Burnout sucks

I got a tintype photograph made of me at my most recent event — thank you to Breakfast All Day Tintypes.

Tintypes were developed in 1853 and is a photographic technique where a direct positive is burned into a thin sheet of enamel-coated metal. It results in imperfections and a haunted, otherworldly look. I love how I look like an angry lady from the wild west.

I think I have been burned out since 2024.

It started out as an impulse to skip out on the next vending opportunity. I was just too tired.

And then I actually turned down a job.

I turned down two jobs.

I finally realized I did not find joy in creating…anything. A simple sketch or a quick, 2 hour illustration job. Before, money would be at least the one motivating factor when I was tired, but not even that could lure me out of my rut.

I tried very hard to be inspired, looking at my then-actually extant, somewhat active Instagram feed. Going to museums and galleries and being out in nature were more effective, but also only brought a temporary high.

Truthfully, almost half way through 2026, I still feel the same. I’m definitely still producing work, but at a snail’s pace compared to 2 years ago.

Literally everyone I talk to says that I should take a break, but I don’t really know what that looks like. I don’t feel like me if I’m not making something. Taking a break from everything that exhausts me will also result in dinners not being made, the dishes piling up, nobody tending to the garden, etc. etc. I feel bad in not contributing enough when my husband is the breadwinner.

I barely have had the time to go on hunts, which I did before I became so tired. So I have taken to getting out to the range and doing some target practice.

Once my ear-pro goes on and I slide my gun out from my holster, it feels, finally, like my brain goes quiet. I don’t have to think about anything besides pulling back the slide, locking it, slamming in the mag, closing the slide with an easy, satisfying clunk, lifting the gun, slooooowly pulling the trigger…and boom. Bullseye.

The sharp, familiar smell of gunpowder hits my nose. The next shot pulls left, and the next even more off as my forearms get tired. I have to focus on steadying my grip. That is the only thing that matters in the moment — forming a tight enough grouping. A meditation. My breathing slows.

In the few hours at the range, I feel peace among the rush of endorphins and adrenaline. I wonder if it’s related to how much I enjoy metal (music) and the loud, violent rush of those shows. Bodies whirling into a sweaty frenzy in tandem, the noise deafening, getting battered by errant elbows. With the chaos comes joy, and then later, a strange sense of calm.

I’ve been shooting off and on since I lived in New York — there, I shot at the ancient West Side Rifle Range on 20th street. I would walk to the range after work on Thursdays, squeezing past their dusty, wood-paneled basement kiosk and go shoot .22s and .38s through whatever old rifle they had rattling around. It was almost always occupied with retired and current cops and military guys, and some of them gave me some pointers, but they probably knew me as the girl who would appear once a week, punch some holes in paper for two hours and quietly go home.

My hands were coated in grime from their old, rarely-cleaned guns, and I didn’t feel like I got that much better…but I always felt peaceful when I left my sanctuary.

Nowadays too, once I leave the range I feel my brain come back to life, and sometimes I even manage to work on a drawing or two, just for myself. The cost of ammo rises, and range fees add up, but it’s a part of my self care budget.