It’s 7.45 in the morning, I’m clinging onto a lamppost outside my office in central London trying not to vomit from the overwhelming panic and anxiety. Sweaty palmed, heart pounding, jaw clenched, I sneak in the side entrance, go up to HR and say: “I just can’t be here any more.”
I left and didn’t return for four months. After a decade of burning out every couple of years and changing jobs, thinking that would sort it, I’d hit clinical breakdown.
I’d felt like I had to fight to be seen and heard throughout my entire career. From my earliest days when I was told to wear structured jackets with shoulder pads and sit on the edge of my seat to…
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