Burnout is not your fault. Here's why

Burnout is never the individual's fault.

Confession: I’m one of those people who assumes that if something is wrong, it must be my fault. Even where there is zero actual evidence of any causal connection, my brain will somehow find proof that it’s my doing.

Which is why for a long time I thought burning out was my fault.

I didn’t work hard enough, wasn’t strong enough, failed to be a ‘good’ person who persists through challenges, who doesn’t give up.

A lot of this thinking was planted by the ideas my father (and many of his generation) had of what constitutes success.

Dad grew up in poverty and uncertainty and made his way into the middle class by way of a university degree and a stable career as a teacher and high school principal in South Australia. He told me later that he’d never enjoyed teaching, that in fact he mostly hated it — but this didn’t stop him doing it from his late teens until his retirement at the age of 60.

The message was “don’t enjoy yourself or do what interests you, work hard at something of which society approves. Your joy is secondary (at best); academic and career achievement is what matters.”

As a little kid, I strove to manifest a string of As on my report card, because that garnered Dad’s approval and helped me side-step his anger and rejection. Once when I’d won a prize in a national mathematics competition, I insisted on staying up until he returned home late to tell him straight away, rather than waiting until the next day. I knew he’d approve and I wanted to feel his approval without delay.

Growing up, there was a steady stream of visitors to our farm. Tea was brewed and poured; Arnotts biscuits were laid out. Talk would often turn to how others were getting on.

“Simon finished his degree with honors and is working at an accounting firm now.”

“Ooh, he’s done well, hasn’t he?”

‘Doing well’ was synonymous with, ‘you’re good. We approve of you. You are someone we can proudly mention when we run into friends in the street, or a distant relative rings from interstate’.

Those who weren’t considered to be ‘doing well’ — anyone who dropped out of school, who held different political beliefs, who was a misfit — were spoken of in hushed, disapproving tones, coated with a thin veneer of faux-concern to disguise disgust. Even what seemed to me innocuous issues were harshly judged.

And if someone righted their course, and suddenly was doing something that qualified as ‘doing well’, they were quickly moved to that list. ‘Doing well’ was a title that was conditional, and once awarded could be retracted just as hastily. This conditionality meant that the atmosphere was constantly tense and emotionally unsafe: lots of eggshells.

The message to me as a little kid was clear: do well.

I didn’t go straight into a law firm after graduating, instead bolting for the bright lights and freedom of Europe, and for a long time my decisions were not the variety which defined me as ‘doing well’.

Eventually, working at a prestigious firm in Amsterdam and qualifying as a lawyer, I started to feel the warm if distant glow of parental approval.

My deeply held need for that approval was one of the factors which caused me to subjugate my own priorities and desires when I was deeply unhappy. I hoped that if I just worked hard enough, I would become the sort of person who thrives in corporate law.

Fake it ’til you make it, right?

A face of makeup, high heels, corporate attire and business cards that bore the name Allen & Overy formed my armor. No one could question me, my intelligence, my decisions, my career. As far as anyone knew, I had made it.

As it turns out, once I had made it, I had to work endless hours on transactions that zapped my will to live. Once I was there, I learned that it was the last place I actually wanted to be.

Admitting it took years.

When I tell people I used to be a lawyer, they’re often surprised.

“You don’t look like a lawyer!”

Of course I don’t; I look like a hippy. Over the years I’ve created visible distance from my former life of wearing dreary suits in Northern Europe to match the physical distance of teaching surfing in Morocco to living as a writer, surfer and hiker in Southern California.

But authenticity doesn’t always require a 180-degree life change. Many of my friends make decisions that are genuine to their own journey, demonstrating courage as they go.

Admitting you are depressed and getting treatment.

Making a podcast about your passion.

Leaving a safe job in a huge company to work on a start-up you care about.

Breaking the pattern of generational abuse.

Opting not to have children despite pressure.

Living in a different country that better reflects your own priorities.

Getting divorced when everyone else thinks you’re the perfect couple.

Choices that align with who they truly are, not what society (or their family or anyone else) demands.

I wonder how many others might be like pre-burnout-me, trapped in their corporate uniform, desperately trying to fill the expectations of others, living a false life.

It is all too easy to assume we are alone in our struggles, and when I was burning out no one else at the firm seemed to be missing a beat. Later I realized that many of people mask despair, hide misgivings and present a face of ‘I’ve got this’. ‘I want this’.

And the real zinger, ‘I’m fine’.

For years I held it together, until I no longer could.

Eventually, with the help of a therapist and amazing friends, my angst subsided and the emotions calmed. I was able to trust my own capacity to find a way forward. A trust that has wavered but never faltered since.

A decade ago I asked, “What is wrong with me?”

Today I know that the very things I thought were wrong, are exactly what is right.

Originally published on Medium in 2020.