A Pile of Ash.

So this is what it feels like.

It always lurked in the shadows and I've danced perilously close at times, and each of those times it knocked just a little more wind out of me.

I've been warned so many times of its presence- and, admittedly, haven't taken such warning very seriously.

There was that time that I escaped to the island for a week of relaxation and fun this past summer only to come back to a 96-hour work week.

Guess I believed myself to be invincible.

It threatened to grab hold of me this past fall when a contract of mine ended very badly. It was the first time that I had to walk away from a person who really needed help.

It was the hardest lesson I've had to learn since becoming a youth worker three years ago: you cannot force help. God gives us all free will. He loves us more than I will ever be able to comprehend, and he gave that young women free will to live her life as she wants... so who am I to try to force change on her when she was not ready?

As hard as walking away was, "it" backed away a little.

I followed that up with increasing my hours at the group home to alternating between 60 hour work weeks and 84 hour work weeks.

And that wasn't enough.

I've been so apprehensive about taking 17 days off over the Christmas holidays to go to Hawaii. To me it seemed greedy. Maybe I question whether I deserve it.

So I set out to work 84 hrs every week for the month before my vacation.

"It" grabbed me about three weeks deep.

Burnout.

I am an exceptionally stubborn person. I am about as full of pride as a person can be when it comes to work, but last week I stopped caring. I waved the white flag as Scotty was driving me into another work shift and softly whispered, "I'm burning out."

When I started the job, a drug and alcohol counsellor told me that if I could survive one year working at the group home, I could do anything. She said, "you're working in the trenches."

Three years later, I still love the job, but I don't love what I'm doing to myself.

Work defines me. I attach my identity to my work. I take pride in being a hard worker (and compete to be the hardest worker). I relish in any/every compliment that relates to work. If someone compliments my appearance, I don't really care, but if someone comments on how hard I work, or how I perform at my job, I puff my chest out and walk with a little bounce in my step.

But there's a whole other side to it that I haven't really wanted to address.

When you work 84 hours a week, your work become your life. Work is no. 1, and you're not around/available for much else.

About a month ago, we had dinner with my brother an my two nieces. It bothered me that they had grown up so much since I last saw them and I only live 45 mins away.

Since then there have been many moments which have slowly begun to chip away the shiny exterior of how I've been approaching life/work.

My work can be mentally and emotionally draining. Playing "mom" to very hurting teen girls will do that. But what I've only very recently noticed is that I'm giving them everything and then returning home- to my personal life- completely drained.

A slogan common among pastors is that a good church starts at home. The burnout rate for pastors is especially high because there is so much need and it never seems to be a good time to say no.

I might be one of the best workers at the organization I work at. The girls living in the home may make an effort to be home for my shifts, but I cannot say that I am being the best wife, daughter, sister, auntie and friend to all those people in my personal life... because I know that I am not.

You cannot bleed yourself dry in one area of life an expect to be "on your game" in all the other areas.

I'm not hating on myself. I'm not having a pitty party. It is something over which I have control. It simply comes down to balance, and mine is all out of whack.

Yesterday I arrived in Hawaii. I'm here for 17 days. For 17 days I can't work, and when I do come back, I am scheduled to only work 48 hrs a week.

It's time for some changes.