Blogger Burnout! - #ModayBlogs
There was a time I used to open my blog with excitement. It was like stepping into a cozy little room filled with my books, my thoughts, favorite words, and the quiet thrill of expression. Then one day, it just felt heavy. I’d stare at the blinking cursor, feeling like a fraud. Every idea I had felt boring and every sentence sounded hollow. I’d open my dashboard, scroll a bit, sigh, and shut it again. Sometimes, I didn’t even bother opening it for weeks at a time.
It didn’t happen all at once. That’s the tricky part about burnout. It’s rarely loud or dramatic. It arrives quietly, in the form of “Maybe I’ll write tomorrow,” or “I don’t know if this post even matters.” It wraps itself in the language of guilt: “You haven’t posted in weeks.” “You’re letting your readers down.” “Everyone else is so consistent. What’s your excuse?” And before you know it, something that once brought you joy begins to feel like a chore that you are miserably failing at.
For me, blogging was never just a hobby. Initially, it was a form of self-expression, and finding a community that loved reading as much as I do. This blog specifically was how I made sense of the world while going through a huge transition in my life. I made sense of life and inevitable changes in life through reviews of K-dramas that made me cry at 2 a.m., personal essays on grief and healing, or lyrical reflections inspired by my favourite artists, re-learning tarot cards and re-igniting my love for long walks. But somewhere along the way, I got tired. Not just physically tired; soul tired. The kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix. The kind of tired that creativity cannot flow through.
At first, I blamed myself. Maybe I was too busy with work. Maybe I wasn’t trying hard enough. Maybe I was being lazy. Maybe I had nothing more to say. But the truth was much simpler, and sadder: I was burned out.
The weirdest part? No one talks about blogger burnout as a real thing. We talk about content creators, influencers, journalists facing burnout all the time. But bloggers often get overlooked. And yet, we’re the ones pouring out the softest, rawest and scariest parts of ourselves into our words. Of course it gets heavy sometimes. If you’re a blogger, or someone who creates anything from the heart, who’s ever felt this way - I want you to know you’re not alone. Burnout is real. It doesn’t make you less of a writer, or less worthy of being read. And it’s not the end.
This post is not a listicle of productivity hacks. It’s not a 10-step formula to “crush your content goals.” It’s simply a story of how I lost my spark and slowly, kindly, found my way back to it. If you’re somewhere on that path too, maybe this can be a breadcrumb you follow home.
Watch out for those signs and take them seriously. There were signs I ignored at first. Small, ordinary signs that now seem almost poetic in hindsight. I stopped jotting down ideas in my notes app. My daily writing rituals - a cup of tea, a soft playlist, a few moments of stillness, faded into background noise. I didn’t feel excited to share my thoughts. I didn’t even feel connected to my voice. And that scared me.
Emotionally, I felt hollow. Like I was watching myself go through the motions, detached from any real sense of purpose. Creatively, I felt like a well run dry. No matter how many prompts or Pinterest boards I looked at, nothing felt true. And physically, it started showing up as mental fog, eye strain, and an odd heaviness in my chest every time I even thought about logging into my site. What made it worse was comparison. I’d see other bloggers pushing out content, growing their platforms and I’d spiral. I am not up-to-date on instagram algorthm or the reel trends and I felt like I was falling behind. I wasn’t just tired, I was inadequate. And that shame loop can be brutal. We rarely talk about how painful it is to lose something that once made us feel like ourselves. But that’s what burnout can do. It doesn’t just rob you of your energy. It robs you of your identity.
So, if you’re here... stuck, stalled, or silent... wondering why something you once loved now feels like a burden… please know this: It’s not your fault. You didn’t fail. You’re just burned out. And you deserve rest, not judgment.
The first step to healing wasn’t forcing myself to write again. It was admitting I couldn’t. And in that quiet surrender, the healing began. One of the hardest things I had to learn, and I say this as someone who prides herself on being productive even when I’m running on emotional fumes, was that I am allowed to stop.
Not pivot. Not rebrand. Not hustle in a “new direction.” Just… pause.

At first, I fought it. I kept opening my blog dashboard like it was a moral obligation. I’d click on old drafts with ideas, stare at them blankly, then close the tab with a sense of failure. I was stuck in a loop: unable to create, but unable to rest either, because resting felt like giving up. The truth is, we live in a culture that makes us feel guilty for slowing down, especially when what we’re doing is rooted in passion. “If you love it, you’ll keep doing it,” they say. But love can’t fix exhaustion. Even passion needs room to breathe. Eventually, I realized I couldn’t keep pretending I was “taking a break” while mentally flogging myself for not bouncing back faster. So I gave myself permission to stop trying. Not forever. Just for now. No content goals. No deadlines. No pressure to justify the silence.
Instead of opening my laptop every morning with dread, I shut it. I sat on my balcony with a book instead. I took long walks without thinking about how to turn them into essays. I started writing in my private journal again: not for an audience, not for applause, just to feel my voice again in a space that didn’t demand structure or polish.
