Burnout doesn't arrive as a dramatic collapse. It arrives as a slow flattening. The work you used to care about starts to feel like noise. You open a message and feel nothing, then feel guilty about feeling nothing. Sunday night isn't excitement or even regular dread. It's the sense that the week already won. It can take over months of going through the motions.
You get home and go straight to the couch. The hobby you kept meaning to pick back up stays in the corner. Friends get the shortest version of you. Sleep is either too much or not enough, and neither actually restores you.
If the burnout is from caregiving rather than a job, the shape is similar. The parent, the partner, the kid. You keep showing up because someone has to, and your own needs got filed under later so long ago that later stopped meaning anything.
People tell you to take a break. You hear it as a personal failing. Rest doesn't land the way it used to, because rest isn't the missing piece. What wore down is the sense that any of this still belongs to you.
Therapy isn't a spa day, and it isn't a lecture about self-care. It's a place to take the depletion seriously, including the part of you that still thinks you should be able to push through it.