When the System You Served Stops Serving You
For anyone who hasn’t watched the Dispatch, Tea, & Therapy episode “From the End to the Beginning,” that video gives the full emotional context behind what you’re about to read — the story of why I left 911, and how it began with a single email.
But this piece — this one — is the raw record itself. The receipts.
There’s this myth that burnout happens quietly — that you just “lose steam” and fade out.
That’s a lie.
Burnout, when it hits, is loud. It’s cellular. It tears through your system like truth breaking through denial.
For years, I tried to keep it together — the loyalty, the leadership, the pretending. But when your nervous system finally calls bullshit, it doesn’t whisper.
And on a Tuesday night in June, after more than twenty years of service, it roared.
What follows are the three emails that ended my 911 career.
I’m sharing them here — unedited except for replacing the director’s name — because transparency matters more than optics.
This is what it looks like when you reach out from the edge, and the system you’ve given so much to responds with silence disguised as professionalism.
Email 1: Reaching Out
From: Lucinda Black
To: Director
Date: Tue, Jun 17, 9:00 PM
Hi [Director],
I know you wanted to follow up with me regarding my evaluation feedback. I was initially open to that, but I’ve since recognized that I don’t have the bandwidth for that conversation.
After my last shift, I spent my scheduled sick days this week in a depressive episode. I’ve been cycling through periods of burnout and collapse that have become increasingly unmanageable. My primary care provider has now referred me to a psychiatrist in addition to my therapist, and I’ve contacted HR to request FMLA paperwork so I can begin taking steps to protect my health.
I’m pursuing FMLA partly because I’m low on all my leave banks after what has been a tumultuous year for me, personally and professionally.
I intended to remain at VCC through the completion of my master’s program in 2027, but at this point, I’m no longer sure that’s sustainable given the toll that working here has taken on me.
I’m sharing this with the trust that you will protect my privacy and not share what I’ve disclosed with anyone unless absolutely necessary. Your discretion in this matter is greatly appreciated.
I wanted to be direct about where I’m at. I hope for your understanding and support during this challenging time. Your empathy means a lot to me.
Thank you,
Lucinda
They took one hour and six minutes to read it, reflect on it, and respond.
66 minutes.
3 sentences.
Email 2: The Reply
From: [Director]
To: Lucinda Black
Date: Tue, Jun 17, 10:06 PM
I don’t know what is going on and to be respectful of your space, we do not need to address your 1:1 meeting concerns right now. I am giving you the space to approach me when you are ready— with the caveat we unpack it when you are ready.
Take care!
No phone call. No genuine inquiry. Not even a question. Just a chirpy ‘take care’—the corporate version of thoughts and prayers. And that’s when I knew. Not just that, I couldn’t keep going. But I didn’t want to. So that was an ending that led to another beginning, but it wasn’t easy.
This was the last email I sent to the director – this one gave me a savage joy to send – I sent it right after my resignation to HR, and while I was sitting in the parking lot of the center I had worked at for 23 years. THIS email was cathartic.
Email 3: The Final One
From: Lucinda Black
To: Director
Date: Sep 17, 2025, 10:58 PM
Subject: A Closing Note
[Director],
Your response to my earlier message was profoundly disappointing. I reached out vulnerably and clearly — naming burnout, mental health distress, and my difficulty remaining in a system that is no longer sustainable for me. Your reply made no space for that.
You said you didn’t know what was going on, but I told you. And instead of asking, listening, or expressing any compassion, your concern focused solely on when we would be continuing our 1:1 conversation about [our center] not fully living up to its guiding principles.
That choice said a lot.
If you are still seeking follow-up on that conversation, I would respectfully point you back to your own reply — its tone and content reflect exactly what I was referring to.
I’ll be submitting my formal resignation through HR.
It turns out, I do want to make people happy.
I am people.
And I don’t need to sell ice cream to do it.
With clear eyes,
Lucinda
The System Replies Exactly As It’s Designed To
Three emails.
That’s all it took to reveal what many of us already know but keep denying: systems like this aren’t designed to serve people — they’re designed to protect themselves.
My first message was a flare — a raw, vulnerable truth from someone collapsing under the weight of years of “resilience.”
The response wasn’t malicious; it was mechanical. That’s almost worse.
It’s the kind of polite detachment that passes for professionalism in places that preach wellness while weaponizing silence.
If you’ve ever sent a cry for help and gotten an HR-style scripted “take care,” you know that silence doesn’t just sting — it confirms the truth you didn’t want to face.
The fact that your pain doesn’t align with their metrics.
What This Really Was
This wasn’t a breakdown. It was a breakthrough.
Not the romantic kind. The ugly kind.
The kind where you finally stop mistaking self-destruction for loyalty.
For years, I took on other people’s emergencies. I carried the screams, chaos, and grief — all of it. But the moment I found myself in crisis, there was no system to support me.
That’s the paradox of 911: we respond to every call except our own.
So this is mine — my decision, my closure, my truth in its entirety.
Not rewritten. Not rebranded. Just released.
Because silence guards the system.
But truth guards the soul.
🔥 Watch the companion episode:
“From the End to the Beginning — Wellness Wednesday”
🎵 Featuring “Phoenix” by Olivia Holt
📺 Watch on Dispatch, Tea, & Therapy