Sunburnt on the Inside
Lately, I’ve been carrying around this strange sensation — like sunburn, but not. That itchy, raw, overexposed feeling that doesn’t come from lying out too long without SPF, but from life.
You know that feeling when your skin is tight, tender, and just can’t handle any more light or heat? That’s how my whole being feels sometimes after a stretch of too much outwardness. Too much “on.” Too many faces, too many voices, too many hours spent being social, responsible, responsive.
And it’s funny because in the moment, I love it. I love being with people. I thrive in community. I’m not shy. But after a while, I realise my soul feels like it’s been left in the midday sun without shade or water. That’s when I know I’ve hit the edge of what I jokingly call my “hyper-social hermit” threshold. The phrase actually came from a friend in a group chat. She messaged one morning to say, “I’m a hyper-social hermit in desperate need of hermit time.” I laughed out loud, because it was exactly what I’d been feeling but hadn’t put into words.
So many of us are like this, aren’t we? We adapt beautifully to social life — we chat, we gather, we connect, we even sparkle. But then there’s that tipping point where the sparkle burns out and what we need most isn’t another social plan, it’s a dark, quiet room and permission to stop. It’s not that connection is bad — it’s essential. It feeds us. But just like sun exposure, too much at once without balance, shade, or nourishment leaves us depleted, dried out, and longing for repair.
Here’s how I notice it in myself: my skin feels itchy, like I’ve been out in the sun too long. I feel dehydrated, even if I’ve been guzzling water. I can’t quite settle — there’s a nervous hum under my skin. Even beautiful things start to feel like too much.
That’s exactly how overexposure works on the soul too. Even the loveliest things become overwhelming if we don’t get time to digest, integrate, and replenish.
In yoga, we talk about pratyāhāra — withdrawal of the senses. Not as escape, but as a way of turning inward long enough to restore balance. The nervous system needs it. The psyche needs it. The spirit needs it. Because constant outwardness is like constant sun — eventually, it burns.
This is why savāsana matters just as much as handstands. Why meditation matters as much as movement. Why silence is as necessary as sound. Without the rhythm of withdrawal and return, we lose our resilience.
I’ve learned to treat hermit time as part of my practice, not as a flaw. Sometimes replenishment looks like a long walk with no podcast, no phone, just the sound of my own footsteps. Sometimes it’s rolling on my mat with no agenda, no sequence, just breath and body. Sometimes it’s sitting quietly with a cup of tea and staring out the window — highly underrated. Sometimes it’s letting myself not respond straight away to the messages, the invites, the “shoulds.” - It’s amazing how quickly that raw, sunburnt-soul feeling begins to heal when I give it shade and water and time.
I don’t want to reject the social, because I love it. Just like I love sunshine. But I know now that if I stay out too long without balance, I’ll pay the price. And I wonder if this is something we could all get a bit better at — recognising the signs of overexposure before we burn. Listening to that itchy, restless hum in the body and taking it as the signal it is: it’s time to recalibrate.
So maybe you’ll recognise yourself in this too. Maybe you’re also a hyper-social hermit, thriving in the throng until you suddenly don’t. What’s your version of shade, water, and nourishment? What replenishes you when you’ve had too much?
Because here’s the truth: retreat isn’t weakness. Stillness isn’t laziness. Silence isn’t empty.
They’re the medicine that lets us shine again without burning out.