🌿 When the Fire Fades: On Burnout, Family, and Forgotten Prayers

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about burnout—not just the kind that comes from working too much, but the kind that creeps in quietly, born from chasing something you can’t quite name. Maybe it’s responsibility. Maybe it’s fear. Maybe it’s that unrelenting pressure to be “successful” in a world that constantly moves the goalposts.

Looking back, I realize I’ve been running—not toward something, but away. Away from the weight of expectation, from the anxiety that coils itself around my every decision. When my sister was diagnosed with breast cancer, I remember praying with a desperation I had never felt before. I told myself, If she just recovers, everything else will be okay.

And she did. She’s healing. But instead of peace, I found myself spiraling again—this time into dissatisfaction, self-blame, and confusion.

Here I am: a professor, in my homeland yet also a foreign country. Korea has never been more familiar, and yet, never more alienating. I wonder if I should return to the U.S., to the world of global research, of recognition, of impact. That version of me still floats like a ghost in my dreams—sharp, accomplished, admired. But alongside it drifts another hope, quieter and harder to hold onto: the dream of being simply happy, surrounded by family, love, warmth, and presence.

The truth is, I've forgotten the beauty of ordinary happiness. The kind that comes with my mother’s quiet laughter or my sister’s steady recovery. I chased after success, believing it would fill the void. But now, even joy tastes muted, like I’ve lost the recipe for wonder.

I feel selfish for wanting both—a brilliant career and a grounded life. I feel guilty for forgetting my own prayers, the ones I made with shaking hands and a broken heart. How forgetful we are, as humans. How easily we move on from grace.

To God, or to the universe, or to whatever silent listener remains—I ask for forgiveness. For forgetting how sacred healing is. For overlooking the treasures in front of me. For being lost, again.

But maybe being lost is also part of the journey. Maybe this is where I’m meant to pause and remember what matters—not what the world wants from me, but what I truly long for.

If you’re reading this and feeling the same ache: you’re not alone. Let’s be gentle with ourselves. We’re allowed to not have it all figured out.

“It is not down in any map; true places never are.”

— Herman Melville