Life, Written and Directed by ME
-Treasure Ellis
My Room became a metaphor for a mental safe space, a place where I could retreat to in times of need. It is a space where I can let my guard down, process my thoughts, and recharge my spirit. This mental Room is not just a figment of my imagination; it is a tangible refuge that I carry with me wherever I go. Creating and nurturing this mental safe space has been essential for my well-being and personal growth. It serves as a reminder that self-care and self-reflection are crucial aspects of maintaining a healthy mind and soul. While everyone's mental Room may look different, the importance of having a space where you can be authentic and vulnerable remains universal. The walls of this sanctuary are adorned with the colors of my emotions, and the air is infused with the scents of my happiest moments. Creating and nurturing this mental safe space has been essential for my well-being and personal growth. It serves as a reminder that self-care and self-reflection are crucial aspects of maintaining a healthy mind and soul. In this Room, I can confront my fears, celebrate my victories, and explore my dreams without the constraints imposed by external expectations. It allows me to embrace my authenticity, to be vulnerable, and to acknowledge my true self, which is a vital part of my journey toward self-discovery.
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I didnt heal, I just rested
Location: Nowhere, Edgewater, FL
I didn’t go to Edgewater to find myself. I went because I needed a break—from the noise, the grind, the constant pressure to be productive even when I’m running on fumes. Just a weekend. Just a change of scenery. Nothing dramatic.
Turns out, that’s all it took.
Edgewater isn’t flashy. It’s quiet in the way that feels intentional. The kind of quiet that lets your thoughts breathe. I stayed close to the water, let my phone die on purpose, and gave myself permission to not perform.
That’s where the reset began.
I ate vegan nachos at Yellow Dog Eats—messy, spicy, and weirdly emotional. I started my pescatarian journey there, not because of a trend, but because my body asked for something gentler. I meditated for the first time without rolling my eyes. I let silence be the soundtrack.
At 3 Wave Café, I had a meal that felt like a hug. No rush, no noise, just food that made me feel seen. I didn’t journal. I didn’t plan. I just existed. And for someone who’s always narrating their life like a screenplay, that was revolutionary.
Edgewater didn’t fix me. It didn’t need to. It reminded me that healing doesn’t always require a breakthrough. Sometimes it’s just a quiet place, a good meal, and the decision to stop pretending you’re fine.
"I'm Not Burnt Out, I'm Just Lightly Toasted"
There’s a difference between being burnt out and being lightly toasted. Burnout is dramatic. It’s collapse-in-the-shower, quit-your-job, delete-your-drafts level exhaustion. It’s the kind of fatigue that makes you question your entire existence while eating cereal out of a mug.
But lightly toasted? That’s quieter. It’s the slow simmer. The version where you still show up, still smile, still write—but everything feels just a little... crispy.
I’ve been lightly toasted for a while now.
It started somewhere between the third resume revision and the fifteenth shift where I smiled through chaos. I didn’t crash. I didn’t quit. I just started noticing that everything took a little more effort. Writing felt heavier. Hospitality felt louder. Even my characters started sounding tired.
I used to think burnout had to be loud to count. That unless I was crying in a walk-in freezer or rage-quitting a job mid-shift, I wasn’t “really” burnt out. But this version—the slow fade, the emotional singe—it’s real. And it’s sneaky.
You keep functioning. You keep producing. You keep saying “I’m fine” because technically, you are. But the spark? The joy? The part of you that used to feel alive in the middle of the mess? It’s flickering.
And here’s the kicker: people love lightly toasted folks. We’re reliable. We get things done. We don’t make a scene. But we’re also the ones who quietly unravel while everyone assumes we’re thriving.
So I started writing again—not for productivity, not for performance, but for clarity. And what I found wasn’t burnout. It was grief. Grief for the version of me who used to write without fear. Grief for the energy I gave away in jobs that didn’t deserve it. Grief for the emotional labor I performed like it was part of the uniform.
I’m not burnt out. I’m just lightly toasted. And I’m learning that even this version of me deserves rest, deserves softness, deserves to be seen.
Because showing up doesn’t mean you’re okay. And being “fine” isn’t the same as being whole.