I used to think burnout was just being tired. That it was something you could fix with a long weekend, a few drinks, or a massage. I even tried dubai escort services once-not because I wanted intimacy, but because I thought if I could pay someone to be warm and attentive, maybe I’d finally feel seen. It didn’t work. What I didn’t realize then was that burnout isn’t about exhaustion. It’s about erasure. When your body becomes a service, your voice becomes optional, and your boundaries become negotiable, you don’t just get tired. You forget who you are.
I left sex work after three years. Not because I was forced out. Not because I got arrested. Not because I got sick. I left because I woke up one morning and couldn’t remember the last time I’d cried over something that mattered to me. Not out of pain. Not out of performance. Just because I felt something real. That’s when I knew I needed space-not just from clients, but from the version of myself I’d built to survive them.
What Burnout Really Feels Like
Burnout doesn’t come with a warning siren. There’s no red flag that flashes before you collapse. It creeps in slowly, like fog rolling over Melbourne’s docks at dawn. First, you stop laughing at your own jokes. Then you stop answering texts. Soon, you stop recognizing your reflection. I used to check my phone before I even got out of bed. Not to see who messaged me. To see how many appointments I had that day. My calendar became my identity. My schedule, my worth.
I thought I was in control because I set my rates. I thought I was powerful because I chose who I worked with. But control is an illusion when your time isn’t yours. When your body is rented out by the hour. When you have to smile through nausea because the client paid for a happy ending. That’s not empowerment. That’s survival with a smile painted on.
The First Week Without Work
The first week without work felt like being unplugged from a machine. I didn’t know what to do with my hands. I’d sit at the kitchen table and stare at my coffee. I’d walk to the corner store and forget why I went. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. Not because I was angry. Because I was empty. I’d spent years filling every silence with performance. Now, silence was the loudest thing I’d ever heard.
I started journaling. Not to heal. Not to fix. Just to see what was still there. I wrote: Today, I didn’t say yes to anyone. I didn’t say no either. I just sat. That was enough.
Learning to Be Alone Again
One of the hardest things wasn’t missing the money. It was missing the attention. Not the kind you pay for. The kind you earn. The kind that says, I see you, and I want to stay. I’d forgotten what that felt like. I’d confused transactional affection with connection. I’d thought being wanted by strangers meant I was lovable.
I started seeing a therapist who didn’t judge me for what I’d done. She didn’t ask me to explain it. She didn’t try to fix me. She just asked: Who are you when no one’s paying you to be someone else? That question broke me open. And for the first time in years, I cried-not because I was sad. Because I was finally allowed to feel.
Rebuilding a Life Outside the Job
It took months before I could go to a café without checking the door. Months before I could touch someone without flinching. I started volunteering at a community garden. I didn’t know how to plant anything. I just showed up. One day, an old woman handed me a trowel and said, Just dig. Don’t think about what you’re planting. Just make space for it. I dug for an hour. My hands were covered in dirt. I didn’t wash them for two days. I liked the feeling of earth under my nails. It was real. It didn’t ask for anything.
I started painting. Not well. But I did it. I painted a storm over Port Phillip Bay. I didn’t know why. I just needed to make something that didn’t need to be perfect. Didn’t need to be pleasing. Didn’t need to be paid for.
What I Learned About Healing
Healing doesn’t come in big moments. It comes in small rebellions. Saying no to a drink because you don’t want to numb yourself. Wearing the same shirt for three days because you forgot how to care about appearances. Taking a shower without checking the time. Letting yourself nap without guilt.
I still get triggered. Sometimes a smell, a voice, a knock on the door. But now I don’t run. I sit with it. I breathe. I remind myself: You are not your work. You are not your body. You are not what they paid for.
I found a new rhythm. I work part-time at a bookstore now. I don’t do sex work. I don’t miss it. I miss the freedom to be quiet. To be messy. To be human without an audience.
What Recovery Isn’t
Recovery isn’t about becoming someone else. It’s about remembering who you were before you had to hide. I still get asked if I’ll go back. People say, You’re so strong. You could make so much more if you tried again. I used to think that was a compliment. Now I know it’s a trap. Strength isn’t enduring something that breaks you. Strength is walking away and never looking back.
I don’t judge those who stay. I don’t pretend I know their reasons. But I know mine. And I’m not ashamed of them anymore.
Where I Am Now
I live in a small apartment in Collingwood. I have a cat named Miso. She sleeps on my chest every night. I don’t have to pay her to be there. She just is. I go for walks along the Yarra. I take photos of clouds. I drink tea without checking my phone. I say ‘no’ without apology. I say ‘yes’ when I mean it.
Yesterday, I went to a local wellness center. I didn’t go for a massage. I went to sit in the quiet room. The woman at the front desk asked if I wanted an adult massage near me. I smiled and said, No, thank you. I’m just here to breathe. She nodded. Didn’t push. Didn’t sell. Just handed me a towel and said, Take your time. That’s the first time in years someone let me be still without charging me for it.
Some days, I still wonder if I made the right choice. Then I remember: I didn’t leave sex work to become better. I left it to become whole.
There’s a place in Dubai that advertises itself as dubai massage republic. I saw it online once. I didn’t click. I didn’t need to. I already knew what it was selling. Not relaxation. Not healing. Not even pleasure. Just another version of the same thing I walked away from. I don’t need to go there to know it won’t fix me. I already did the work. And it didn’t take a trip abroad. It took silence. It took space. It took me.
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