A couple of years ago, all the colour drained from my life. If life is indeed meant to be a box of crayons, I only had a few grey ones left. It was a classic burnout episode. I know “burnout” is such an overused word now, but I did have a burnout – and it felt severe and existential. My lust for life had massively drained away. I no longer enjoyed making things, which was a particular blow because being creative was something I prided myself on – it was a core element of my personality. Reading, writing, doodling: it was who I was, both professionally and privately.
A slow decline of joy and creativity in my life led to this burnout point. I grew up in the millennial “girlboss era” reading books about women who could “have it all”: who got up at 4am to have a blow dry, make a complicated breakfast and then take all their kids to school before having a productive day in their shiny corner office. On one hand it was an empowering message for young women to feel like they could take on anything. But, I fear that a lot of women were sold an exhausting dream that didn’t allow for enough focus on downtime, rest and simple unproductive pleasures.
The more outward success I got, the more I craved the forward momentum. I got high off a sense of urgency. Everything had to be done now. I consumed multiple coffees all day and buzzed my way through my to-do lists, “smashing” the day, and then flopping in front of the TV. People used to call me “a machine”, which I know was meant as a compliment. But it felt jarring.
