Burnout before and after Baby: How Parenthood changed my resilience.
Performing in Ghosts of Nebula, 2024.
“Tell me a story Mama?” Hero asks, scooping up Cheerios sprinkled with Trix, whole milk poured to the tippy top of the bowl. I reach for the familiar box set of Curious George books. I wish I could spin a story for him myself, looking directly into his cocoa brown eyes. I don’t have a shred of brain left for it, I’m incapable of any creative spark. Burnout is back. The early signs are the same, racing thoughts, the urge to do, do, do, regardless my drained energy and stiff body at 6am.
The reality of Mom’ing in the morning after a late night of rehearsal.
Later that day, I kiss my husband goodbye. He’s just come home from the restaurant as I’m packing up to depart for my show. “I left early hoping I could see you!” but even as we embrace guilt gnaws at me, as I realize I am counting the seconds – hoping to grab a gas station coffee before my call time.
For the past month I’ve been performing in an experimental, immersive, site specific production of Ghosts of Nebula at Seattle’s old Georgetown Steam Plant. 5 days a week, I trudge through the muddy grass from my car into the industrial power plant from 1906. It’s cold and I’m bundled in long underwear, a 1920s explorer costume and a curly bobbed wig that traps the little warmth I have. I insisted on fingerless gloves from the costume designer; I have that condition where my fingers turn blue and lose circulation when I get cold, and I knew it would be trouble for the 5+ hours I would be performing the show for revolving 25-person audience groups.
The Steam Plant has no heat, no running water and we signed a waiver that we were aware we may be hurt or die, climbing around and through the old equipment.
“You did what?” Christian’s face lost color and looked confused. I brushed it off “We’ll be fine.” Because, as always, I was ready to do, do, do - for the art! For the experience!
In my late twenties, I was a runner. I ran through snow and freezing rain, lungs burning but loving the weather. My body warmed me, and I trusted it. Hacking mucus along the trail, I felt so powerful. Now, climbing 30 steep, not-to-code stairs to act out a dramatic scene and hearing the gasps from the audience was as thrilling as crossing the finish line, 13 miles in the October rain.
But this time, burnout hit differently. My parents, sister, and a team of “bridge sitters” helped watch Hero while I rested between shows. My husband took over solo dinners and bedtimes five nights a week. Our teen sitter even prepped dinner and tidied the toys so I could transition more slowly in and out of work.
Despite all this help, I was sick the entire three weeks of the show. I caught the flu right before rehearsals began, and the cold symptoms lingered throughout the performance run. Even now, a week after closing, I still have a hacking cough.
A scene from Ghosts of Nebula on the catwalk, with Lola Rei Fukushima.
Before motherhood, burnout looked different. Back then, I helped run a year-round dinner theater, Café Nordo, working 60+ hours a week, often fueled by late-night wine to recover from the exhaustion of performing. Hot yoga became a ritual to combat the physical toll, but inside, I felt hollow. I didn’t look forward to the next show; instead, I envied other performers. I dreamed of a family, hoping it would force me to reprioritize.
Now, I’m kind to that past version of myself. She did the work and embraced love and motherhood when it came into her life, in the midst of a global pandemic. She burned to ashes, but the ground beneath was fertile thanks to the flame.
I remember sitting in Nordo’s basement dressing room, steeling myself with straight gin before mustering up the energy to socialize. That old burnout was different; I took the community for granted and knew I could sleep as long as I wanted the next morning. This time, the exhaustion was mostly physical, but I appreciated my community so deeply—especially the shared resilience of a cast who, like me, endured the cold, the lack of running water, and constant sniffles.
As I sit in the ashes of this experience, I realize I’ll carry them forward like a circle of protection. Motherhood hasn’t erased the burnout, but it has changed it. Now, I know where to find support, how to set boundaries, and what it truly means to let others help. Each experience builds a stronger foundation, a reminder that while burnout may come, I am different. I am not alone, and next time, I’ll be even better prepared.
Read about my career with Café Nordo
Sitting with cast mate Jackie Miedema on a break during tech rehearsal at the Steam Plant.
The impressive turbine room, part of our set for Ghosts of Nebula.