The Art of Failing at Self-Compassion

Burnout, Compassion & Enthusiasm
A reflective autobiographical podcast script by Anastasia Priyamvada Charitidou

Description

Transcript

INTRO

You’re listening to Olotites.

Conversations on compassion, experiential learning, creativity and what it means to remain human in complicated times.

I’m Anastasia Priyamvada Charitidou.

And this episode is called:

The Art of Failing at Self-Compassion. 

There was a period in my life when I genuinely believed exhaustion was proof that I cared enough.

That if I was tired enough, emotionally overwhelmed enough, stretched enough — then maybe I was doing something meaningful.

And honestly, for a long time, I confused self-destruction with passion.

I thought harshness would make me stronger.
I thought emotional and physical rest was weakness.
I thought overwhelm was evidence of devotion.

And strangely enough, in many environments, it actually is rewarded.

Especially in helping professions.
In education.
In activism.
In art.
In community work.

People applaud intensity.
They applaud sacrifice.
They applaud overgiving.

Until your nervous system quietly collapses somewhere behind the scenes.

And this episode is not really about “fixing yourself.”
It’s about what happens when compassion slowly enters a system built on pressure, perfectionism, emotional overextension and overidentification with suffering.

It’s also about enthusiasm.
Not motivation.
Not productivity.
Not performative positivity.

But enthusiasm in its older sense.

The Greek word:

enthousiasmos.
En-theos.

Enthusiasm originally meant “in God” or “possessed by a god.”

Not “God” in the religious sense, but the divine spark. The something-larger-than-you.

The Greeks used it to describe poets, dancers and ecstatic states — people moved by a creative force so powerful it almost felt like visitation.

That kind of inspiration — the force that moves you not because you should, but because you cannot not — might just be one of the most radical forms of self-compassion I know.

To be filled with something larger than the ego.

And maybe this episode is partly about what happens when that energy loses connection with compassion.

Or when compassion toward oneself finally interrupts the violence of constantly trying to become worthy.

PART 1 — I WAS TERRIBLE AT SELF-COMPASSION

I was terrible at self-compassion.

Not just bad — terrible.

The kind of terrible that would make a therapist raise an eyebrow — or two.
And on some occasions, I’m pretty sure they booked an appointment with their own therapist immediately after ours.

The type of terrible that made other people struggling with their own issues feel kind of relieved in comparison with my exaggerated, dramatic way of failing at self-compassion.

You know… being kind and understanding toward myself when I was suffering or failing was not in the picture at all.

I felt completely alone in my suffering.
And I was suffering in a profound, deep and somehow almost comical way — so much that people occasionally found new perspectives on their own drama while witnessing mine.

The kind of terrible that made some friends constantly worried, while others became strangely neutralised — almost apathetic — in front of my dramatically “pathetic” way of existing.

And I don’t mean pathetic as in pitiful.
I mean pathetic in the older sense.
From pathos.
From the Greek paschein — to suffer, to undergo, to be affected deeply by experience.

I felt things intensely.
Very intensely.

For years, I mistook perfectionism for virtue.
And emotional and physical rest for weakness.

Professional overwhelm?
That was a badge of honour.

Being exhausted meant I cared.
Being overextended meant I was trying hard enough.
Being emotionally overloaded meant I was alive.

I thought harshness would make me stronger.
It didn’t.
It just made me tired.

Really, really tired.
Clinically burned out.

And what is interesting is that from the outside, this kind of self-abandonment can even look admirable.
Especially in cultures that reward productivity, emotional suppression and constant performance.

Sometimes people would tell me:

“You are so passionate.”

And honestly… they were not entirely wrong.
But the passion had become disconnected from tenderness.
From regulation.
From limits.
From care.

It had become almost violent.

Toward myself.

TINY INVITATION #1

Maybe before we continue, I want to invite you into something very small.

Just notice for a moment:

How have you been speaking to yourself today?

Not philosophically.
Not ideally.
Not who you wish you were.

Just practically.

What tone has been accompanying you since this morning?

Was it impatient?
Demanding?
Disappointed?
Rushed?

