I squeezed my legs closer together, tightening my
pelvis. These Kegel exercises were not a conscious affec-
tation, rather a reflex developed to keep going. “You need
to go to the toilet,” my assistant pressed for the second
time that morning, running a perplexed gaze over the
private little dance I was doing in front of my screen. But
it was hard to find the time, you know? What with a day
of back-to-back meetings, followed by an author’s book
launch before heading to a friend’s birthday dinner and
then straight into drinks with some guy I was desper-
ately trying to find interesting. “You’re failing; being lazy;
it’s not good enough; you can do better” — these varying
phrases would ricochet through my head the next
morning, propelling me into my 8am therapy session
before a 9.15am Pilates class.
It was positively brilliant to be busy, though, wasn’t it?
The ultimate lifestyle accessory. Like those teeny-tiny
designer bags you can’t fit your tampon in, let alone your
phone — glorious in their uselessness. A sweet lie placed
on the tongue and swallowed. If you weren’t busy before
Covid hit, then what the hell weren’t you doing? I was
shaming myself into being the person I needed to be: bril-
liant at my job, admired by my friends and desirable to a
possible significant other. But by the end I couldn’t even
walk my dog or water my house plants, I was that unwell.
In my old life every ticking minute was accounted for
from the moment I opened my eyes. I’d combine a walk
to the Tube with a client call, and a trip to get a bikini
wax with an opportunity to order those Mother’s Day
flowers and book a table. Each action was multitasked,
every half-hour slot blocked out in my diary. I’d get
urinary infections regularly; I stopped noticing my
swollen bladder — I was distracted.
I started working in publishing 11 years ago, where, as a
comprehensive-school- educated girl from Newport
with police officers for parents, I was
regarded with confusion. A precocious
youngster (apparently) with an accent
who had stumbled in off the National
Express, and who was a little too
outspoken for this demure ecosystem.
This is the defining trait in conversations
I have with women about burnout: when
you’re in a system of power and you’re inthe minority within that structure — be it through class,
gender, race, disability or religion — you have to fight
and push harder for your seat at the table, to even be
heard, and are therefore more likely to burn out.
Alison Fitzgerald, 39, is an architect who has been
hospitalised for burnout twice, once in her sixth year of
studying and again when she was at the top of her
career working for a leading, male-dominated practice:
“It was a cycle that I couldn’t seem to get out of
because we live in a patriarchy where women are taught
to live their lives from a place of fear and not from a
place of value,” she says. “We have an exhausting and
labour-intensive relationship with insecurity. We’re
told we aren’t good enough, successful enough, beau-
tiful enough or intelligent enough.”
It was the same for me: I worked for everything I had,
and yet I lived in constant fear of it being taken away. As
my career developed, working hours and leisure time
merged — I gulped down the “work/life-blend” shakes
and disregarded the nine-to-five. I was my job. The last
person I spoke to before bed and the first in the morning
was a client. I was striving for perfection, a non- existent
standard I’d set for myself, stuck in a stress cycle, driven
by the panic of not delivering and the shame of never
quite being enough.
Then about two years ago my weekends started getting
quieter and quieter until the thought of making plans
caused too much anxiety. I withdrew. I was just too tired. I
needed to rest, just one more slow weekend and I’d feel
better. I was too ashamed to say I couldn’t do it any more.
Too proud to say it was too much. I fell head over heels for
the “fix you” industry, throwing my money at supple-
ments, health foods and remedies just to sustain myself. I
bought into the false script that women can have it all,
that being successful takes hard work, requires all of your
day. But in the end all that was left was an
anxiety- riddled and very sick woman who
was too ashamed to say there wasn’t more
of herself she could give.
The turning point happened last January
when I woke up and didn’t have the energy
to get out of bed. It’s hard to put into
words the panic that sets in when your
body grinds to a halt, a long, drawn-outAbigail Bergstrom had a high-flying career in publishing and an enviable
lifestyle. So how come, at 32, she suddenly found herself unable to get out
of bed? She explains why burnout among young women is on the rise
I was striving
for perfection,
a non- existent
standard I’d
set for myself
Mark Arrigo
The Sunday Times Style • 23