Early on in 2020, I had a breakdown, which is exactly how I’d expect myself to prelude a pandemic. 

I’ve always been a bit of an extremist. Until recently, I left little space for gray areas. I suppose those closest to me would say that I don’t half-ass anything, which has afforded me many opportunities while also laying the foundation for what folks now call “burnout.” My loved ones would also probably acknowledge that, though the last few years have brought life lessons to show me the gradient, I’m not completely over the hump of the all-or-nothing mindset.

For example, late in 2014 I started feeling like I needed a change. So, I began silently scheming. Come June of 2015, I rid myself of most of my belongings. I left my familiar life close to my roots to embark on a solo journey around the western states, living in a tent. If you know me, you likely know this story. Unbeknownst to me, three and a half years of continuous travel would follow this departure. Whatever prompted this ambition and gumption to initiate and sustain a lifestyle change like this is a mystery to me. However, I suspect this mystery may also be the birthplace of my emotional distress. But let’s back up a bit to my earlier years.