That’s It, I’m Done (But Not Really): Finding Your Way Back From the Edge

A dark brown person with a tight afro enjoys a quiet moment with a cup of coffee at a bustling café, a small pastry nearby and soft bokeh lights creating a cozy atmosphere in the background.

There’s a particular kind of tired that doesn't arrive with fireworks or breakdowns. It doesn’t shout. It seeps in. You might be mid-scroll, mid-sentence, mid-smile even… and suddenly, you feel it. A flatness. An ache. The quiet sense that you’ve run out of something — energy, patience, care — and you’re not quite sure where it went.

“I’m done,” you might think. And maybe you say it out loud, maybe you don’t. But the feeling lands. Not in a dramatic, movie-scene way — just a subtle shift in your system. It’s the exhaustion that comes from holding it together for too long, from being the strong one, the reasonable one, the one who keeps going when there’s no roadmap and no rest stop in sight.

We don’t always recognise it at first because we’re good at overriding it. We laugh through it. Power through. Throw on a playlist, light a candle, tick the next thing off the list. But this kind of tired — the “done” kind — eventually starts to pull at the corners of our life. We feel disconnected from our joy. Numb to the things that once moved us. Edgy with people we love. And inside, there’s that quiet whisper: I can’t keep doing this.

I’ve been there. More than once. And each time, I’ve learned something new about what “being done” actually means. It doesn’t always mean “give up.” Sometimes, it means “something in me can’t keep moving like this.” It’s a signal, not a surrender. A flare sent up by the parts of us we’ve ignored. And if we’re brave enough to listen, it can mark the beginning of a shift.

One thing I’ve learned is that it helps to get specific. What am I actually done with? Am I done with over-functioning? With being nice when I mean no? With keeping the peace at my own expense? Often, we say we’re done with everything — work, people, the whole system — but it’s rarely everything. Usually, it’s a few things too many that have tipped us over the edge. Naming those things is powerful. It’s the first act of reclaiming energy.

The second thing is: don’t rush the return. The world makes rest feel indulgent, but it’s not. It’s essential. Sitting still doesn’t mean giving up. Taking a breath doesn’t mean you lack resilience. Sometimes, resting is the most radical thing you can do in a world that demands your constant performance.

Finally, and this part is harder — let someone see you. The real you. Not the composed, polite, filtered you. The version that’s unsure, that’s tired, that’s had enough. We’re not meant to process these edges alone. Coaching, therapy, friendship, honest conversation — these are lifelines, not luxuries. Letting someone hold space for you doesn’t make you weak. It makes you wise.

My book explores these kinds of truths — the ones we only seem to reach when things crack open a bit. Not to glamorise struggle, but to honour the moment when we realise we want something different. Not bigger, not more productive — just different.

If you’re here now, feeling close to that edge or already past it, I want you to know this: being “done” might not be the end. It might be the very first sign that you’re ready to do things differently. To come home to yourself. To let go of what was never meant to be yours in the first place.

And if you’re looking for someone to talk to, to help you unpick what this moment might be asking of you — whether for yourself or your team — that’s the work I do. You’re welcome to reach out. Quietly. In your own time. You’ll be met where you are, not where you think you’re supposed to be.

Love and luminosity,

Sonia

A brown skinned black woman wearing jeans and a sleeveless black vest. She has a multicoloured head wrap, chunky silver bracelet and neck adornment. She is smiling and closes here eyes as she catches some flowers thrown to her from off-screen, then smells them