When Burnout Leads to Collapse: A Pastor’s Cautionary Tale

A Pastor’s Journey Through Burnout, Failure, and Redemption

Failure—real, soul-crushing, “what-have-I-done” failure—is rarely sudden. It’s usually a slow fade, a long road of small compromises, exhaustion, and unmet desires that pile up like a Jenga tower, waiting for that final piece to send it crashing down. I didn’t wake up one day and decide, Hey, today seems like a great day to crash and burn! Today feels like a great day to ruin my life. No one does.

Failure—especially the marriage-ending, ministry-derailing, life-altering kind—isn’t a single event. My decline had been happening for a while. Burnout was creeping in like a bad houseguest, the type that eats all your food and leaves the toilet seat up. Ministry had become more about surviving than thriving. I kept pouring out, but my well was bone dry.

The “Married Single” Syndrome

To make things even harder, I felt the slow suffocation of disappointment in my marriage. I was in a “married single” life—without the intimacy, connection, and partnership that marriage is supposed to bring. After decades of marriage, my wife and I had very little in common except for our kids and grandkids, and our relationship had fallen into a boring routine. Happiness and fulfillment felt like a mirage in the desert.

I tried to push through. I told myself that duty and faithfulness mattered more than my own needs. For heaven’s sake, I literally wrote a book about marriage! But deep down, loneliness and unfulfilled expectations are dangerous things. They distort your thinking and open doors you never should have even knocked on.

And whatever the cause, it wears on you when you are bored and lonely. It makes you question if love is just something you talk about but never actually get to live. When one person feels alone in a marriage, the heart grows weary. Unmet emotional and physical needs are like a slow leak in a tire. If you don’t address them, eventually, you’ll find yourself stranded in a bad place.

And I did.

I was lonely, disillusioned, and too stubborn (and proud) to be honest about it. Instead of fighting for what mattered most, I let disappointment fester into resentment and then rationalized my sins.

So, my marriage to my high school sweetheart tragically ended, and it was my fault.

COVID Chaos: Leading When You Have Nothing Left to Give

Then COVID hit, and pastoring became a nightmare wrapped in a fog of Zoom meetings and impossible decisions. No matter what I did, half the people thought I was a tyrant, and the other half thought I was a coward. I tried to lead, hold the line, and keep the church together, but I was unraveling. The pressure was crushing. The isolation was suffocating. And the enemy? Oh, he was whispering, “You deserve a break. You deserve to feel something good for once.”

Good golly, the not-so-beautiful chaos of trying to lead through a once-in-a-century crisis while navigating people’s anger, fear, and opinions (so many opinions) was crushing me. No right answers, no easy paths, just the relentless pressure to keep a church afloat while feeling like you’re drowning. The weight of leadership demolished what little was left of my resolve to “finish well.” And instead of turning to Jesus, I turned to escape.

Pastoring through a global pandemic was like building a sandcastle during a tsunami. Every week, there was another crisis, controversy, and impossible decision guaranteed to make someone mad. The pressure was relentless. I was already burned out and struggling; COVID was the final straw. Instead of pressing into Jesus, I coped in unhealthy ways. Instead of seeking help, I tried to muscle through it alone. Spoiler alert: that never ends well.

Pastoral ministry has a way of chewing you up and spitting you out, especially if you don’t guard your soul. And I didn’t. Instead of resting, I kept pushing. Instead of replenishing, I kept pouring. Instead of getting counseling, I lived in denial. Somewhere along the way, my relationship with Jesus became more about what I did for Him than simply being with Him. That’s a recipe for disaster. (Here is another article about pastoral burnout you may find helpful.)

Ministry is a calling, but it can also be a grind. Sometimes, it’s giving, pouring, and shepherding, but when there’s nothing left in the tank, you are in trouble. I told myself I was fine. I told others I was fine. But “fine” is often Christian code for one bad day away from losing it. And that’s where I was—physically, emotionally, and spiritually depleted.

When you run on fumes long enough, you start making desperate choices. I don’t mention this as an excuse but as a reality check regarding the why behind the what.

I failed. Miserably. Publicly. Painfully.

So, I made choices—bad ones. Stupid ones. And I went off the rails, the crash came, and it was spectacularly awful.

Let me be clear: burnout, loneliness, and COVID didn’t make me fail. That was on me. No excuses. But they were reasons—real, heavy, soul-wearying reasons.

• I didn’t guard my heart.
• I didn’t fight for my relational, emotional, and spiritual health.
• I didn’t ask for help when I should have.

And my foolish and sinful choices cost me more than I ever imagined or thought possible.

Again, while I’m not here to justify my idiocy, I do want to acknowledge the reasons. Not because they absolve me but because ignoring them would be like pretending a heart attack had nothing to do with a lifetime of bad eating and stress. You can’t fix what you won’t face.

My sins exposed the cracks that were already there. They revealed the weaknesses I didn’t want to face. And when the storm hit, I collapsed under it. That’s on me. My choices, my responsibility. So, understanding why I fell doesn’t excuse anything—it just helps me own it, learn from it, and, by the grace of God, rebuild from the rubble.

Failure Isn’t the End of the Story

Even though I have confessed my sins, repented, and now walk in forgiveness, many still treat me with contempt. They react out of their pain, disappointment, and anger. I get it. I understand their wrath, and I deserve it, but it breaks my heart to see bitterness consume their souls. Sadly, some have thrown stones at me they had no right to cast, perhaps finding a twisted satisfaction in their self-righteousness while forgetting that “mercy triumphs over judgment.”

When Abba’s in the mix—Grace wins. And here’s the thing about grace: it meets you in the wreckage. God doesn’t look at the ashes of your failure and say, Well, that’s a mess too big for Me. No, He kneels in the dirt, lifts your face, and says, I’m not done with you yet. Our God specializes in turning a mess into a miracle.

I’ve always been a fan of grace. Mostly because I need it—desperately and often. Let’s get real: sometimes, we don’t just stumble; we nosedive off a cliff, flailing like a cartoon character before hitting rock bottom with an unceremonious thud. That was me.

So, yes, I failed. No excuses. Just a hard, painful reality. But here’s what I know: God is still good. His grace is still scandalous. And even in the wreckage of my choices, He’s not done with me yet.

Like it or not, and many do not like it at all, God is redeeming, restoring, and renewing my life. And my story is a mountaintop declaration shouting to anyone who will listen: No one is beyond the hope of redemption and restoration. No one.

A Word of Caution (Shared in Love)

If you’re on the edge—tired, lonely, frustrated—please don’t ignore the warning signs. Get help. Reach out. Let someone in before the wheels come off. Please don’t be foolish or stubborn like me.

If you’re on the same path I was on—running on fumes, pretending everything’s fine while your soul crumbles—hear me: stop. Get help. Rest. Tell the truth about where you are before you end up where you never wanted to be.

I wish I had practiced what I preached. I did not. But by God’s grace, I’m learning. And maybe, just maybe, He can use my failure to help someone else avoid their own.

Trust me; rebuilding is a whole lot harder than preventing a collapse in the first place. But if you have crashed or failed miserably, know this: redemption is real, and restoration is possible.

And grace? Grace is still the best story ever told.

Please leave a comment below, and let’s engage in a conversation.

You can find out more about Kurt Bubna and his writing on Twitter and Facebook. You can read more about his views and insights, both in his books and on his website.