The Week That Made Me Realize I Couldn't Keep Going

People assume burnout happens after one bad day.

It doesn't.

Burnout happens one "yes" at a time.

Before Kayla Cares ever existed, I worked in a rehabilitation hospital. I loved my patients. I loved helping people regain their independence. I truly believed I had found exactly where I was supposed to be.

I wasn't someone who watched the clock waiting to go home.

I was the one who stayed late.

I was the one who picked up extra shifts.

I was the one who said, "I'll come in," when someone called out sick.

Because that's what caregivers do.

The week before everything changed, my schedule looked like this:

• Thursday: an 8-hour shift.

• Friday through Sunday: my normal "Weekend Warrior" shifts. They were scheduled as 12-hour shifts, but most weekends they stretched closer to 14.

• Monday: an 8-hour shift.

• Tuesday: a 6-hour shift.

• Wednesday: a 12-hour shift.

• Thursday was my only day off.

• Then Friday through Sunday, I was right back at it.

Seven shifts in eight days.

Most people would look at that schedule and ask, "Why?"

The answer is simple.

Because people needed help.

Coworkers got sick.

The floor was short.

My patients still deserved someone who cared.

So I kept saying yes.

That Friday morning also happened to be my 90-day review.

Ironically, the review itself had been delayed by about three months.

The review was good.

I remember walking away feeling proud. I had poured everything I had into that job, and hearing positive feedback made me feel like all the long days and late nights had been worth it.

I had no idea it would also be my last weekend there.

That weekend, I was working on a sprained ankle.

Saturday and Sunday, I was the only CNA/PCT caring for twenty patients.

If you've never worked in healthcare, that number may not mean much.

But every one of those twenty people had different needs.

Someone needed help getting to the bathroom.

Someone needed changed.

Someone needed help eating.

Someone needed water.

Someone needed repositioned.

Someone needed reassurance.

Someone simply wanted another human being to sit beside them for a few minutes because they were scared.

According to the shower schedule, ten patients were due for showers over the weekend.

Ironically, that shower schedule was one I had helped create months earlier at the request of our previous CNO and CEO. The goal was consistency. Patients alternated odd and even rooms so everyone stayed on a routine.

On paper, it worked beautifully.

In reality, when you're the only CNA caring for twenty people, impossible choices have to be made.

Do I answer the call light?

Do I help someone safely to the bathroom before they fall?

Do I feed the patient who can't feed themselves?

Do I comfort the person who's crying because they miss their family?

Or do I start another shower?

Every decision meant something else had to wait.

There was no winning.

Only choosing who needed me most in that moment.

I spent those two days running.

I don't remember sitting down.

I don't remember taking a real break.

I just remember trying to make sure every patient felt cared for.

By Sunday afternoon, someone had called in sick for Monday.

Monday wasn't even my scheduled day.

I had already worked the entire weekend.

I was exhausted.

But I said yes.

Again.

I couldn't stand the thought of leaving my coworkers or my patients even shorter than they already were.

Monday morning, I walked into work ready to help.

There were three CNA/PCTs scheduled that day, including me.

About two hours into my shift, I was called into the office.

The conversation wasn't about the patients I had helped.

It wasn't about the extra shifts I had picked up.

It wasn't about working through a sprained ankle.

It wasn't about the weekends that stretched from twelve hours to nearly fourteen.

It was about the showers that hadn't been completed over the weekend while I was the only CNA/PCT caring for twenty patients.

My employment ended that morning.

The paperwork happened on Monday.

The burnout happened long before that.

As I drove away, I realized something I hadn't been able to admit to myself for months.

I wasn't fired for what happened on Monday. My story had really been written by every weekend I spent trying to be enough for twenty people at once.

The truth is, I had already planned for Monday to be an important conversation.

I wanted to sit down with leadership and explain how I was feeling.

I wanted to talk about the workload, the staffing, and whether there was a way things could change. I wasn't asking for an easier job. Healthcare has never been easy, and I never expected it to be.

I simply wanted to know if there was a way to give my patients the care they deserved without constantly feeling like I was failing them.

If that conversation led to meaningful change, I was willing to stay.

If it didn't, I was prepared to hand them my two weeks' notice.

Instead, that conversation never happened.

For a long time, I questioned myself.

Was I really not doing enough?

Could I have worked harder?

Moved faster?

Done more?

Looking back now, I know the answer.

I wasn't burned out because I didn't care.

I was burned out because I cared so much that I kept sacrificing myself, believing if I just worked a little harder, I'd finally catch up.

I never did.

When I started Kayla Cares, I made a promise to myself.

My clients would never feel like another task on a checklist.

If someone wants to drink their coffee before getting dressed, we'll drink coffee first.

If they want to tell me the same story for the tenth time, I'll listen like it's the first.

If a shower takes longer because they need reassurance instead of rushing, then that's exactly how long it takes.

Because care isn't about racing a clock.

It's about protecting someone's dignity.

It's about slowing down long enough to truly know the person you're caring for.

Looking back, I don't see that Monday as the day everything fell apart.

I see it as the day everything began.

Without that season, there would be no Kayla Cares.

Without that burnout, I might never have found the courage to build something different.

A place where people are known.

A place where people are heard.

A place where compassion comes before checklists.

Burnout didn't end my career.

It showed me the kind of caregiver I was always meant to become.

I wish I could tell you that walking away fixed everything.

It didn't.

Burnout doesn't disappear the day you leave the job that caused it.

It follows you home.

It makes you question yourself.

It makes you wonder if you're good enough.

It makes you wonder if you'll ever love the work the same way again.

I had to learn how to rebuild—not just my career, but myself.

And that didn't happen overnight.

It happened one small step at a time.

So now that I've shared how I finally broke, I'd love to share how I chose to rebuild.

Because that's where the story of Kayla Cares truly begins.

I'll see you in the next blog.

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Kayla Cares LLC | Where personalized care meets the comfort of your home | 605-510-7952 | Providing trusted, compassionate care in the Black Hills.