Acknowledging Burnout

I work as a bartender and server at a local pub. For almost a year, the schedule was perfectly balanced: I covered Sunday and Monday nights, another bartender took Tuesday and Wednesday, and our lead handled Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. It worked. Closing the bar is tough work, and spreading it out kept us all sane.

But recently, the other bartender stepped back to focus on getting his commercial pilot’s license. Suddenly, I was closing Sunday through Wednesday every week. At first, the money was great. But last night, I realized how badly burnout had caught up with me.

The last two nights were a mess—spilling a full cocktail on a guest, breaking a wine glass in the ice well. Amateur mistakes I’d never normally make. It hit me: I was running on empty. Thankfully, I managed to swap my shift tonight with my barback, giving myself a chance to breathe.

The truth is, no amount of good money is worth feeling this drained. If I don’t take care of myself, I’ll push until I break—and I’m already dealing with sleep issues as it is. Burnout in your 20s feels especially brutal. It already feels like you’re behind, like you’re not doing enough. So admitting you need a break feels almost like failure.

But it’s not failure—it’s survival. If we want to make it long term, we have to take care of ourselves.

My pub owns a couple hotels, including one at the coast. Employees get a killer deal, and I think I might take advantage of it. The beach has always been where I can breathe again—where the weight lifts and the noise fades. Sure, it’ll cost a little money. But if it means pressing pause, recharging, and coming back whole? It’s worth every penny.