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“When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be.” ~Lao Tzu
I’d known for months that I was burned out.
The kind of burnout that creeps in quietly—behind your eyes, in your spine, in your calendar. I was volunteering in raptor rescue, monitoring eagle nests as the busy season ramped up, juggling consulting work, supporting adoption placements, writing, creating. I was showing up fully in every space except the one I lived in: my body.
And yet I refused to let go. I told myself it was just a busy season. That if I could push through, things would calm down. That my exhaustion was noble, temporary, necessary.
That’s the trap when you build identity around usefulness. You stop listening for limits.
Raptor rescue had become more than a commitment—it was part of who I was. I loved it. I was invested. I was finally making progress in catching and handling, and every shift brought new confidence. Even after everything I’d learned about rest, boundaries, and overfunctioning, I still couldn’t walk away.
It took getting kicked in the face by a great horned owl to wake me up. And I mean that literally.
The Moment It Broke Open
It was one of my regular volunteer shifts. I’d worked with this particular great horned owl before—had caught her successfully more than once. It felt like business as usual: enter the enclosure, take a breath, begin the catch.
Except this time, it wasn’t usual. And I wasn’t ready.
I took my eyes off her for a split second. That’s all it took.
She flared, leapt, and with perfect precision, delivered a full-force kick to my face before escaping.
Pain blurred into shock. And then into shame.
Wounded pride doesn’t begin to describe it. My confidence evaporated. I had spent months building trust, practicing skill, stepping into this work fully. And yet, in one moment, it all felt like it had unraveled.
I looked at my reflection in the mirror—face aching, spirit heavy—and the truth landed with brutal clarity:
I’m not on top of my game. And I’m making rookie mistakes. Because I’m too tired to see straight.
The Grief of Letting Go
People talk a lot about burnout. But they rarely talk about how hard it is to walk away from something that feels meaningful.
I wasn’t just physically drained—I was emotionally split. My time in raptor land had changed my life. It gave me resilience I didn’t know I had. It helped me feel grounded during periods of personal chaos. It reminded me that healing is messy and wild and worth it.
The idea of letting go wasn’t just sad. It felt unbearable.
And yet, I knew I had to. Not out of failure. Not even out of fear. But because continuing at the pace I was going—without rest, without recalibration—wasn’t sustainable. I was breaking. Slowly. Quietly. And now, visibly.
Letting go wasn’t graceful. It was layered and raw.
I cried. I wrestled. I tried to bargain with the truth.
And when I finally stepped back, I didn’t feel immediate relief. I felt lost.
The In-Between Is a Sacred Space
People don’t talk enough about the in-between.
That space where you’ve left something but haven’t landed in something new. Where you know what isn’t right anymore but aren’t sure what will be right next.
It’s disorienting. It’s vulnerable. It’s uncomfortable.
I wasn’t who I used to be—the eager, confident raptor catcher with fresh adrenaline in her chest. But I wasn’t yet someone with clarity about where to go next. My body needed rest. My spirit needed stillness. My heart needed time.
But my mind? My mind wanted control. It wanted answers. It wanted speed.
The in-between demanded something softer.
It didn’t want me to leap. It wanted me to linger. To listen. To relearn what strength looks like when it’s gentle, not forceful.
It’s the space where grief becomes teacher. Where identity sheds its armor. Where you realize you don’t just miss what you did—you miss who you believed you were when you did it.
What That Owl Really Taught Me
Yes, the kick hurt. It disrupted my rhythm. But more than anything, it delivered a message that I had been resisting:
Even the things that change your life aren’t always meant to stay forever.
There’s a difference between honoring a season and clinging to it. I wasn’t just volunteering—I was gripping. I was folding myself around an identity that made me feel capable, valuable, essential. I didn’t want to lose it, so I ignored the signs. I numbed out the signals. I kept showing up while my body whispered, “Not this.”
And then it stopped whispering. It got loud.
That owl didn’t punish me. She mirrored me.
And once I heard what she mirrored back—once I stopped resisting the truth—I began to ask what my grip had been keeping me from.
What Letting Go Made Room For
Letting go didn’t mean losing everything I loved. It meant loosening my grip long enough for something gentler—and more lasting—to find me.
I didn’t leave raptors behind. I shifted toward a deeper kind of care—one rooted in conservation, long-term observation, and relational presence. Nest monitoring, habitat awareness, quiet stewardship that still creates impact, but from a place of balance.
It wasn’t about giving up my place in raptorland. It was about learning to show up differently—without the urgency, without the exhaustion.
I’m rediscovering who I am in this space now. Someone who listens more. Who stays longer. Who works with the rhythm of the wild, instead of rushing through it.
Change doesn’t always mean departure. Sometimes it just means choosing a slower path, a softer landing, and a future built on sustainability—in nature and in self.
If You’re in the In-Between
If you’re standing in that strange, sacred middle—between what was and what’s next—I see you.
It’s not weakness to feel unsure. It’s not failure to step back. It’s not quitting to admit you need rest. The in-between is tender. It’s transitional. And it’s necessary.
Whether it arrives through heartbreak or a literal kick in the face by an owl, change will always come to escort you out of what no longer serves—even when you swear it still does.
You don’t have to leap before you’re ready. You just have to be willing to pause. To ask:
What am I gripping that’s already trying to release me?
What would it mean to let go gently, instead of waiting to be torn?
Can I honor the season I loved without dragging it forward?
Your next chapter doesn’t need to arrive with fanfare. It may enter quietly, through silence, through softness, through surrender. But it will arrive.
And until it does, the pause is not empty. It’s everything.
About Heather Allen
Heather Allen is a feline behavior educator and founder of Pet Sitting Cat Trainer, where she helps rescued cats rebuild trust through compassionate, relationship-centered care. Through her writing at Soul Life Lessons, she explores what it means to heal, soften, and reorient after burnout—often guided by the quiet wisdom of animals and the sacred space of the in-between.
