I used to think I was good at keeping secrets. After all, I grew up in East Nashville, where knowing how to keep quiet about surprise pop-up concerts at The Basement was practically a rite of passage. But the secret I battled with for over a year wasn’t about a late-night jam session or a famous face showing up at the Bluebird Cafe. It was about me—a part of myself I kept tucked away, even from those closest to me.

And let me tell you, keeping that secret felt less like playing it cool and more like holding a bag of sweet tea with a giant hole in it: messy, frustrating, and impossible to keep from spilling over.

The Secret Life of Savannah

Cue the ominous music: My battle was with burnout. Not the trendy kind of burnout influencers brag about when they take a long weekend in Sedona and post inspirational quotes about “recharging.” No, this was the secret slow-drip kind, the kind that creeps in while you're too busy pretending you're fine.

At the time, life looked dreamy on the outside. I was publishing essays, working on a novel, and snagging freelance gigs. Friends called me ambitious, driven. Nashville hummed around me with its neon lights and hopeful guitar strings, and I tapped my toes to the beat. But—here’s the kicker—it wasn’t sustainable.

I began to dread my keyboard. I avoided emails. Laundry piled up, and somewhere in that mountain was my will to show up for, well, anything. It didn’t help that I grew up in a family where the motto was basically “Can’t stop, won’t stop.” My dad tuned his guitar every night after working a double shift, and my mom made learning scales look fun (it wasn’t). How could I admit I was...tired? That maybe I didn’t want to hustle anymore?

Instead, I smiled through it. “Oh, I’m fine,” I’d say. The words spilled out like rain dripping off the roof—automatic, emotionless.

Hitting Pause on the Performance

I can’t pinpoint the exact moment I decided to face it. Maybe it was when I went a full week without turning my guitar’s tuning pegs, something I hadn’t done since middle school. Maybe it was in the middle of folding socks, when I realized I was crying (over socks, y’all). Whatever it was, my war with burnout had gone from secret to screaming.

The first thing I did was check my ego. For me, that’s always been a tricky dance. On one side, I’d been raised to push through discomfort, seeing obstacles as fuel for a good story. On the other, burnout isn’t a quirky plot twist; it’s a stop sign. Ignoring it only makes it worse.

So I gave myself permission to pause. My house wasn’t spotless, I paused my novel-in-progress, and I said no to things without offering elaborate excuses. Was it uncomfortable? Yeah, like wearing cowboy boots that haven’t been broken in yet. But it was a start.

Learning to Tune Myself

Know what’s ironic? I spent my life around music but forgot how important rest notes are. In songwriting, silence matters just as much as the melody. Without rests, everything’s chaos—a hot mess of unnecessary noise. I had to learn to build my own rests, no matter how unnatural it felt at first.

Here’s what helped:

  • Designing “No Work Zones”: I decided Saturday mornings were sacred: no screens, no deadlines. Instead, I’d sip my coffee on the porch or walk along the Cumberland, headphones off and mind set to “soak up the scenery.”

  • Getting a Soundboard (a.k.a. Friends): Sharing my burnout with a close friend was terrifying—like ripping the masking tape off a vintage record cover. But letting someone in was freeing. They didn’t try to “fix” me; they just listened. Sometimes, you don’t need solutions; you just need someone to say “same.”

  • Karaoke as Medicine: Weird example, I know, but here’s the thing: I grew up singing, so belting out Dixie Chicks hits at a local bar was more than fun—it was therapy. Singing taps into your emotions, shakes loose what you’re holding inside. Plus, who isn’t calmer after a spirited rendition of “Goodbye Earl”?

  • Finding Joy in Small Wins: I trained myself to celebrate tiny victories. Wrote a single paragraph? Win. Cooked dinner instead of ordering takeout? All the applause. These small steps reminded me that not everything has to be a Broadway finale to matter.

The Unplugged, Authentic Me

I wish I could wrap this up with a neat little bow, but the truth is, recovery doesn’t work like a catchy chorus we can repeat until we’ve learned it by heart. Burnout doesn’t just vanish the moment you name it; it lingers, testing the boundaries you’ve set.

What I can say is this: Life is like a Southern summer—bright and beautiful, but occasionally stifling. It’s okay to retreat to the shade, to drop the weight of expectation for a while. In fact, it’s vital.

These days, I’m learning to wear the noisy, messy parts of myself like I wear my favorite beat-up boots: with pride. They’re part of my story. And if burnout ever whispers its way back, I’m ready to face it head-on—with honesty, grace, and just a little bit of karaoke.

So if you’re battling your own secret and feel like you’re carrying it solo, know this: You’re not alone. Letting someone—or yourself—in on the truth is the first step to tuning up your life’s melody again. Keep tuning, keep playing. The world needs your song, imperfections and all.