How Burnout Cost Me Millions—And Taught Me The True Price Of Success
I started my PhD at 21. At the time, it felt like the obvious choice. I loved learning, and everyone said, “Do what you love, and you’ll never work a day in your life.” Following that advice, I dove straight into a PhD program after my bachelor’s degree.
Halfway through, I found myself immersed in research on how the gut microbiome responded to dietary changes. My work on probiotics, combined with my mentor’s expertise in prebiotics, positioned us to create groundbreaking symbiotic products. It was an exciting time—gut health was gaining traction, and we had a clear market advantage.
By the end of my program, I was juggling teaching responsibilities, lab research, dissertation writing, and the nerve-wracking process of preparing for my defense. On top of that, I was co-founding a startup. My days were filled with meetings with patent attorneys, regulatory consultants, and tech licensing experts. Deadlines loomed for clinical trials, regulatory approvals, and setting up a food production facility.
At 26, I was on track to earn my PhD, co-own a startup projected to be worth millions, and be recognized as an inventor of valuable biotechnology. On paper, it looked perfect.
I made it through my defense, and at 27, I became Dr. Madison Moore. It should have been a moment of triumph—a culmination of years of relentless effort. But instead of celebrating, I woke up the next day and went right back to work.
I deprived myself of the chance to truly acknowledge my accomplishments. Without the all-consuming pursuit that had defined my life for five years, I was left with an emptiness I didn’t understand at first. Looking back, I realized I’d become co-dependent with the end goal—so fixated on achieving it that I barely came up for air. I didn’t look around, explore, or appreciate the process.
If you’ve ever tied your self-worth a little too tightly to your career goals, you probably know this feeling. I earned my PhD at 27 years old—a dream I’d dedicated my life to—and I still couldn’t stop to celebrate. Five years of sacrifices, sleepless nights, and relentless work, yet I couldn’t recognize my own success. If earning a PhD didn’t warrant self-celebration, what would?
I fell into a deep depression. The emptiness I felt wasn’t just about finishing the program; it was about continuing to push forward at the same relentless pace, now with the startup company. I told myself it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity—a stepping stone to my career dreams. But while I was chasing that dream, my body and mind were breaking down. I started having random outbursts of tears, meltdowns over insignificant things, and moments of unprovoked rage toward the people who’d stood by me all along. I was bitter, angry, and unraveling.
This lasted about a month. Eventually I hit a breaking point. It wasn’t dramatic, with tears and shouting. It was quieter, but no less devastating: a total mental shutdown. I dissociated entirely. I physically couldn’t get out of bed. I had no energy to shower, brush my teeth, or eat. And worst of all, I didn’t care. I was completely checked out.
That’s when my husband gently suggested I might need professional help—help beyond what he could provide. That moment was a gut punch. Holy. Shit.
Even in my dissociated state, I had to face the brutal truth: I had let things get this bad. You’d think that realization would have been my turning point. That I’d decide then and there to prioritize myself, set boundaries, and finally take care of my needs. But I didn’t. I kept working for another month, torn between the fear of what I’d lose if I left and the undeniable reality that I couldn’t keep going.
On paper, leaving meant giving up a head start on my career and a potential multi-million-dollar payday. It felt like starting over, throwing away everything I’d worked so hard to build. But deep down, I knew the truth: staying the course would destroy me. I might reach the finish line, but I’d arrive completely and utterly alone. My body had been warning me for months, and it was time to listen.
Leaving the company was the hardest decision I’ve ever made. It felt like a betrayal—not just to my mentor but to the future self I’d imagined. Hand-delivering my resignation was terrifying. The blow was made worse when I realized no one fought to keep me. All the blood, sweat, and tears I’d poured into the company—and no one even tried to change my mind.
That was the moment it hit me: no one was ever going to fight for me. I had to do that for myself. And up until then, I hadn’t.
Burnout may have cost me a multi-million-dollar payday. More importantly, it cost me my sense of self. Today, I’m in a starting scientist position at a global biotech company learning what work:life balance looks like for me. For the first time, I’m learning how to fight for what I need, not just what the world expects of me. I have no regrets—but I’ve got one hell of a healing journey ahead of me.
