It’s easy to get caught up in what my dad often calls “the treadmill years” — you know, that time of your life when you’re figuring things out and pushing hard to get everything right. Maybe you’re sober curious or new in sobriety, or at a certain point in your career, or moving up an organizational ladder, or welcoming new family members (babies, aging parents, both?), working one, two, maybe three jobs or combos of side gigs, or maybe all of that’s going on in different measures. The kid’s sports practices blend into other after school events, all while the demands of your job continue, the economic pressures continue, the desire and need to spend time on your relationships (partner | spouse | family | friends), and oh, yes, there’s laundry, the shopping, the cooking, the medical appointments, the gym … the list seems endless and your time dwindles, year after year. When do you schedule in rest?

The last time I got burned out — really burned out, the type of burnout that happens when I stayed on that treadmill for much too long, leaving me chronically cranky and without humor, a completely skewed perspective, feeling hopeless and without options — I sought outside help. Turning to a mental health resource available through my employer, Lyra Health, I was matched with a phenomenal therapist. And the first thing she asked me, after hearing my cranky outpouring of how stressed I felt, was this:

“Do you know how to be a cat?”

I stared at her. Annoyance crept in my edges. WTH does that even mean, I thought. I’m here for answers!

“I don’t even know how to answer that,” I replied, a little testily.

“Look. You’re burned out. That means you’re way below your baselines: your energy, your physical and emotional health. Every time you try to push through, you’re dipping even farther below your baseline.”

That made sense to me. I’d been feeling like I was cycling through a pattern. I’d get myself to a place where I felt OK, then the stresses would mount and I’d feel like I was screaming a little inside. Work to get myself back to something that felt a bit more even, and then the cycle would repeat. I just couldn’t get myself off that merry-go-round.

“So here’s the plan. For the next period of time you’ve set aside for yourself, I want you to be a cat. That means sleep, stretch, eat something nutritious, play, and sleep. That’s it. Practice getting OK with being nonproductive. That’s how you’ll refill yourself and get back to a healthy baseline.”

When my back’s up against a wall, I’ll follow directions. It’s something I learned the hard way when I got sober decades ago. So, I surrendered to the wisdom of this therapist (after all, I was paying for this), and became a cat. For an entire month.

At first I felt nervous. Thoughts ran through my head, like is this OK? Shouldn’t I be doing something? Naps aren’t even a thing I allowed myself.

Lying on my couch, I began noticing details of the trees outside my window. My breath slowed down. I picked up a book that had been calling to me for months, and started reading for pleasure. I stretched, a lot, and was startled to find my shoulder moved differently than the last time I’d noticed it, which was probably a time before the pandemic.

Two weeks in and I really felt my legs for the first time in years. Two weeks later, my arms came into full feeling.

I took an art class, and then another, and discovered the joy of making really bad art. Play! No result to be measured, no product at the end, but the simple joys of feeling materials in my hands, getting my fingertips full of pastels and charcoals. Giggles bubbled up in me involuntarily and an aliveness burst from my belly. This is joy, I realized. The joy of being in the moment, out of my head, fully awake, alive.

Practicing the Tao of the cat was the deepest and surprising journey out of the burnout I didn’t even know I was in. I’d been existing just to work, pushing through what few fumes I had left for far too long until I crashed. There was a way out, though, and it was right in front of me if I just stopped and really saw the wisdom of my cat.

Learn to just be.