There’s someone I’ve been meaning to visit.
They asked. I said I’d try. I meant it.
They’re going through a rough patch.
Nothing urgent. Nothing dramatic. Just the kind of thing where presence matters.
But I haven’t gone.
And if I’m being real with myself, I probably won’t.
Not because I don’t want to.
But because whatever part of me used to go doesn’t have much left to offer right now.
And that’s harder to explain than I thought.
It’s difficult to admit this part of the job out loud, and I’m embarrassed.
I spend a lot of my life showing up for other people that sometimes, when it comes to the people I actually love;
I’m just done.
Empty.
It’s not dramatic. It’s not a crisis.
It’s more like this constant thinning.
Like every day takes a little more from me, and eventually there’s not enough left to offer anyone else anything real.
People think of burnout as a big explosion. The collapse and anger.
But empathy burnout is different.
It’s quite subtle.
It’s looking at a name on your phone and feeling nothing.
It’s sitting across from someone you love and wishing you could still smile like you used to, before it’s too late.
It’s knowing someone needs you, and wishing you were the kind of person who could still show up.
But that emotional reflex just doesn’t fire like it used to.
I don’t like this version of me.
But it’s the one that shows up sometimes.
When it’s someone close to me. Someone who knows me, someone who might look at me and see the cracks.
Sometimes I stay away.
Because I’ve already used up whatever it is I offer to other people.
Because I know how much I should care, and I’m scared they’ll see how much I can’t feel in that moment.
I know how this sounds.
I know there are people who will read this and think, that’s selfish.
That’s an excuse.
If you really loved them, you’d make the time.
And part of me agrees.
But there’s another part. The one that’s learning, painfully, that boundaries aren’t a failure of compassion.
They’re the last sign you still have any left.
This isn’t about prioritizing myself.
In some backwards way, I think I’m still prioritizing them.
By staying away.
By not letting them see what’s become of me lately.
By keeping whatever this is, this numbness, this fatigue, from bleeding into their moment.
It’s about telling the truth, even when it’s disappointing.
I love you.
I care.
I haven’t stopped caring.
But I’ve spent years listening to grief I couldn’t fix, sitting in pain I couldn’t manage, and caring with everything I had for people I didn’t get to keep.
Now even the simplest visit feels monumental.
Another climb.
Another place I’m supposed to enter with presence and leave with grace.
Some days I just don’t have it.
So no, I can’t visit right now.
But I want you to know that it’s not because you’re not important.
It’s because you are.
And I want to show up as someone who’s whole.
Not as someone who’s quietly crumbling behind their voice. Their tired face and tired jokes.
Maybe I’ll find a better balance someday.
Maybe I’ll show up next week. Or next month. Or I won’t.
But I needed to say this at least once;
Not visiting doesn’t mean I’ve stopped caring.
It means I’ve cared a lot. Maybe too much.
And I’m trying to stop before it breaks something I can’t rebuild.
Ghosts of the Navigator 