Or maybe surprisingly gentle.

And if you cannot tell — that’s already interesting.

PART 2 — HEADS, WALLS AND OVERFLOWING ENERGY

Growing up, people often told me I lived as if I was constantly throwing my head against walls, expecting the wall to break before my head did.

And honestly?
That was not entirely inaccurate.

At some point, during the escalation of my first major burnout, I developed a strange self-soothing habit.

Or maybe self-punishing.
At the time, the two were not very far apart.

When emotionally overwhelmed or deeply frustrated, I would lightly hit my head against wooden surfaces.

Doors.
Furniture.
Elevator walls.

Nothing extreme.
Never in front of other people.
Never with the intention of seriously harming myself.

It wasn’t exactly self-harm in the clinical sense.

I was simply overwhelmed, emotionally flooded, confused, unable to metabolise the intensity of what I was feeling.

I needed somewhere for all that energy to go.

At the time, it felt almost symbolic.
Like my body was physically enacting the inner collision I constantly experienced.

And looking back now, I can actually recognise something surprising:

Compassion was already there.

Very quietly.
Very awkwardly.
But present.

There was always something protective in the fact that I chose softer surfaces.
That I stopped.
That I never allowed this behaviour to become more dangerous.

Even then, before I knew the language of self-compassion, there was already some small thread inside me trying to protect the future version of myself.

A kind of clumsy tenderness.

Eventually, the habit faded when I accepted something quite obvious:

Usually heads break before walls do.

And I still needed mine.

Particularly if I genuinely wanted to contribute something meaningful to the world.

PART 3 — SEARCHING FOR SOMETHING I COULDN’T YET NAME

Eventually, exhaustion pushed me into searching.

Not in a graceful spiritual-film kind of way.

More like:
burned out,
emotionally dramatic,
existentially overloaded searching.

At some point I left Greece and spent time volunteering in the Canary Islands, in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

And there — maybe through coincidence, maybe synchronicity — I encountered experiential practices influenced by indigenous traditions, nature-centred rituals, embodiment and community.

And for the first time in a very long time, I felt moments of reverence instead of only pressure.
Presence instead of performing.

I remember feeling deep joy.
Almost sacred connection.
Toward life.
Toward nature.
Toward people.
Toward existence itself.

And simultaneously:
fear.

Because once you begin sensing connection, you also begin noticing how disconnected many parts of modern life actually are.

How fragmented.
How rushed.
How lonely.

A little later, through another improbable chain of events and one impulsive social media decision — somewhere in my early social-media years in the early 2010s — I found myself in Italy surrounded by thousands of people, meeting Amma.

Yes, I said Amma.
You may understand a bit later who she is.

At the time, I knew almost nothing about her.

I had heard things like:
“She’s kind.”
“She helps people.”
“She hugs people.”

Honestly, I thought maybe she was some kind of therapist.
Or meditation teacher.
Or humanitarian.
I was not even particularly familiar with the word guru.

Anyway.
I went.

And very quickly I found myself internally spiralling.

“What are you doing here?”
“Who are these people?”
“What is happening?”
“Why are you crying?”
“This is insane.”

And somewhere in the middle of all that noise, a tiny inner voice appeared.

“Shhh…”

Again.

“Shhh…”

Again.

“Shhh…”

And strangely enough, that tiny interruption became one of my first conscious experiences of compassion.

Not as theory.
Not as philosophy.
Not as self-improvement.

But as interruption.

An interruption of the constant violence of overanalysis.

And my mind absolutely hated it.

Which, honestly, should probably have been an important clue.

PART 4 — WHEN SCIENCE ENTERED THE STORY

Because I am still fundamentally an overanalytical person, eventually I did what felt “reasonable.”

I started researching compassion academically.

Somewhere between repeated suffering, burnout, existential confusion and all the lessons hidden inside them, I began a master’s degree.

It was also the period when I had started recognising burnout as burnout.

In fact, I first encountered the term through my studies.

And “doing” was still one of the main ways I knew how to exist.

As I researched, I encountered many concepts, theories and frameworks. But the one I felt least familiar with was the one calling me most strongly:

Self-compassion.

