Unplugged, Unavailable, and Still Worthy: Rest, Resistance, and Reclaiming Your Humanity in Leadership and Birthwork🌸

The Statistics Say It, But the Stories Shout It

Here’s the data. The average doula leaves the profession within two years.

Why? Because the role eats them. Not the work the role. The expectation that you are always available. Always calm. Always excellent. That your whole life should orbit around birth, even if your own life is unraveling.

But burnout is not just about data. It’s not just a stat in a policy brief or a bullet point in a PowerPoint presentation. It’s a pulse. A lived rhythm. A weariness that creeps in through the phone you’re glued to. The calendar you never get to claim. The birthdays you missed. The vacations you postponed.

The word “burnout” comes from the Latin combūrere… to consume by fire. That etymology tells on us. Burnout is not a random state. It’s an active process of erosion… of the self, the spirit, the soul. And what’s wild? That erosion often starts the moment we’re praised for how much we can carry.

That’s the dangerous mythology of leadership… the stronger you are, the more weight you can hold. The more excellent you appear, the less support you need. But strength without rest is just slow destruction. And excellence without boundaries is just slow erasure.

Cheyenne shared it so clearly…

“I didn’t even know I was waiting for permission to rest. Until another doula one who had been in this game for 20 years told me: ‘You can take a vacation. You’re allowed.’”

Let that sink in. Permission to sleep. To unplug. To be human. Not superhuman. Just human.

And it’s not just doulas. It’s nonprofit leaders. Community care workers. Startup founders. Black and brown women building generational bridges across broken systems. Their stories don’t just echo the stats… they shout over them. They scream through the spreadsheets. They make it plain.

The burnout is not personal failure. It is cultural design. And the more “mission-driven” the space, the more we’re expected to martyr ourselves for the mission.

So what do we do with that?

We listen closer… not just to the data, but to the bodies. The ones curling up in waiting room chairs after a 36-hour birth. The ones flinching when a calendar ping goes off. The ones whispering to themselves, “Just two more months until I rest.”

And we don’t stop there.

We look at language. At the way words like “selfless” and “resilient” are weaponized against women who simply want to rest. We interrogate every job description that demands a “can-do” attitude and “high tolerance for stress” as if those are virtues, not red flags.

We look at the rise of doulas as not just a wellness trend but a systemic response to medical neglect… and ask why so many of those doulas are unsupported and unsustained.

We trace the roots of burnout beyond the workplace into culture, history, and identity… and still, we end up back at the body. The body that breaks down when its needs are ignored. The body that remembers everything you tried to push through. The body that if it had a microphone would beg you to stop performing and start listening.

Because before any real return, there’s a rupture. A system that cracks. A self that refuses to keep orbiting false urgency.

And this isn’t new. In fact… we’ve seen it before.

We saw it in Dorothy. But not the Kansas version. The Wiz version. The one who sang her fear, not just her dreams. The one who didn’t skip to Oz and neither did we.

Dorothy Didn’t Skip to Oz, and Neither Did We

Let’s talk about The Wiz for a second. Yes, the 1978 version with Diana Ross as Dorothy.

This wasn’t the neat-and-tidy Yellow Brick Road of suburban dreamers. This was a New York Dorothy. A schoolteacher. A woman who was told she was too afraid. Too quiet. Too unsure. A woman who gets swept up in a snowstorm of transformation and spends the rest of the movie trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

Sound familiar?

When Cheyenne and I talked about this in our interview, it hit a nerve. Because the path to reclaiming yourself after burnout is not a straight line. It’s more like a cracked sidewalk in a city that never sleeps. There are alleyways of doubt. Construction zones of grief. And billboards of fake hope trying to sell you another productivity app in the name of balance.

Dorothy didn’t skip to Oz. She stumbled. She doubted. She met people who mirrored the pieces of herself she had long abandoned her heart, her courage, her mind. And most of all, she had to learn that home wasn’t a place. It was a choice. A practice. A remembering.

And isn’t that what we’re doing?

We’re remembering who we were before the title. Before the badge. Before the applause. Before burnout became the cost of mattering.

We’re not just reclaiming time. We’re reclaiming presence.

So the real question becomes… What are you willing to let go of to come back to yourself?

Because there is no magic wand. No ruby slippers that teleport you back. There is only the practice of saying… I am not just what I do. I am not just what I produce. I am not just who I help.

You are not your role.

You are the world that holds the role.

You are the star that birthed the fire.

And your rest? It’s not an escape. It’s a return to your orbit.

That’s what the She Don’t Work Like That No More™ podcast is about. It’s not just a title. It’s a reckoning. A call. A collective exhale for every woman who realized that overfunctioning isn’t purpose. That being available 24/7 isn’t excellence. That rest is not just recovery it’s a declaration.

And we’re making it. Together.

Rest Is Not a Reward — It’s a Responsibility

One of the hardest truths to swallow in a culture built on extraction is this:

You don’t earn rest. You require it.

But when you’re a doula… a leader… a founder… someone who’s constantly in service of others rest feels like a luxury you haven’t worked hard enough for. Even when your body is screaming. Even when your joy has flattened into duty. Even when you find yourself resenting the very thing you once felt called to do.

