I was born in rural England to a loving family. We were not well off, but my life was generally one of privilege. I was sold on the cultural norms of being a high-achieving woman. I climbed the career ladder, and chased the promotions, the company car and the salary package. I got the top job and the beach house. I settled down and had it all figured out by the age of 30 – or so I thought.
I was working hard and yet there was always more to do, more to prove. It was never enough.
The result was that I became stuck on the treadmill of ‘doing’ life without really finding any joy in it. I wasn’t living my life, and as a result I was deeply unfulfilled. I’d lost touch with what was important, who I was and what I wanted. My health began to suffer, and I was unhappy – it was at that point I experienced burnout.
It was shortly after I’d taken over covering the role of a colleague in addition to my own. Now heading up two teams and looking after 10 sites instead of five, I was stretched further across the country, sitting in more leadership meetings and involved in more projects than I could keep up with.
I spent most days in the car or back-to-back meetings. I had little time to enjoy the beach house I had settled in, as I was always in hotels working away. When I was at home, I had little time or energy to indulge in any hobbies or exercise, or even function in my relationship. But the high achiever in me kept pushing. More was better: I had to prove myself, and failure was not an option. Besides, I didn’t want to let people down.
My boss at the time called me to ask if I’d manage a big change project about to hit the manufacturing part of the business. I was going through a breakup with my partner of seven years, and she thought it might ‘help take my mind off it’. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. As my life unravelled, so did my health.
Physically, the defining moment came at a gym class on my 31st birthday. I was exhausted as usual and a little out of shape, but also looking for excuses not to go home and face the music. Midway through a step class, I felt a pop in my knee and collapsed to the floor. Amid the thumping music and frowns of onlookers, I broke down and cried, heaving sobs. I couldn’t even feel my knee, so it wasn’t pain-related; it was the fact that a lid of emotions seemed to have had lifted, and it hit me like a truck. I started to cry that night, and didn’t stop for about a month. I couldn’t get out of bed, and conveniently for my work I was bedridden for recovery of my ruptured cruciate, which might need surgery. For work purposes I could hide behind this sports injury rather than my breakdown. I didn’t want anyone to know I’d failed; that I couldn’t cope, couldn’t keep up.
Those long days in bed gave me a lot of time to think, and forced me to spend time recovering because there wasn’t much else I could do. I also started to talk to a professional about what was really going on for me, in a bid to figure out what I should do next.
That turned out to be to wipe the slate clean and start again. To throw out everything that wasn’t working and figure out what would. My relationship, my job – even the beach house – all ended so I could begin the rebuild and finally devote time to who I was and what I wanted.
I knew something had to change, and decided that that ‘something’ was everything.
My reinvention wasn’t a revelation that came to me in the middle of the night during a ‘seeing the light’ moment. It was more of a ‘hitting a brick wall’ kind of moment: I hit the wall, and then the wall came crashing down on top of me. It was a choice my body helped me make, because it realised after a year of hints that I wasn’t getting the message.
When I think back, the signs were there. It was a slow burn; it was just always more convenient for me not to notice. I was always on the verge of getting sick, battling a tiredness no amount of sleep or long weekends could cure. My batteries always seemed to be running on empty, and I’d lost my motivation for practically everything. I didn’t have any joy in my work, or in the things I used to enjoy in life. I’d excuse this malaise at the weekend, telling myself I was tired and rest was the right thing to do to offset the busyness, and then I’d throw myself into my work to keep my mind off these gnawing doubts and problems.
I withdrew from friends, as I hadn’t the energy to socialise. I justified it by telling them how big and important my job was, and in my own head told myself I needed the rest and that those with ‘my sort of job’ couldn’t be expected to socialise in the week; it wasn’t part of the deal. The truth was I’d lost interest in being around others or having fun or making an effort to do anything really. The irony was that this big job that took up so much of my life and was the Holy Grail of career success actually no longer interested me either. I’d lost my passion for the very thing I was making all these sacrifices for. I didn’t want to be at work; I couldn’t really care less about the work I was doing, such was my burnout. In hindsight I can see that I was checking out, losing motivation and ultimately disengaging from work and life because of my burnout.
I’d got into the habit of drinking a bottle of wine every Friday to unwind, and got out of the habit of exercise. Before my burnout that would be another thing I’d cram in so my life had all the hallmarks of success. I’d go to 6 am yoga or head to the gym after work but just prior to my burnout even that had slipped: I’d treat myself to takeaways because I had no energy to cook and, well, I needed a treat. Life was hard – this was self-care, wasn’t it? I’d tell myself I could do more self-care when my holidays rolled around, but of course it was never the right time to take leave, so they never did come around.
So, at 31, I gave it all up and started again, in a bid to recover from my burnout and to ensure that I never got this low again. I wanted to rebuild my life around my passions. If plan A wasn’t the answer, as everyone had led me to believe, what was?
I walked away from my long-term relationship, gave up my career in the corporate world and decided on a complete change of direction: I would follow my passion for writing books.
Part of my recovery included a trip to Bali (isn’t that where everyone goes when they burn out?) and another part involved spending time back in the UK with those who I loved and needed around. I interspersed these with many retreats and ashram stays, at which I could devote time to yoga, mindfulness, silence, meditation and reconnecting with myself.
This turned out to be the turning point.
I spent a year writing my first book and doing other things that made my heart sing, including travelling the circumference of Australia in a camper van and visiting Bhutan. I taught English to Buddhist monks in Thailand, and lived in ashrams and mindfulness centres.
I had always been sold on the concept that a good job and a regular income provides you with reliability. It’s scary not to have a pay cheque coming into your account every month, and for me it was the first time I wasn’t earning since I had been old enough to work.
I returned to New Zealand as a qualified coach, yoga teacher and mindfulness practitioner, with no money in my bank account. This is how I began the next chapter of my life. Based in Wellington, where I didn’t know anyone, I began putting on events, coaching and writing my second book, sharing what I’d learned and my passion with others. Within six weeks, I met the woman who is now my wife, and by the end of the year, I had a second book, a business, a new home and a dog!
In hindsight, I realise that, during my time in the corporate world, I burnt out because I was too busy trying to prove myself and looking after everyone else around me. I was juggling too many things and trying to make them all perfect, yet barely keeping up. I’d beat myself up for not having the energy to go to the gym or get up early for yoga before work. I spent a lot of hours travelling and in meetings – earning a living but not making a life.
However, my time in the corporate world provided me with some valuable research for the work I do now. I noticed some recurring themes as I worked in human resources (HR) with leadership teams across multiple countries and industries. Being in HR, you have a unique position, in that you’re often the coach and confidante of senior leaders. Not only do you get to sit on the leadership team; you also get to be privy to the recruitment to the team, and to talent and performance conversations.
This, combined with my own involvement in sport as a captain and player across Rugby, Football and Netball teams, led me to a fascination with peak performance. How do we sustain it? What is the difference between those who can and those who don’t? I saw that it wasn’t about capability, as we often think. It was much more about our mindset, our habits and the way we did what we did.
My journey has come full circle. I find myself drawing on skills from my corporate HR days of coaching, personal development, leadership development and training, now with the added benefit of my years in studying mindfulness and understanding balance, authenticity and the recipe for fulfilment.
Find out more in the new book, Burnout to Brilliance, out now
