Burnout, but make it existential

Let me be honest with you: I’m writing this because I’m tired. Not the “need a nap” kind of tired. The kind that settles in your bones when you’ve been holding your breath for too long, waiting for things to get better—and wondering if they ever will.

That’s what Unsubscribed is. It’s not a hot take or a productivity hack. It’s a blog series for people who are quietly opting out of performative work culture, political gaslighting, and the idea that if we just try harder, everything will magically improve.

I’m not writing this from a place of clarity or control. I’m writing from the messy middle. Where the fear is real, the stakes are high, and the answers are murky. But if you're here reading, maybe you're in the middle of it too.

And maybe we don’t need solutions as much as we need each other.

Fear of the future

Lately, I’ve found myself bracing. Not for something specific—but for everything.

I’m scared of what’s next. Not in the “boo!” scary movie way. More like: I’m in a waiting room, CNN is blaring, someone’s chewing loudly, my phone is dying, and the Wi-Fi doesn’t work. And I have no idea when I’ll be called—or what happens when I am.

That’s the flavor of dread I’m sitting with. It’s not dramatic. It’s daily.

I’m 48. I’ve built a career. I’ve helped a lot of people. I’ve done good work. But lately, the future doesn’t feel like something I’m building toward. It feels like something barreling toward me while I scramble to hold on to my purpose, energy, and health.

Some days I wonder if I’ve already peaked. Other days I wonder if I’ll ever get to rest. Meanwhile, I’m carrying on—leading meetings, delivering work, giving keynotes, and scrambling to find more work—like nothing’s wrong.

My head? It’s a weird place these days. Equal parts panic room, pep rally, and late-night infomercial.

When the weight starts to feel like the point

Let’s be clear: this isn’t just about the news.

Yes, it’s politics. The corruption. The cruelty. The fact that basic rights feel like they’re hanging by a thread while people in power treat it like a game.

But it’s deeper than that.

It’s the feeling that we’re watching the world change—and not for the better. That we have no real control over any of it. That our generation was handed a broken system and told to bootstrap our way to balance while everything burned behind us.

It’s the sense that we’re not just tired—we’re questioning the point of everything we were told to believe in.

I’ve worked on the internet my whole career. I believed in its potential. I built things. Led teams. Helped people communicate better. Now I look around and wonder: did we build something worth saving? Or did we accidentally help tear it all down?

That’s the part I don’t know what to do with.

Some days I joke that I should buy a tiny house and get a job as a Walmart greeter. And then I immediately think: Wait. That might actually be better than this.

That’s the kind of burnout I’m talking about. The kind where you start to question whether any of it matters. Whether anything you’re doing is helping. Whether the only sane thing left to do is unsubscribe completely and start over.

Yelling into the void

I tried to capture this feeling in a 30-second TikTok.
Sometimes yelling into the void is the only thing that feels manageable.

And it landed. Not because I said something brilliant, but because I said something true.

The kind of burnout I’m talking about—the kind caused by fear, disillusionment, and a total lack of control—is everywhere. It’s silent. It’s lonely. And it doesn’t look like a productivity issue. It looks like you, sitting at your desk, wondering how we’re still doing this.

Part of the reason I started Unsubscribed was because of my friend Greg Storey’s Eject Disk. He gave language to something I was feeling but hadn’t named: this quiet urge to reject what isn’t working anymore.

Because how the fuck are we going to get through this if we don’t stop pretending we’re fine?

The fantasy exit plan

I’ll be honest: I’m not burnt out because I’m disengaged. I’m burnt out because I care deeply and constantly feel like I’m hitting a wall.

I still want to lead. I still want to help people. I still believe in the power of work to change lives. Believe it or not, I’m still excited to talk about project management. (Wild, I know.) But there are days when I fantasize about disappearing—getting a job that doesn’t require a laptop or a calendar. Something grounded. Something where I get to move, talk to people face-to-face, and go home feeling like I actually did something for society.

Maybe you’ve got your version of that fantasy, too. It doesn’t mean we’re giving up. It means we’re looking for proof that something else is possible—that joy, meaning, and purpose aren’t reserved for people who are “crushing it” on LinkedIn.

We don’t want less. We just want something real.

So what now?

I wish I had an answer here. I really do. But if there’s one thing I’m starting to believe, it’s this: unsubscribing doesn’t mean isolation. It can mean connection. Real connection. The kind where you tell the truth about how hard this is, and someone else says, "Same" and you both smile and sigh.

If you’re feeling tired, overwhelmed, afraid of what’s next? You’re not broken.
You’re not weak. You’re just awake. And being awake in this moment? It’s exhausting.

Let’s stop acting like we’ve got it all figured out. Let’s start talking like people who are trying.

Say no. Log off. Call a friend. Burn the to-do list. Protect your energy like it’s the last frozen burrito you bought before they started costing $26 each.

I’ll be here, doing the same.

—Brett

✦ Feel this? Share the TikTok. Send this to someone who needs to hear it. Or just whisper “Same” to yourself in the mirror. That counts too.