I don’t know about you, but sometimes I want to read a person’s story and other times I just want to listen to their voice. I get it! That’s why I’ve also created an audio version of this blog. Enjoy them both! Flic x

When people ask where I've been the past six months, the only words that seem to sum up how I drastically lost my mental health to extreme burnout is that I've been as mad as a bag of badgers. 

Fucking burnout. Fucking badgers.

There, I’ve said it.

What the heck is this daft British expression? Think about it. A bunch of badgers hanging out in any bag—regardless of whether it's your vintage designer number, a folded up bag-for-life grocery number, or a hiking rucksack— is nothing but bloody bonkers. 

Simply put, when my life went tits up, I dropped my bag of badgers and they ran out of as fast as Usain Bolt, drank all my wine, and caused all sorts of carnage. 

The plot twist? I'm a mental health writer.

I know—comedy gold at its best. Stick with me. 

When I hit my late-thirties, I started to realise a dream of writing. My blog reached an audience who appreciated my slant on life. From there, I went on to get a social media manager job, and that step then led me to become a full-time writer for a mental health startup company. 

Bingo! Career dream achieved. I ticked the box for using my empathic ability to ensure people feel seen in my writing. I ticked a box for helping and empowering others through my words. I started to tick more boxes on my wishlist. Until one day, I stopped. 

Writing about mental health was right up my street. In the UK, I worked with children and their families who faced life-limiting and life-threatening conditions. I was part of multi-disciplinary clinical and community teams that helped care and provide therapeutic play programs for these mighty little ones who had to look life and ill-health straight in the eye. It was not for the faint-hearted. It was, however, awe-inspiring, incredible, and reminded me daily to smell the roses along the way. I loved it.

After moving to Canada with my husband (yes, a pint in a London pub with a handsome Canadian can result in something more life-changing than just a second pint), I worked with autistic children and early years education before hitting my laptop keys with steadfast passion. 

When I look back, burnout didn't just show up one day and knock on my door to poke me in the eye. No, on reflection, I see how I was slow dancing with burnout for a while. Fuck, I hate slow dancing. 

Then there was that time I went to see my lovely doctor. "How are you?" she asks. "I'm fine, I'm good" I respond. "I just have an infected nail bed. Oh, and also I’m wondering if I'm having a heart attack."

Dangerous thoughts swam round my mind. Fear gripped me as if I’d seen a shark fin in the water. Maybe I had a blocked artery? Maybe I had a terrible virus? Maybe you could have a heart attack from eating an entire packet of biscuits dunked in tea for breakfast? My doctor said the nail bed needed antibiotic cream—done and dusted. However, I was dumbfounded to learn that the intense anxious thoughts and heart attack symptoms were severe stress manifesting physically. It was time to get out of the shark infested water immediately. Time to breathe and take note.

Was I really dumbfounded? Not truly. For a while, my intuition had been telling me that things were going awry. My inner voice was screaming at me to put the breaks on. I responded by pressing the mute button. Saying no to work and saying yes to me seemed implausible. 

I believe humans, especially women, have an incredible ability to ignore their inner voice and warning whispers. After all, we live in a culture that values all the blood, sweat and tears that make up for grit, persistence and self-control. We're taught that failure and a shift in where the goalposts lie is a weakness. Shut up, put up. 

At this point, I had not only accepted exhaustion, but I chose to put it into little boxes and label them all neatly (with a nice pen—always a nice pen). My exhaustion labels read: being a busy mum, working from home, missing the UK, the tricky terrain of marriage, navigating startup life, teetering on the edge of perimenopause, a love of chocolate biscuits and dislike for celery juice. 

I just accepted those Flic Life boxes. But more worryingly, I also chose to ignore the whopping big boxes that stood like bouncers of a dodgy nightclub labelled: overachieving, overworking, and the biggest bruiser of them all: zero self-care or self-love. 

None of these boxes were helping me. None of them cared. 

Why did I ignore these boxes with life-threatening warning signs? In my mind, the only way out of burnout and severe stress was to do more work. To get all the work done, clear my plate, so then (and only then) I could take time to rest. 

Maybe it's because I'm a Virgo or a woman or a personality that loves to help others that led me to stand on point burnout? Perhaps, it’s also because when you emigrate across the pond, struggle to settle in a new country, have two scrumptious cheeky boys and want a good life for them you just do your damn hardest to make it all work where you are, regardless of how miserable you feel at times. 