Cheyenne put it so clearly in our conversation:

“I didn’t give myself grace when I missed that birth… even though I was just sleeping. Like a human. But it took someone else telling me it was okay before I believed I deserved a break.”

And that’s the trap. When you build your identity around usefulness, rest feels like rebellion. Like failure. Like guilt.

But here’s the thing… if the body is your compass, burnout is a red flag, not a rite of passage.

Octavia Raheem says in The Rest Is Resistance that rest is sacred… but it’s also scary. Because when we rest, we have to sit with what we’ve been avoiding: the grief, the exhaustion, the stories that no longer serve us. Rest asks us to hear what our calendars drowned out.

And when we actually listen? Whew.

Patrick King writes in How to Listen with Intention that the toughest part of listening isn’t hearing others it’s hearing yourself. And that’s the real work. Not just unplugging for a day, but actually facing the voice inside that says, You’re only valuable when you’re producing.

It’s not easy. But it’s necessary.

Because how many of us are walking around inflamed… stretched thin… not from what we’re doing, but from what we’re denying?

And how many of us are accidentally replicating the same harm we tried to escape pushing others past their limits, ignoring their humanity, expecting excellence without infrastructure just because that’s what was modeled for us?

Rest is not a sabbatical from reality. It’s a confrontation with it.

And it’s the only thing that will break the cycle.

You Are Not Your Role (And Never Were)

Let’s be honest.

Sometimes the scariest part of rest… is who we meet when we stop moving.

Because when your identity has been shaped around being the helper… the healer… the one who always knows what to do what happens when you’re not “on”?

What happens when you’re just… you?

Cheyenne said it plainly:

“I didn’t realize I was waiting for permission to rest. I work for myself. And I was still acting like someone needed to approve my joy.”

That’s the thing about overidentifying with your role. It doesn’t just limit you. it starts to erase you. Suddenly, your value isn’t in your being… it’s in your doing. Your usefulness. Your ability to respond faster, hold more, be better.

And when that becomes the norm… anything less than superhuman feels like failure.

It’s not just doulas. It’s directors, care workers, consultants, creatives, founders, fundraisers especially women. Especially women raised on survival. Raised to prove. To fix. To anticipate. To hold it down for everyone else while quietly wondering when someone will hold them.

But roles can’t love you back.

Roles don’t ask how your heart is.

Roles don’t tell you to sleep when you’re bleeding through your pad from exhaustion.

Roles don’t rescue you when you’ve bent yourself into a savior.

They just reward you for staying small. For staying productive. For staying tired and shiny and silent.

So what happens when you stop?

When you let the text go unanswered.

When you leave the meeting on time.

When you don’t show up as the fixer, the glue, the anchor but as a woman in process.

What happens is this: the system glitches. The stories break. And the real you the full, messy, whole you starts whispering back.

“I’m still here.”

That whisper isn’t weakness. It’s your return.

Marie, in her episode, named it with rare humility:

“You have to humble yourself. You’re not too perfect to engage with the worst parts of you. That’s the real leadership work.”

That’s the kind of statement that rattles your spine a little not because it’s harsh, but because it’s true. You will never heal by outperforming your shadow. You will never feel whole by contorting yourself into a title that was never made for your full humanity.

Healing is unbecoming. Remembering. Returning.

Not to the girl before the role… but to the woman who knows she never needed one to begin with.

To the One Who’s Tired but Still Here…

You’re not alone. I want you to know that.

This isn’t just a leadership theory. It’s a human invitation. A slow unwinding. A deep remembering.

You are not the applause. You are not the calendar. You are not the job title.

You are a constellation of wisdom… built from rupture and brilliance. You are stardust with boundaries. You are lava that cooled into mountains.

And like Cheyenne reminded us, the work is not just about staying in the field. It’s about staying with yourself.

So take the break. Take the breath. Take the weekend away.

Because you don’t work like that anymore.

And you never should’ve had to.

Let that be the reckoning. Let that be the return. Let that be the rest.

And when it gets loud again when the to-dos start yelling and the calendar tries to claim you come back here. Re-read this. Reground. Remind yourself:

You are not your role. You are not late to your own life. You are worthy… even when unplugged.

The invitation is always open.

To rest. To recover. To rise again.

To return to your body with reverence. To return to your joy with no justification. To return to your community not as the fixer, but as the beloved.

Because you were never meant to do this alone. Because worth was never meant to be earned. Because the world you’re holding inside you needs you whole.

So when it feels like too much again… When the world spins too fast or the weight creeps back in remember this truth that Cheyenne lived and taught:

You don’t need permission to be human. You need practice returning to your humanity.

And in case no one told you today: You are already enough. You are already seen. You are already home.

This isn’t an ending. It’s an unlearning. A reconnection. A slow, sacred walk back to yourself with a hand held out to others doing the same.

So take it. And if you forget, we’ll remind you.

Here. On the She Don’t Work Like That No More™ podcast. In these pages. In this practice.

This ends with us. And begins again with you. Whole.

Resources + CTA

Listen to Cheyenne’s full episode: [insert link to episode on She Don’t Work Like That No More™ podcast]

Take the Leadership Pattern Assessment

Download: Saying Yes to You – A boundary-setting journal for caregivers, doulas, and women breaking free from performance leadership

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“You don’t need permission to be human. You need practice returning to your humanity.” Cheyenne Bell