Burnout doesn’t begin with exhaustion. It begins with erosion. So slow, so silent, you won’t notice until the foundation falls apart.
This past December, I was invited to an exclusive gathering of Canada’s top keynote speakers. Scholars. Olympians. Astronauts. Visionaries. Entrepreneurs—people who advise the world’s leading organizations on how to thrive under pressure.
One of the presenters was Dr. Dan Riskin. His keynote address, The Science of a Great Talk, dissected the art of resonance—how certain stories bypass logic and speak straight to the nervous system. At one point, he half-joked about helping audiences override their “amygdala hijack”—a reference to the body’s ancient trauma response (fight, flight, freeze, or fawn) being activated in the absence of actual danger.
The whole room erupted in laughter.
Because we all knew: that’s the real work. Whether we call it keynote speaking, coaching, leadership development, or therapy, we’re helping people transcend past programming with present wisdom. But even as I laughed, something snagged in me. A deeper question:
Why do certain stressors hijack us so profoundly in the first place? Why do some people spiral, while others recover?
To understand that, we have to look not at the moment of collapse, but at the slow procession that precedes it. The caravan of losses we trail behind us. The things we carried—and the things that were quietly taken.
That brings us to one of the most powerful (and under-utilized) frameworks in psychology: The Conservation of Resources (COR) Theory.
Developed by psychologist Dr. Stevan Hobfoll in 1989 and refined over decades, COR Theory offers a deceptively simple premise: Humans don’t just seek pleasure. We protect what we already have. And when that is threatened, or taken, or slips through our fingers—stress follows.
Hobfoll identified four major types of resources that people strive to maintain:
COR Theory argues that resource losses tend to compound. Loss begets more loss. The caravan picks up speed. Hobfoll called this phenomenon a "loss spiral," where the inability to replenish one domain of loss makes you more vulnerable to losing others.
As he put it in 1989:
"Those who lack resources are not only more vulnerable to resource loss but also less capable of resource gain."
My own loss spiral began slowly. No alarm. No crisis. Just a thousand tiny cuts.
In 2014, I was working under a toxic boss whose style was defined by fear masquerading as control. Someone who, triggered by my first TEDx talk Stop Managing, Start Leading, decided to make my life miserable behind closed doors. He couldn’t fire me (thanks to union protections), but he could do everything else:
Not one giant loss—but a caravan of losses. A compounding cascade of depletion. Each cut didn’t just hurt. It destabilized me. Mentally. Emotionally. Physiologically. Spiritually.
Eventually, I collapsed. I blacked out on the morning of a life-changing trip. I missed the flight. Missed the opportunity. And went to miss years of being my best self.
There are other models, sure. Cognitive Appraisal Theory asks how we perceive stress. The JD-R Model weighs our demands against our resources. Self-Determination Theory probes our psychological needs.
But COR Theory asks something more primal:
What are you afraid to lose? What have you already lost?
It explained why I broke down, even though I “had it all.” I was being emptied faster than I could refill. I was in a loss spiral—and the longer I stayed in it, the harder it was to recover.
COR Theory looks at what we tangibly have. It recognizes that resources travel in caravans—clustered groups that rise and fall together—and that social and structural barriers can block access to those clusters. It also emphasizes a difficult truth: resource loss is more psychologically damaging than resource gain is restorative.
In a world that is increasingly volatile, uncertain, complex, and ambiguous, COR Theory helps us understand why we spiral—and how we might reverse the pattern.
If you're feeling burned out or not quite yourself, begin by checking in with your resources across all four domains. Ask yourself:
Stress is not always about what’s happening. It’s about what’s slipping away. And what we fear we’ll never get back.
I didn’t rebuild overnight.
After my collapse, I spent the better part of a year recovering. My body healed faster than my spirit. I had to reckon with the question of how I, someone publicly known for teaching productivity and peak performance, had ended up here.
The answer wasn’t more hacks or hustle. It was something deeper: purposeful productivity.
I began to center my work around a transcendent reason to be. I stopped doing things simply for praise, recognition, or compensation. I started doing them for meaning. Now, when I say yes to something, it’s because it aligns with who I am—and what I’m here to do. That’s what keeps my resources replenished. That’s how I escaped the spiral—not through ambition, but through alignment.
Not everyone can rebuild their caravan. Some people are born with more resources. Some have better roads, more fuel, or fewer potholes. COR Theory recognizes this through its expanded version—COR 2.0—which introduces the idea of caravan passageways: the societal structures and systems that either facilitate or obstruct our ability to recover and grow.
Burnout isn’t just about inadequate boundaries. It’s about inadequate structures. That means healing can’t be left entirely to the individual. We need better systems, more compassionate leadership, and broader cultural shifts that help everyone—not just the privileged few—rebuild their caravans with dignity.
We need a culture that replenishes everyone’s resources—not just those lucky enough to afford a therapist and a week in Bali.
If you’re feeling off—tired, reactive, numb—pause. Ask yourself:
What have I lost?
What am I afraid to lose?
What was I promised that never came?
You may be hitched to a loss caravan. But you don’t have to stay there. You can unhitch. You can rebuild. Not all at once. But slowly, with intention, and grace.
Maybe you start with a single resource. Maybe just a moment of rest. But let that be your turning point. You can choose a new direction—one rooted in alignment, not erosion.
Conduct your personal resource audit this week. Identify the domain where you’re feeling the most loss, and take one clear, compassionate action to begin the repair. It doesn’t have to be a leap. But it does have to begin.
You deserve to feel whole again.