So eventually, a thesis exploring movement practices, mindfulness and self-compassion was born.

And through researchers like Kristin Neff and Paul Gilbert, something started making sense.

Not because science suddenly “proved spirituality right.”
And not because spirituality replaced science.

But because both seemed to point toward something deeply human.

That people generally function better when they are not internally terrorising themselves all the time.

Research on self-compassion started showing associations with emotional wellbeing, resilience, healthier relationships, reduced shame and anxiety, improved emotional regulation, increased motivation and reduced fear of failure.

In other words:

It is actually very self-compassionate to be self-compassionate.

Which sounds obvious.
And somehow revolutionary at the same time.

I deeply appreciated these bridges between evidence-based science and the inner knowledge carried by many wisdom traditions.

Science, in a way, opened a loophole through which overflowing love could finally fit.

Words like loving kindness.
Mindfulness.
Tender and fierce compassion.
Non-judgment.

And maybe for many people living in highly individualistic, antagonistic, productivity-oriented societies — including myself at times — scientific language offers enough safety for the heart to open slightly.

A mind candy.

Something for the analytical mind to chew on while the nervous system slowly learns another possibility.

Because honestly, I did not fully trust compassion in the beginning.

I trusted pressure.
I trusted discipline.
I trusted self-criticism.

Compassion felt suspiciously soft.

And then life repeatedly demonstrated that self-hatred is not actually a sustainable growth strategy.

TINY INVITATION #2

Okay, so maybe we pause again for a moment.

Notice:
Where does pressure usually live in your body?

The jaw?
The shoulders?
The chest?
The stomach?

Do you feel some now?

You don’t need to fix anything.

Just notice whether your body has been trying to communicate something long before your thoughts caught up.

PART 5 — ENTHUSIASM

Years ago, during another period of existential confusion and spiritual frustration, I remember asking — the universe, or myself, or Amma:

Where should I focus my energy?
Which practice is the right one?
What is the key?

And the answer I received felt disappointingly simple at the time:

“Continue doing what you are doing.
Just don’t lose your enthusiasm.”

At first, I hated this answer.

It sounded vague.
Too simple.
Like one of those irritating spiritual slogans people put on cushions.

But soon enough, I remembered the actual meaning of the word enthusiasm.

Enthousiasmos. *En-theos. * the God within or to be one with God, to be in God-

“To be filled with the divine.”

Not “God” in the religious sense, but the divine spark.
The something-larger-than-you.

More like:
connected to something larger than the isolated ego.
Something alive.
Something meaningful.

In ancient Greece, enthusiasm described poets, dancers and ecstatic states — people moved by a force so powerful it almost felt like visitation.

And slowly, I started realising something important:

Burnout often happens when enthusiasm loses connection with compassion.

When passion becomes disconnected from the body.
From limits.
From tenderness.
From rest.
From humanity.

And the opposite can happen too.

Compassion without aliveness can quietly become numbness.
Disengagement.
A soft collapse.

I’m not talking about true enthusiasm or real self-compassion.
Those are sustaining.

I’m talking about their shadows.
Their impostors.

The distorted versions that look like the real thing but are not rooted in truth or authenticity.

Seen from a more hopeful lens — and increasingly supported by research — both enthusiasm and compassion are socially contagious.

When they are not forced, when they come from a real place, they ripple outward.

They become connecting forces.
They animate people, spaces and communities.
They remind us why we care.

Maybe the invitation is not choosing between fire and softness.
But learning how they protect one another.

Because the most sustainable forms of devotion are not fuelled by self-violence.

They are fuelled by relationship.

And honestly?
This remains a work in progress.

I still overextend.
Still become overly enthusiastic.
Still occasionally romanticise exhaustion.

Remember me and the drama.

But gradually, I began noticing that the same overflowing energy that once turned into suffering could also become enthusiasm.

Maybe the source had always been the same.
Only the direction changed.

PART 6 — HOW OLOTITES BEGAN

At some point, I realised I was no longer only searching for practices.

I was searching for spaces.

