The Quiet Exhaustion At Work

It’s 3:47 PM on a Tuesday and I’m sitting in the open-plan office pretending to read a Slack thread about Q3 OKRs. My eyes are moving across the words. Nothing is going in. My coffee went cold an hour ago. I didn’t even notice.

I have been at this job for two years and four months. I used to care. I used to actually open the strategy doc and underline things. I used to stay late because I wanted to, not because my laptop was open and I didn’t have the energy to close it.

This is the thing about quiet exhaustion at work that nobody warned me about. It’s not the kind where you’re sobbing in the bathroom or yelling at your manager. It’s not dramatic. It’s the kind where you just… stop. You stop caring. You stop noticing. You become this person who nods in meetings and types in a Google Doc nobody reads and goes home and stares at the ceiling.

I want to talk about this because I keep searching “quiet exhaustion work” at 1 AM and finding articles written by people who clearly have never worked a real job in their life. They say things like “set boundaries” and “communicate with your manager” and I just want to throw my phone across the room.

Set boundaries? With who? The Slack that pings me at 10:30 PM? The “quick sync” that got scheduled over my lunch? The CEO who replies-all at midnight on a Sunday?

I laughed when I read one article that said “make sure to take your lunch break.” Babe. I eat a granola bar over my keyboard while answering emails. I haven’t had an actual lunch break in eight months. The last time I sat down and ate food like a human person was a dentist appointment, and even then my phone buzzed.

Let me try to describe what this feels like. Because that’s the part I can’t find anywhere. The actual feeling.

It’s like this: imagine you’re a phone with 2% battery. And the low battery warning has been going off for six months. And you keep dismissing it. And dismissing it. And the screen dims and dims and dims. And you’re still scrolling. Still answering emails. Still saying “sounds good!” in Slack. But inside, the phone is dying. You can feel it in the battery icon. You can feel it in the way apps lag. You can feel it in everything.

That’s it. That’s the whole thing.

I remember one specific day. It was a Wednesday. I had a 1:1 with my manager at 2 PM. I prepped for it. I had notes. I had questions. I sat down at my desk at 8:30 AM, opened my notes, and by 2 PM I had written nothing. I had answered 47 messages, attended two standups, fixed someone else’s broken spreadsheet, and forgotten I was a person with notes.

He asked me how I was doing. I said “good, busy week!” And I smiled.

I went home that night and ate cereal standing up in my kitchen. I didn’t turn on the TV. I didn’t open my laptop. I just stood there. Staring at the fridge.

My roommate asked if I was okay. I said “yeah, just tired.” The word “tired” doesn’t cover it. But I don’t have another word. “Burnt out” sounds dramatic. “Exhausted” sounds like I need a nap. “Depressed” sounds like something I should call a doctor about.

So I say “tired.” And I move on.

The next morning I woke up and the first thought I had was “I don’t want to do this.” Not “I don’t want to go to work.” Just “I don’t want to do this.” Whatever “this” is. And then I got up. I brushed my teeth. I put on the same kind of shirt I always put on. I rode the subway. I smiled at the security guard. I opened my laptop. I did it all over again.

What kills me is that nobody sees it.

My parents think I’m doing great. “You’re at a tech company!” my mom says. “You have a fancy title!” She tells her friends I’m a “product manager” and I can hear the pride in her voice. My dad asks me about stock options. My sister asks me to refer her.

I haven’t told any of them that last week I cried in a Whole Foods bathroom because a woman was nice to me. She just said “excuse me, you dropped your reusable bag.” And I lost it. I stood in that bathroom with my reusable bag and sobbed for four minutes. Then I washed my face, bought kombucha, and went back to the office.

How do you even explain that? “Hey mom, I had a public breakdown over a stranger’s politeness because my nervous system is fried.” She’d fly out. She’d stay with me for a week. She’d cook me food and ask me questions I couldn’t answer. And I would smile and say “I’m fine, just a long week.”

I am not fine. But I’m not “not fine” enough to do anything about it. That’s the trap.

I think about quitting every single day. I have a Notion doc called “maybe later” with 23 bullet points of jobs I could do instead. Beekeeper. Bookstore owner. Dog walker. Florist. I read the descriptions. I close the tab. I open Slack.

Because here’s the thing they don’t tell you: the quiet exhaustion at work isn’t just about the work. It’s about the fact that you’ve been doing it long enough that you can’t remember what you wanted before. You wanted to be a product manager. You studied for it. You interviewed for it. You got it. And now the job is just this grey thing that happens between waking up and going back to sleep.

I had a friend quit last month. No plan. No safety net. Just quit. Everyone was shocked. “But you had a good job!” “But the benefits!” “But the RSUs!” I envied her so much I had to put my phone down.

I can’t do that. I have rent. I have a dog. I have a therapist I can only afford because of this job. I have student loans. I have the life I built around this income. And that life is what’s keeping me in the chair that is slowly, quietly, ruining me.

I think that’s the worst part. The quiet part.

If I was being screamed at by a boss, I could quit. I could call it harassment. I could update my LinkedIn. People would understand.

If I was working 80-hour weeks, I could quit. I could call it burnout. People would bring me soup.

But I’m not being screamed at. I’m not working 80 hours. I’m working 45. I have a flexible schedule. My manager is “nice.” The snacks are free. The chair is ergonomic. The laptop is fast. The healthcare is “comprehensive.”

And I’m dying inside at a pace that is impossible to explain to anyone.

It’s like a slow leak in a tire. You’re driving. Everything feels fine. The car’s moving. The radio’s playing. But every morning the tire is a little flatter. And one day you’ll wake up and the tire will be completely flat and you’ll be like “huh, when did this happen?” You won’t remember. There was no single moment. There was just the slow, quiet, daily deflation.

That’s me. That’s the tire. That’s the whole metaphor.

What do I do about it? Nothing. That’s the honest answer. Nothing. I read the articles. I bought the books. I downloaded the meditation app. I went for walks. I took the vitamin D. I tried.

And the exhaustion is still there. Quiet. Patient. Permanent.

My therapist says “you have to name it to tame it.” So I’m naming it. It’s called quiet exhaustion at work. It’s a thing. It’s real. It’s mine. And I don’t think it’s going anywhere soon.

I just want someone to read this and say “oh, that’s me too.” That’s it. I don’t want a solution. I don’t want a job recommendation. I don’t want someone to tell me to “journal about it.” I just want to know that I’m not the only one standing in a Whole Foods bathroom crying over a reusable bag.

If you’re reading this at 1 AM, sitting in bed with your laptop open, scrolling for someone who gets it — I get it. I’m here. I don’t have answers. But I’m here.

Now I’m going to close my laptop and stare at the ceiling. Same as every other night. Tomorrow I’ll wake up and do it all over again. The coffee will go cold. The Slack will ping. The 1:1 will happen. And I’ll say “good, busy week!” and smile.

That’s just what it is right now.