So there I was, charging along my yellow brick road. I put my health and happiness on the shelf up high and out of reach. I carried on working all hours possible, never switching my phone off, plowing through big mountains of work, writing at record speed all while making sure I never missed my boys' baseball games, school plays and family events. The guilt of falling short on any of those was huge. I was a machine. I couldn't let anyone down. Sadly, I could not see that I was, in fact, letting myself down. 

I was running a marathon, except I was sprinting it all the way. I was sprinting without any cheering or recognition from others or without any self-created and self-loving boundaries. 

The scary part for me, as a mental health writer, was I could now fully appreciate how people came to suicide ideation. I fully understood as I sat slumped on the bathroom floor and struggled to utter the words help. Ending the round-the-clock excruciating stinging pain in my head (an immobilising brain freeze, but without the involvement or joy of frozen C's: cream, chocolate or coffee) along with gut-wrenching loneliness somehow seemed… well, easier.

Looking back, it’s fucking terrifying. I’m shocked to think I had landed in that space on bathroom floor.

This is what it's like to be human. Human with all the mess, confusion, shame, vulnerability and raw feelings and emotions. Would I say I had suicidal thoughts at the time? No. Would I say I had a mental illness? No. But would I say I was mentally well? Hell, fuck no. 

See, this is precisely why I think everyone has a bag of badgers. It's why I'm sharing my story. To show others that it is possible to thaw that painful immobilising frozen void you feel. And to warn others that everyday burnout, if not dealt with, can lead to terrifying territory that is much scarier than a bathroom floor meltdown.

Friends, family, coworkers would all probably say I was the one who always strived for positivity, bringing energy into the room. I would always try to connect with people. Lift and cheer them on. But as I focused on others, I neglected myself and didn't spot my own wellness walking out the door. 

Depression, anxiety, burnout, suicide ideation don't just happen to certain people. Even the strongest looking amongst us can suffer. We can suffer in absolute silence—so much so, you could hear a pin drop. 

I needed to go back to the shelf where I parked my happiness and reclaim the precious jewels of health and strength. Those diamonds deserved to be honoured and placed where they belong—smack bang middle of my crown.

We should always wear our strength and health like a crown. 

I've winced at some of the words I've typed so far. But when you spend three weeks lying in bed watching Daisy May Cooper in the medicinal and hilarious, This Country, on repeat while covered in a blanket of self-prescribed packets of chocolate buttons—you long to hear someone else's experience. To read the stories of others in a burnout shit storm.

I know there is content out there on burnout and mental illness. I know there are tips and tricks on banishing burnout. But these clickbait articles with their suggestive boxes to tick gave me no comfort at this point. I wanted to know how others got through a dark day and eased their tight anxiety chest, how others navigated their way through a panic attack, how others uttered the word... help. 

It's been six months since I threw the towel in on my dream writer's job. I did it for my physical and mental health, and I did it to model to my kids that self-care and self-love are the foundation of our life and wellness. 

Hands down, it was the toughest decision I've ever made, with a hefty financial impact too. There were a lot of snot-ridden tear-soaked tissues involved.

But the ultimate cure for burnout and all the mental ill-health that comes with it is not just self-care. I believe it is connection and all of us caring for one another, so none of us land in severe burnout town.

Whether you're reading this because you're experiencing mental ill-health or reading this because you're curious as to how the fuck a mental health writer lost her own mental health—learning and developing compassion for one another always wins.

Regardless of our age, gender or situation, carrying a bag of badgers is practically unavoidable. Life can be going tickety-boo, the badgers are sleeping soundly in their bag. You don’t even notice they’re there. Other times we hit a bump in our yellow brick road, and maybe one of the badgers escapes, perhaps one of them throws up, maybe you drop the bag, and they make a run for it, causing absolute bloody chaos. But when this happens regularly, when this happens repeatedly, then Huston, we have a fucking problem.

If you are someone reading this and thinking, thank god I'm not alone. My response is: you're absofuckinglutely not alone and darling, I SEE you. 

The writer Walter Mosley said, "Most art is built from failure." So here I am, dusting myself off, getting back up, and ready to start a brand new day—all while holding a bag of badgers.

Let's crack on with rebuilding from the rubble. You with me?

Flic x

P.S. If you know a woman struggling with #everydayburnout please send her this article and tell her from me that she is not alone. The one thing I needed to hear on my lowest of low days was that very sentiment. 

I see you out there, Sista. Please hold on, it does get better.