Burnout Be Like....
Where did I leave my heart?
Let’s start at the scene of the crime.
It was my last court case. Deep in the middle of COVID, when the buildings were closed but the dockets weren’t—so we logged in through WebEx, those tiny pixelated squares becoming the place where freedom got negotiated.
Now, of course, there’s only so much I can say—attorney-client privilege and all. You know, that thing where someone could admit to murder (if they paid me) and I still couldn’t tell a soul? Yeah. That part is true. Sort of.
But what I can tell you is this: the emotional weight of that case mirrored the one I was already carrying. Because while I was defending that young man, I was also in intensive therapy for my own trauma.
The respondent—let’s call him YN—was bright. Troubled. Detained over a marijuana paraphernalia charge (yes, really). He’d lived in the U.S. since he was a toddler. His entire family was there. And still, the government tried to send him “back” to a country he didn’t even remember.
The details of his story were messy, painful. But what broke me was the mirror: we had lived through the same childhood trauma. And when that truth came out—loudly, publicly, in front of his mother and sister—I felt my own ribs split open.
It got worse.
YN had also been a survivor of sexual assault. The kind no one talks about. Especially not in families. Especially not when you’re a boy.
I researched everything. I stayed up late reading scholarly articles on assault, rehabilitation, and trauma.
One study stayed with me: men who experience sexual abuse and are not offered early psychological intervention are statistically more likely to engage in harmful behavior before the age of 21. (Sorsoli et al., 2008. [Men’s Self-Perceptions Following Childhood Sexual Abuse].)
So I made my arguments with empathy and evidence. I prepared my client. I prepared myself.
But I wasn’t ready.
Not for the sealed documents to be read out loud. Not for the audible gasp from his mother when she learned who had hurt her son. Not for the hour five of a trial that left all of us—judge included—completely depleted.
She didn’t issue a decision that day. And when it finally came, it was a denial.
I know, I know—there’s always an appeal. But something in me cracked. I handed the file off to a trusted colleague, packed my bags, and disappeared to a jungle in Costa Rica.
I didn’t revisit the case. But I did begin to revisit myself.
My body healed first. Then my spirit caught up. And now—this summer—it’s my heart that’s finally whispering, You’re safe. You don’t have to survive anymore.
And I’ve been wondering: What does life look like beyond survival?
See, survival teaches you to move quickly. To anticipate disaster. To edit your feelings for safety.
But my heart? It was never given space. The women in my family didn’t grow up asking, What does my heart want? They asked, What must I do to get through the day?
So now, I’m unlearning.
Yesterday, a friend visited my studio. I showed him a painting I had just started—abstract, intuitive, still forming.
He studied it carefully. “There are two sides,” he said. “One is cold and empty. The other is warm, full of people, color, life. And in between is a red line. It snakes from one side to the other.”
I hadn’t even noticed it.
“That red line?” he said. “That might be your heart. You should ask it what it wants—when you’re in a state of least resistance.”
So here I am. Still painting. Still asking.
Still figuring out what my heart has to say now that it’s allowed to speak.
Until next time,
Foreign Affairs