Lachlan Brown
You know that feeling—not quite burnout, but not really okay either. You’re still getting things done, still replying to messages, still showing up—but inside, you feel hollowed out. Like you’ve been giving too much for too long and there’s not much left to give.
People call it being “emotionally drained,” but I think that undersells the reality.
It’s not just fatigue. It’s a soul-level depletion that creeps in slowly, disguised as responsibility, care, and competence. Until one day, you realize you’re functioning out of habit—not presence.
The conventional advice tells us to take a break. Book a massage. Go offline for a day. And sure, sometimes that helps. But what if the root of this emotional drain isn’t about needing more rest—but about how we relate to the world, to others, and especially to ourselves?
What I’ve come to understand is this: emotional exhaustion often doesn’t come from doing too much. It comes from leaning too far in one direction. That’s where the Buddhist concept of the Middle Way offers something radical—and surprisingly practical.
When extremes become invisible
There’s a metaphor I’ve come back to often: a seesaw in motion. When you’re emotionally drained, it’s usually because you’ve been stuck on one side of the seesaw for too long—giving without receiving, striving without pausing, absorbing without releasing.
But here’s the trick: when you live this way long enough, imbalance becomes your baseline. It feels normal to be needed constantly. It feels virtuous to never say no. It feels noble to absorb everyone’s emotions without asking who’s holding space for yours.
And that’s what makes it dangerous. Because slowly, your system stops registering that anything is off—until something breaks.
I once worked with someone who always described themselves as “low maintenance.” Never complained, always helped others, never took time off.
But beneath that self-image was a deep fear: if I stop, I’ll become irrelevant. If I need too much, I’ll be a burden.
They weren’t emotionally drained because life was objectively too hard. They were drained because they’d built an identity around never being too much.
The false virtues that keep us stuck
This is where conventional wisdom often lets us down. We’re taught that emotional strength means pushing through. That helping others is always good. That feeling exhausted is just part of being a good parent, partner, employee, friend.
But these beliefs—when taken to extremes—aren’t signs of virtue. They’re signs of imbalance.
The Middle Way, a foundational teaching in Buddhism, challenges both indulgence and denial. It says: avoid extremes. Not because moderation is boring, but because extremes breed suffering.
When we idealize total self-sacrifice, we set ourselves up for emotional bankruptcy.
When we glorify constant productivity, we erode our inner world.
And when we label rest, boundaries, or emotional honesty as selfish, we sever our connection to what sustains us.
This isn’t a call to abandon responsibility. It’s an invitation to re-examine where your energy flows—and why.
The danger of mistaking absorption for empathy
There’s a specific type of emotional drainage that comes from being deeply empathic—but not discerning.
You walk into a room and immediately feel the tension. You listen to a friend vent and carry their pain with you for hours. You scroll social media and absorb every injustice until you feel heavy, but powerless.
Empathy is beautiful—but only when it’s paired with boundaries. Otherwise, it turns into emotional absorption. And absorption isn’t compassion. It’s over-identification. It’s picking up what’s not yours to carry.
In psychological terms, this links to emotional contagion—the tendency to “catch” others’ emotions. But here’s the thing: catching someone’s feelings doesn’t help them. It just exhausts you.
I had to learn this the hard way. I used to think being a good friend or partner meant feeling everything the other person felt. But what it really meant was being a stable mirror—present, but not porous. Reflective, but not reactive.
Buddhism frames this with elegant clarity: compassion without wisdom leads to suffering. The Middle Way asks—how do you care without collapsing? How do you show up without dissolving?
What balance actually looks like
Balance isn’t 50/50. It’s not symmetrical. It’s contextual. Sometimes it means doing less. Sometimes it means speaking up. Sometimes it means turning toward pain; other times, stepping back.
The key is responsiveness over rigidity.
When I talk to people who feel emotionally drained, they often say some version of this: “I don’t know how to turn it off.” Whether it’s guilt, anxiety, responsibility, or fear—it’s like a tap they can’t close.
But that’s usually because they’ve spent years training themselves to ignore their own signals. They’ve overridden the impulse to rest. They’ve bypassed their own discomfort. And they’ve confused effort with effectiveness.
Balance begins not with doing, but with listening. What does your body feel after that conversation? How do your thoughts shift when you scroll? What happens in your chest when you say yes, even when you don’t want to?
Mindful awareness—the ability to be present with what is, without judgment—is where balance starts.
A different kind of strength
There’s a quote I love by Buddhist teacher Thanissaro Bhikkhu: “The path to true strength lies in being able to be with what’s difficult without being undone.”
True resilience isn’t pushing harder. It’s staying soft without falling apart.
That means choosing rest before collapse. Setting boundaries before resentment. Telling the truth before you forget what it is.
One practice I often suggest is the check-in pause. Three times a day, stop and ask: What am I feeling right now? What have I absorbed that isn’t mine? What do I actually need in this moment?
At first, it feels clunky. But over time, it builds an internal feedback loop—a system for staying balanced before imbalance becomes your default.
The way back to yourself
The Middle Way isn’t passive. It’s intentional. It requires awareness, choice, and courage.
You don’t return to balance by accident. You return by choosing it—again and again. Not because it’s easy. But because the alternative is living lopsided, until life forces a reset.
If you’re feeling emotionally drained, don’t just ask what you need to subtract. Ask where you’ve lost balance. Where have you been leaning too hard in one direction—helping, striving, absorbing, enduring?
And what would it look like to stand in the center, even just for a moment?
You won’t find perfect equilibrium. But you might find something better: a quiet, sustainable strength that comes from walking the Middle Way.
And maybe—just maybe—that’s where real vitality begins.
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