The breeding ground
It goes way back. Maybe all the way to upbringing, but that’s another story.
Always wanting to do things right. Making sure no one could fault me. Never giving anyone a reason to criticize. Like a reflex, a shield, a default operating mode.
Add to that a pretty clear tendency toward people pleasing — saying yes, keeping everyone happy, avoiding conflict — and you get a rather effective cocktail for losing yourself.
In the professional world, it translates simply: I never managed to say no. To anything. To anyone. I went the extra mile without being asked, with a smile, all while feeling like I was never truly good enough, like I wasn’t doing enough. A permanent paradox.
The problem is, the working world loves this kind of profile. They hand you responsibilities, you take them. They hand you more, you take those too, and you say thank you. No one ever forces you. You’re the one reaching out every time.
The piling up
Year after year, company after company, I grew. Moved up. Took on more. On paper, it’s a great trajectory. On paper, everything’s fine.
But it wasn’t just at work that I imposed this on myself.
Kids, house, garden, dog, running. Boxes to check. A lot of boxes. As if to prove something, chase an ideal, match an image. The image of someone who handles it all, who’s got it together, who has a full, successful, balanced life.
The image of success.
Except behind the image, cracks were starting to show.
The signals
Insomnia first. Waking up at 2 AM, 3 AM. The brain spinning, anticipating the next day, the problems to solve, the emails to send, the answers to give.
Sunday evenings, next. Working until midnight to “prepare the week.” Telling myself that Monday would be easier that way. Spoiler: Monday was never easier.
The knot in my stomach, every morning, before getting started. That physical tension, right there, between the shoulder blades. So familiar it eventually disappears — or rather, you stop feeling it.
And then there were these stranger things. These almost-wishes to fall ill. To break an arm. To catch something serious enough to be signed off work. To have a legitimate reason to breathe.
When dreaming of your body giving out becomes a liberating fantasy, there might be a problem somewhere.
But I couldn’t see it. Because admitting things weren’t okay meant admitting weakness. Risking disappointment. Being seen as someone who can’t keep up, who isn’t making it.
So I kept going. Like before. Again and again, clenching my teeth a little harder each time.
Monday morning
It was a Monday. A Monday morning like any other, or so it seemed.
I found myself sitting on the floor, in my kitchen, crying. From tension. From stress. From exhaustion. I can’t remember exactly what triggered it. Maybe nothing in particular. Maybe just the last drop in a glass that had been overflowing for a long time.
That’s when something switched off. No grand heroic decision. Just the certainty that carrying on was no longer an option. That the cost had become too high. I contacted work that same day. Told them I wanted to leave. They agreed.
They assured me they hadn’t realized. I don’t hold it against them. How could they have known? I did everything to appear on top of things. That was the unspoken deal, for years: show nothing, let nothing through. Always smiling, always available, always “Doing great, and you?”
That Monday, sitting on my kitchen floor, I broke down. Hit rock bottom. And then I got back up.
What comes next is how you get through it, how you rebuild, slowly. But that’s for next time 😊.