fuller. The dream job isn’t the one that lets me post #riseandgrind at 4 a.m.; it’s the one where I can say “I’m not okay” out loud and get ten hands on my back instead of ten tips on how to hustle harder. It’s the job that lets me teach and be taught—about reformers, yes, but mostly about reciprocity.

Friendships ended this winter. I thought I needed to grieve them. Turns out I just needed to thank them for making space—space that Theresa & co. walked into with sweaty hugs and matching grip socks.

Moral: Sometimes you don’t pivot.
Sometimes the pivot pries you off the floor while you kick and scream, then hands you a mic and says, “Cue the springs, girl. We start in 30 seconds.”

I’m still tired. I’m still healing. But I’m home.

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