Stopping wasn't an option

I kept going because I was scared of being found out and my body paid for it.

In 2024 I heard myself say "this is killing me" and I meant it. I meant the commute, the role, the lifestyle, the aggravation, the proving and the forcing. It was my Monty Python wafer-thin mint moment.

I pretty much always worked for companies where a long-hours culture was expected and I felt I had to match it, despite a long commute costing me downtime and rest. After the long hours there was a pint, as a reward for the work and to build up the stamina to go home. The City is generally known for its big drinking and social culture and a lot of the teams I was on played as hard as they worked. I didn't always want to join in but I had a huge fear of missing out and wanted to be part of the team, so I forced myself to go. Drinking was my coping mechanism and how I learnt to relax after a long day through numbing. Whilst there was a lot of fun, I sometimes put the world to rights and said the wrong thing to the wrong person. I ended up feeling misunderstood a lot of the time.

If I was ill or tired I pushed through. People said I always seemed to be ill, because I showed up sick. Keeping going made me feel in control. If I worked the hours, kept proving myself and making myself useful, I didn't have to feel doubt. If people needed me, I didn't have to worry about being found out or being compared to people who found the work easier. I think a lot of what gets praised as commitment is fear. I worked harder because I didn't know what else to do. I was in survival mode and half the time I didn't notice. I suppressed things, battened down the hatches and hoped for the best, until the rug was pulled out from underneath me.

My dad died unexpectedly in 2007. I had all the balls in the air. I was moving house, changing jobs and supposed to be getting married, all within three months of each other. It was already a stressful time. Once Dad died I couldn't face the wedding, so it was postponed. His death tipped everything over the edge. Six months later the markets were in turmoil with the financial crisis starting and I was ill with stomach issues, the same thing Dad had been ill with and had needed a colostomy for. It felt like my stomach was trying to eat itself. I was eaten up with anger and grief and guilt. I wasn't sleeping and I was drinking too much to numb it and not feel. I was wired and tired, anxious and out of my depth.

Stopping wasn't an option. I had a mortgage, I had responsibilities and I had a bloody-minded nature that was going to prove and push and force it to work out. So I kept going. It took me years to connect any of it to losing him.

My body kept telling me to stop and I kept ignoring it. I pushed the feelings down, ignored the signs and numbed myself enough to get through the day. It all accumulated, with interest. Every time I went on holiday or had a break I got a nasty cold. I think my body had been stressed for so long that it took any chance to make me stop. The more it had to scream, the worse it was when I did stop.

Eleven years later my back gave out. I had a young family, I was the breadwinner and I felt I had all the responsibility and nobody had my back. I couldn't work for a few months. It was the first time I could see my emotions showing up in my body.

For years I'd believed I HAD to work long hours. The culture expected them, but I was choosing them too, because they made me feel useful and needed. Somehow I saw being exhausted as proof that I was working hard and an indispensable employee. Talk about playing the martyr. The hours had become a habit and a badge of honour. I didn't know what to do with myself otherwise, so I did them anyway. I definitely didn't want to have to decide what to cook for dinner and be responsible for things little people would eat when they were already such picky eaters!

The year after that I decided I was leaving my career and it was all about getting away. Covid gave me a reprieve and briefly a better work-life balance and time with my kids without worrying about dropping the balls. It also let me move from running away from a career I had started to hate to running towards what I wanted instead. By 2024 I'd done intensive coaching and felt more prepared and ready, but I was comfortable and ridiculously well paid. More and more was expected while people left and weren't replaced. I was doing two jobs and dealing with more aggravation and issues. I could see it was only going to continue. I believe words are spells. When I caught myself saying "this is killing me", I knew I didn't want to keep telling my body that. Enough was enough and I left.

I'm still learning to listen to my body. After decades of ignoring it, stress still has a tendency to build up. Breathing, eating, resting and tapping help. They were hard to do when I was working long hours under pressure with difficult colleagues. Resting can still feel selfish when other people need me.

There's more life in my days now and I laugh more easily than I did two years ago. In Thailand I didn't check email or Teams for the whole trip and by the end of it the kids were joking they'd got a new mum. These days I'm happy to miss out. I still work hard, but I also walk the dogs for hours every morning and nobody is timing me or checking where I am. This week I've been poorly and whilst I'm still writing, it's from bed with a hot lemon in hand. Thank god for voice transcription!

If stopping doesn't feel like an option for you either, it might be time to listen to what your mind and body are telling you.

Start with a conversation at rosinabarnett.com.