Spaces where people could think, feel, move, question, rest and create without fragmenting themselves.

Spaces where the body was not excluded from learning.
Where emotion was not treated as weakness.
Where imagination was not considered childish.
Where silence was not immediately filled.
Where people did not need to shrink parts of themselves in order to belong.

And I think this is one of the places where Olotites actually began.

Not as an organisation first.
But as a longing.

After years of creating temporary bubbles of coexistence inside seminars, workshops and training courses held in other people’s spaces, I started noticing something.

I deeply admired many people for what they had to offer.

And at the same time, reflecting on the huge diversity of teachers, facilitators and speakers I had encountered — some terrible, some average, some exceptional — I realised they had all taught me something.

Some inspired me through authenticity.
Some through wisdom.
Some through presence.

And some made me think:

“Hey… I think I can do this better than they can.”

Or at least:
“I am willing to try.”

And honestly, that thought initially felt almost arrogant.

But underneath it was something else.
Responsibility.

A desire to create spaces that felt more human.
More alive.
More relational.
Less performative.

And gradually, workshops, circles and experiential educational spaces became not only professional work, but part of how I metabolised existence itself.

I started noticing something repeatedly in groups.

The moment one person stopped pretending they were fine, the whole room changed.

The moment one person spoke honestly, other nervous systems relaxed.

The moment someone felt genuinely listened to, something collective softened.

And perhaps this is one of the reasons I continue doing this work.

Not because I believe I can save people.
Absolutely not.

But because I have repeatedly witnessed what happens when people are finally given enough safety to exist more honestly.

And maybe this is also one of the roots behind projects like comPASSION is sexy.

An attempt to explore compassion not as abstract positivity, but as embodied, relational and collective practice.

Through movement.
Reflection.
Creativity.
Group processes.
Listening.
Humour.
Rest.

And yes, occasionally also bureaucracy.
A mountain of bureaucracy.

All in the name of trying to create more spaces where people can meet one another — and themselves — with slightly less violence.

PART 7 — THE ATTIC STORY

There is one moment that resurfaced through an earlier written text of mine and feels appropriate to share.

A couple of years ago, I was co-facilitating an experiential self-development programme through Erasmus+.

We were in this beautiful wooden attic.
About thirty participants arriving slowly into the space.
People sitting in a circle.
The atmosphere still settling.

And I was sitting quietly on the floor, observing my breath, trying to centre myself before the session began.

Then one of the last participants entered and sat directly next to me.

And from the exact moment he sat down…
he did not stop moving.

Shaking.
Vibrating.
Fidgeting.
Breathing loudly.
Moving constantly.

And if you have ever sat next to me, you probably know I am usually the one constantly moving.
Which makes this story even more ironic.

So there I was.
The facilitator.
Supposedly centred.
Supposedly grounded.
Supposedly compassionate.

And internally?
Absolute chaos.

First Level — REACTION

My thoughts immediately exploded.

“This is so irritating.”
“Oh my God.”
“Why is this happening to me?”
“Why do I attract these situations?”
“Why can’t I just have peace for once?”
“Why don’t I deserve a quiet moment before holding space for everyone else?”

And the more irritated I became internally, the more intensely I perceived his movement.

At some point, it genuinely felt like the entire attic was shaking with him.

I could practically hear the wood complaining.
I imagined the foundations of the building vibrating.
All because of this one person.

Yes.
There may have been slight exaggeration.
Please bear with me.

Second Level — PROCESSING

Then another layer entered.

“Okay.
This is happening.
Breathe.
Don’t look at him too directly because he may literally see the flames in your eyes.
Can I accept this?
Should I move?
Am I staying?
Do I need to protect my energy?
Can I remain present?”

And this part is important.

Compassion did not arrive because anger disappeared.

Anger was fully present.

The difference was that awareness entered the system before action.

There was suddenly space.

Space to observe.
Space to choose.
Space to recognise:
“I am reacting.”

And perhaps this is one of the most important things I have learned.

Self-compassion is not the absence of difficult emotions.
It is the ability to remain in relationship with them without immediately becoming them.