I also unsubscribed from the noise. I muted productivity influencers, avoided “How to get your blogging mojo back” posts, and stopped checking my analytics like they were some kind of heart monitor for my creativity. Because here’s what I’ve learned: Sometimes, the best way to find your way back to your passion is to stop demanding it show up on a schedule.
Pausing didn’t magically fix everything. But it gave me space. And in that space, something shifted. The fog didn’t lift overnight, but it started to thin. I noticed little flickers of inspiration again. It was not the pressure-filled, deadline-driven sparks, but they were quiet ideas that made me smile.
So, if you’re on the edge of burnout or already deep in it, let me say this clearly: You are allowed to pause. You are allowed to do nothing. You are allowed to be a person first, a creator second. And anyone, including your own inner critic, who says otherwise should probably take a long nap themselves.
Once I had given myself permission to stop, something surprising happened: I started missing my voice. Not out of guilt or pressure, but out of gentle curiosity. There was no dramatic “comeback moment,” just a quiet urge to create again. But this time, I approached it differently. No big revamps. No grand “I’m back!” announcements. Just small, meaningful changes that helped me ease back into writing without burning myself all over again.
Here are the shifts that helped me find my way:
1. I reconnected with why I started this blog in the first place
I went back and read some of my oldest blog posts. Not to critique or cringe, but to remember. What was I trying to say? Who was I when I wrote this? Somewhere in those imperfect, raw paragraphs, I found the spark again — not in how well I’d written, but in how much heart I’d poured into those pieces.I asked myself: What did blogging used to feel like before I got too focused on doing it “right”?
2. I let the content priority change
For a while, long-form essays felt too heavy. So I gave myself permission to experiment:From trying to write 'value' posts and 'SEO' driven content I started blogging about what I cared. If have been following this blog from the beginning - I started writing about Kdrama and Music only recently. Even though I loved them, I wasn't sure if they would have any value to offer.
3. I Wrote Without the Pressure to Publish
This was key. I opened a separate, private document and told myself, no one will ever see this. Suddenly, the words flowed again. I wasn’t performing! I was processing.Sometimes we need a space where we can be messy and uncensored, so the polished voice can return on its own.
4. I Became a reader again
I stopped trying to “research” other blogs and just read them for joy. I read fiction. I reread old favorites. I started listening to more audiobooks. I fell back in love with language; not as a tool to produce, but as a way to feel.That love filtered quietly back into my own writing, like a melody I hadn’t heard in a while but still remembered the words to.
5. I made mini rituals around writing
I stopped treating blogging like a chore on my to-do list and started treating it like a ritual:• Lighting a candle
• Pulling a tarot card for creative energy
• Playing one soft song on loop
These tiny acts helped me transition into writing mode with a sense of ease and reverence, not obligation.
6. I stopped pressuring myself
Everyone will tell you that consistency is the key and ideally one should post a certain number of posts every week/month. I stopped doing that to myself. I show up when I feel like rather than on a fixed day or date.No single change “fixed” the burnout. But together, they gently co-created a space where writing didn’t feel like something I had to fight. It felt like something I could trust again. Coming back from burnout isn’t about going back to who you were. It is about building something more sustainable from the ashes of what once overwhelmed you. When I finally began writing again - truly writing, not just forcing words out, I realized that I didn’t want to go back to the pace or pressure I had set for myself before. I didn’t want to be a content machine. I wanted to be a person who created from a place of honesty, not obligation.
So here’s what I do differently now:
I don’t chase consistency. Yes, consistency is important. But connection — with myself, with my writing, with my readers — is sacred. If I can’t show up with my full heart, I’d rather wait until I can.
I plan for breaks before I burn out. Now, I build in rest periods. I treat them as necessary pauses, not signs of failure. I no longer wait until I’ve hit the wall. I slow down before I crash into it.
I embrace imperfection. Some posts are poetic, others are plain. Some are long essays, others are lists or rambles. And that’s okay. My blog is not a portfolio — it’s a living, breathing space. It grows and shifts just like I do.
I stay close to my “why.” Every now and then, I ask myself: Why am I writing this? Who am I writing for? What would I say if no one ever read it but me? That check-in helps me write from a place of truth, rather than perform for algorithms or imaginary critics.
I seek help. Whether it is ChatGPT to help me polish my ideas or certain sentences; or ask my co-blogger to pick up the slack from time to time. I am human and it is okay to ask for help.
I let myself write about what makes me feel alive. I do not care whether that’s a K-drama review that no one asked for, a tarot post that no one cares about, or a stream-of-consciousness post about sunsets and solitude. If it lights me up, it’s worth writing.
Burnout taught me that I am not a machine. I am a person with seasons, rhythms, and limits. I no longer romanticize hustle. I romanticize presence, purpose, and peace. And honestly? My life is better for it.