Can You Die from Exhaustion?
On the radical decision to stop performing.
One morning, about five years ago, I found myself googling, “Can you die from exhaustion?” from the floor of my London flat, where I sat half-dressed, sipping a coffee and picking at dry cereal for breakfast, wishing I had an acceptable excuse to hide under the covers for the day.
I hadn’t slept properly in months. My inbox had 3,872 unread emails—probably more, but I’d stopped counting. I was living in two time zones and traveling across many others while managing two VP-level jobs, two teams, three nearly grown children on the other side of the ocean, and two iPhones, much like some sort of corporate Spider-Woman. I was (allegedly) the definition of high-functioning. So I wore success like a good girl’s badge of honor: polished, efficient, and ever-so-politely exhausted.
Maybe you know that version of success, too—the one that looks shiny from the outside, but leaves your insides frazzled.
On paper, I was thriving: a big job, a big title, a big salary, and big responsibilities. But inside, my system was quietly short-circuiting. Burnout wasn’t a word I knew back then…it was just my life.
Then one morning, a few weeks later, I couldn’t get out of bed. Not metaphorically. I was flat. My body staged a full-on mutiny. No amount of caffeine, clever planning, or willpower could coax me into productivity. I wasn’t just tired; I was depleted, soul-deep.
At first, I thought it was grief. My mother had died in a car accident just weeks earlier. I had barely stopped moving long enough to mourn her, and the December holidays were in sight. But something else was unraveling—something older, quieter, and more systemic. Yet I kept going, just like they taught me.
Eventually, my doctor wrote me off as “unfit to work,” which in the UK is a legal term and not just a commentary on my wardrobe choices at the time. I was officially grounded.
That’s when the real crisis began: without my job, my calendar, or my carefully curated chaos, I had to face the questions I had spent decades avoiding: Who am I…without the doing…without the title…without the company name?
When I stopped working, I thought time off would feel like relief. Instead, it felt like failure.
The doctors recommended rest. But I was allergic to stillness. My KPIs and to-do list were my nervous system’s pacemaker. Silence made me twitchy. I couldn’t understand how something as simple as a nap could be therapeutic, especially when I was used to solving crises across time zones.
Then they recommended meditation. So I downloaded mindfulness apps. Deleted them. Tried again. I set alarms for meditation, but then snoozed them into oblivion. Everything that was supposed to feel grounding felt suspiciously like I was doing nothing, and doing nothing, in my old world, was code for laziness and irrelevance.
Stillness wasn’t a practice; it was a punishment, like being put in time-out.
I’d always believed that being worthy meant being productive, strategic, and high-achieving. But stripped of my title and the external affirmations that had buoyed me for decades, I came face-to-face with a question I had no idea how to answer: “Who am I, if I’m not performing?”
My therapist called it burnout. I called it an identity crisis in yoga pants.
Slowly, though, I began to hear what I had once tuned out: my body, my breath, my own unmet needs. I started listening by walking, not to burn calories, but to think. I began to journal, not to plan, but to feel. I cooked, not for others, but for the act itself. I wasn’t living by a checklist anymore; I was living inside the moment.
It was messy. Unstructured. Tender. And surprisingly, with time, I realized it was enough.
Eventually, I stopped chasing the person I thought I was supposed to be. I began to build a new kind of success—one that wasn’t built on depletion, but energy. Not on output, but alignment. Not on image, but intimacy—with myself, with my values, with work that inspires me, and with the rhythm of a life that finally fits.
I didn’t abandon ambition. I just gave it a new definition, one that nourishes me instead of depleting me. And now I’m more energized than ever by my life and work, both what they are today and where I know I’m headed.
These days, I teach others how to reclaim their energy, redefine success, and create a life that truly matters to them.
If you’re in that in-between place—where the old way isn’t working, but the new way feels uncertain—I see you. And I want you to know: there’s a path forward that doesn’t cost your health, your joy, or your soul.
I call it living your Opus—because your life is your masterpiece, and it deserves to feel even better on the inside than it looks on the outside.
Wouldn’t you agree?
Until next time, be well!
I’m Janine Mathó. Five years ago, after burning out and losing my mother suddenly, I stepped away from a global career in the learning sector. Since then, I’ve devoted my work to helping ambitious humans—founders, leaders, creatives—reclaim their energy, realign with what matters, and redefine success from the inside out.
This newsletter is how I reach others who are ready for their own reset. If something here resonates, I hope you’ll pass it on to someone else who might need it, too.
Want to go deeper?
Live Your Opus, my forthcoming book, is almost here.
Grounded in stories, research, and practical frameworks, it’s for high-achieving professionals who look successful on the outside—but feel depleted, detached, or quietly dissatisfied within.
If you're curious, join the waitlist to get early access, exclusive bonuses, and behind-the-scenes updates.
Isn’t it time to Live Your Opus—and create a life of lasting meaning and success, one that energizes rather than depletes you?
👉 Join 900+ readers and subscribe to Live Your Opus—my weekly note on building a life that actually fits, on your terms.