For a long time, I thought burnout was something that happened to other people. People who didn't love coding as much as I did. People who weren't committed enough to push through.
Then I became one of those people.
Not in a dramatic way. There was no breakdown, no quitting on the spot. It was slower and quieter than that — a gradual draining of the thing that used to make me excited to open my editor. Code that used to feel like play started to feel like lifting weights I never got to put down.
This is what I learned getting out of it, and the warning signs I wish I'd taken seriously sooner.
The Signs I Ignored
Burnout didn't announce itself. It crept in through small things:
I stopped wanting to build side projects, then stopped wanting to read about tech at all.
Small bugs that used to be fun puzzles started to feel infuriating.
I was "working" more hours but shipping less.
I felt tired after a full night's sleep.
I was irritable about things that didn't deserve it.
I kept telling myself I just needed to push through one more sprint.
That last one was the real trap. "Just push through" is great advice for a hard afternoon. It's terrible advice for a pattern that's lasted months.
What Actually Helped
Here's what made a real difference. None of it was a magic fix — it was a stack of small changes that added up.
- I separated "tired" from "done" I used to treat finishing my work and stopping work as the same event. They're not. There's always more to do. The codebase is never finished. If I waited until everything was done to stop, I'd never stop. So I started defining the end of my workday by time and energy, not by an empty task list. When the day's planned work was done — or when my focus was clearly gone — I stopped. The remaining tasks would still be there tomorrow, and I'd handle them better with a working brain.
- I made real boundaries, not vague intentions "I'll try to log off earlier" never worked. Specific rules did:
No code editor open after a set time in the evening.
Notifications off outside work hours — actually off, not "I'll just glance."
One full day a week with zero programming, including side projects.
The day off was the hardest and the most important. Rest isn't a reward you earn after finishing everything. It's part of how the work gets sustainable.
- I stopped tying my identity entirely to my output This one was subtle but huge. When my entire sense of worth was "how much I shipped," every slow day felt like a personal failure. That's an exhausting way to live. I'm a developer, but I'm also other things. Building a life outside of code — hobbies, people, time that has nothing to do with a screen — gave me somewhere to stand when work was hard. It also, ironically, made me better at work.
- I asked for help instead of grinding in silence A lot of my exhaustion came from carrying things alone: an overloaded sprint, an unrealistic deadline, a problem I was too stubborn to ask about. Saying "this scope isn't realistic" or "I'm stuck, can we pair on this?" felt like admitting weakness. It wasn't. It was the thing that lightened the load. If your workload is genuinely unsustainable, no personal productivity hack will fix that. Sometimes the honest conversation with a manager is the real solution.
- I protected the parts of coding I actually loved Burnout had made all coding feel the same shade of gray. Part of recovery was deliberately reconnecting with the parts that drew me in originally — a tiny project with no deadline, a language I was curious about, building something silly just because. No pressure to ship, no audience, no metrics. Just the thing that made it fun in the first place. What I'd Tell Past Me If I could go back, I'd say this:
Burnout is information, not weakness. It's your capacity telling you something is off. Listen earlier.
Rest is part of the work, not a break from it. You don't do good engineering on an empty tank.
"Push through" has a shelf life. Useful for a day. Dangerous for a season.
The work will still be there tomorrow. It genuinely always is.
A Note on the Serious End of This
What I've described is the everyday, manageable kind of burnout — the kind better habits and boundaries can address. But burnout can also blur into something heavier: persistent hopelessness, depression, the sense that nothing will get better.
If you're somewhere in that territory, the advice in this post isn't enough, and that's not a personal failing. Talking to a doctor, a therapist, or someone you trust is a reasonable and worthwhile step. You don't have to debug that one alone.
Closing
I still love building software. Maybe more now than before, because I'm not running on fumes to do it. The difference wasn't working harder or caring more — it was building a way of working I could actually sustain.
If you're reading this while feeling some of the signs I described: you're not lazy, and you're not failing. You're a person with limits, like everyone else. The sooner you work with those limits instead of against them, the longer you get to keep doing the thing you love.
What's helped you avoid or recover from burnout? I'd love to hear what worked for you in the comments.