So there I was internally negotiating with myself:

“I can stay.”
“No, I cannot.”
“Yes, I can.”
“No, honestly, maybe I should move.”

I was already planning which calm participant I could secretly sit next to instead.

Third Level — ACTION

And then something happened almost automatically.

Before my mind could continue analysing, I simply turned toward him and gently took his hand between mine.

That was it.
Such a small gesture.

And instantly, everything changed.

His body softened.
The shaking stopped.
He rested his head on my shoulder.
And he began crying.

Suddenly, the “annoying participant” disappeared.

What remained was a deeply overwhelmed human being.
A young person carrying enormous tension.
Someone who, perhaps for a brief moment, finally felt safe enough to release.

And just like that, what initially appeared to my nervous system as disturbance transformed into connection.

At some point during meditation practices, we are guided to feel the vibration of the sound OM inside every cell of the body.

And in that moment, it genuinely felt as if the vibration of irritation moving through my body had been replaced by something else.

Love.
Trust.
Presence.

Not perfect love.
Not saintly compassion.

Just human connection.

And I think this story remains important to me because it reminds me of something very honest:

My first reaction was still anger.

Years of practice did not erase irritation.
They did not transform me into some permanently peaceful spiritual being floating above human experience.

What changed was something else.

There was slightly more awareness before impact.
Slightly more space before reaction.
Slightly more choice.

And perhaps compassion sometimes looks exactly like this.

Not perfection.
Not emotional purity.

But the willingness to pause long enough for another possibility to emerge.

TINY INVITATION #3

Maybe after listening to this episode, write one sentence to yourself.

Not something inspirational.
Not something performatively positive.

Just something kind enough that your nervous system can actually believe it.

Fold it.
Hide it somewhere.

And allow a future version of yourself to unexpectedly encounter a less hostile voice.

CLOSING

I still fail at self-compassion sometimes.
Well, even at compassion — and I have much more practice in that.

I still overextend.
Still become overwhelmed.
Still forget my limits.
Still occasionally — well, very occasionally… okay, not that occasionally — romanticise intensity.

This is not a story about becoming perfectly healed.
Or permanently calm.
Far from it.

It is a story about slowly becoming more honest.

More able to notice.
More able to pause.
More able to return.

And maybe this is what compassion actually is.

Not self-pity.
Not endless softness.
Not avoiding accountability.

But remaining in relationship with ourselves and others even when things are messy, painful, unfinished or uncertain.

So here’s to the exhausted idealists.
To the overthinkers.
To the facilitators.
To the artists.
To the sensitive humans trying to stay open in a world that often rewards disconnection.

And maybe most importantly:

May we remember that enthusiasm and compassion were never meant to be enemies.

Maybe they were always supposed to protect one another.

And maybe, sometimes, the wall does not actually need to break.

Maybe sometimes we simply need to stop throwing ourselves against it long enough to listen.

And then choose.

Whether to stay.
Or leave.

With slightly more awareness.
Slightly more tenderness.
And hopefully…
with enthusiasm.

About the Author and Project

Anastasia Priyamvada Charitidou is an  experiential educator, theatre pedagogue, and founder of Olotites. She is also a project manager and creator of EU- funded initiatives focused on compassion, wellbeing, and empowerment. With a background in embodiment, compassion- based education, and international youth work, she explores how inner well-being and social change are deeply interconnected. She currently co-leads the Erasmus+ project “comPASSION is sexy” across Greece and France.

About this article:

This article was written in the context of the Erasmus+ KA210- YOU small-scale partnership project “comPASSION is sexy” (Project Code: 2024- 3- FR02- KA210-YOU-000295806), co-funded by the European Union. The project is a collaboration between Les Philentropes (France) and Olotites (Greece), focused on compassion-based approaches to youth empowerment, inclusion, well-being and mental health awareness.

Funded by the European Union. Views and opinions expressed are, however, those of the author(s) only and do not necessarily reflect those of the European Union or the European Education and Culture Executive Agency (EACEA). Neither the European Union nor the granting authority can be held responsible for them.

Want to learn more ?