Living in Limbo: Burned Out, Stretched Thin, and Still Showing Up

I’m writing this not because I want to dwell in the hard stuff, but because I know I’m not the only one feeling this way. And sometimes naming it out loud is the first step to rising above it. If you’re in this season too, I hope this helps you feel seen—and a little less alone.

Some days I feel like I’m unraveling.

Not in the dramatic, sobbing-on-the-floor way. But in the slow, invisible way. The kind where I’m still showing up to work, still packing lunches, still answering emails, still folding laundry—but inside, I feel like I’m silently screaming.

I’m a teacher, a mom, a wife. And right now, I’m also a woman stuck in a kind of limbo that’s heavy in ways that are hard to explain.

My husband just got a new job in another city as a head basketball coach. It’s an opportunity we’re excited about. But it also means we’re trying to uproot our entire life—if we can both find jobs in the new city. So far, I’ve applied to nine teaching positions. Nothing. My husband hasn’t even applied yet. And because of contract deadlines, we both had to sign again with our current districts “just in case”—knowing we might have to break those contracts midsummer if something comes through. We’re committed here and trying to leave at the same time. It’s disorienting.

So here we are—floating between two places, two futures, two unknowns. And I hate it. I hate not knowing. I hate this in-between space where no decision is really final and no path is really clear.

To make it worse, I don’t want to stay here. My job has been really difficult. My confidence has been shaken. My patience is gone. I feel like I’ve given everything I have to teaching over the last nine years, and I’m just… over it. And now it’s the end of the school year. I’m teacher tired in a way that lives in my bones. It’s not just physical—it’s emotional. It’s the kind of tired that comes from years of showing up, holding space, pouring out, and still feeling unseen and stretched too thin. I love teaching, but it’s been hard to love it lately.

And if we do get new jobs, that means selling our house, buying a new one, moving with kids, changing schools, and starting over—all before fall. And if we don’t get jobs, then we stay. And my husband has to commute. Which means he’s gone more. Which means I carry even more.

And underneath all that? Is our house.

We live in a double-wide on five acres. And I swear, every time I turn around, there’s something else to clean or fix or pick up. Weeds. Trash. Toys. Tools. Broken things. Dirty floors. Overflowing closets. Spiderwebs in corners I swear I just wiped down. The space around me feels like a reflection of what’s happening inside me: cluttered, chaotic, and suffocating.

It’s gotten to the point where the overwhelm is paralyzing. I don’t know where to start. So sometimes, I don’t. I freeze. And then I feel guilty for freezing. And the cycle continues.

And on top of all of that… I’m a mom. And my kids are still young and still need me. But right now? I don’t have much left to give them. My patience is paper thin. My energy is gone before the day even begins. I hear myself snapping and I hate it. I hate that they’re getting the stressed, distracted version of me. I want to be soft with them. I want to be present. But when you’re holding this much weight, everything feels like a trigger.

I’ve tried running to clear my head, but now that my husband’s gone more often, I can’t leave the kids. So instead, I walk the property with a trash bag. I cry in the bathroom. I throw away mismatched lids and cups. I wipe down one counter and call it a win. I’m breaking the mountain into molehills—not because it’s efficient, but because it’s the only way I can function right now.

Last week, I decluttered the kitchen cabinets. I threw away every cup that didn’t have a lid and every lid that didn’t have a cup. And I know that seems small, but it felt powerful. It was one clear action in a life that feels endlessly blurry. It was a whisper of control in a season of chaos.

This is what burnout looks like. Not just from teaching—but from over-functioning for too long in too many roles. It’s not a meltdown. It’s a quiet unraveling. It’s checking out emotionally while still showing up physically. It’s longing for rest but not knowing how to feel safe in it. It’s wondering if you’ll ever feel like you again.

But here’s what I want to say to myself—and to you, if you’re in this place too:

You’re not failing. You’re maxed out.
You’re not broken. You’re burned out.
You’re not a bad mom. You’re a tired woman trying to do her best with no room to breathe.

And you don’t need to fix it all. You don’t need a perfect plan. You just need to start small—and keep starting small.

I’ve started making a 10-day reset checklist: one simple task a day. Nothing huge. Just one drawer. One bag of trash. One room. And when I complete something, I tell myself I’m proud. Because I am. I’m proud that I keep showing up in the fog. I’m proud that I’m not giving up. I’m proud that I’m finding pockets of peace where I can.

Because no matter how burnt out I feel—no matter how exhausted, unmotivated, or lost—I always keep going. I have bad days. Really bad days. But I always find one thing—just one—to be proud of by the end of it. Sometimes it’s small. Sometimes it’s invisible to everyone else. But I see it. And I let it count.

This season is stretching me, yes—but I know it’s also shaping me. Even if I don’t have all the answers yet, I’m learning how to live inside the questions with more grace, more honesty, and more pride in the small, sacred things I can do.

⸻

If you’re in a similar season, I’d love to hear from you. Leave a comment or message me. You don’t have to carry it all alone. Mom Wife Teacher Friend is a place for women like us—messy, strong, hopeful, and real.

Journal Prompt: What’s one small thing today you’re proud of—even if no one else sees it?