(Read Part 1 and Part 2 first.)
One of the toughest parts of burnout was losing running, right when I needed it most. Burnout robbed my energy whilst depression cleaved away my motivation.
Moving my body was a key aspect in getting through burnout. I walked every morning and spent long periods walking through nearby woods. I took up tai chi, lifted weights again and started rucking.
I started hiking and wild camping more frequently, culminating in a 5-day hike along the Beacons Way.
(Read Part 1 first.)
At some point in my teens, I started lifting smaller weights to gain some muscle. I have some vague memory of sprinting up a hill, too. But this must have been a one-off after reading something on Reddit; I never owned running shoes or any other kit.
It was new to think of myself as fit. Those bottom-group PE vibes took a long time to fade. In this hippie phase, I started to care more about moving and breathing well, and I would also go on long walks into any green area I could find.
My first memories of physical education involve a girl called Claire.
Claire was taller than most girls. She had the wit of someone 10 years her senior and—most importantly—the handwriting to match it.
Her sick notes saved me from several PE (physical education) lessons. But many were inescapable. Some days we were all crammed onto the sputtering carcass of a bus to be driven to a nearby field for the most dire punishment: athletics. Worst of all: running. 100m up to 1500m. The movement brought me no joy, only pain and embarrassment.
In my late 20s, I was struggling with anxiety. I’d started having panic attacks out of the blue. After trying to fix it myself, my partner sat me down on the bed and told me I needed some help.
Before my first Acceptance & Commitment Therapy (ACT) session, my therapist gave me a questionnaire to complete. It covered things like how much I worried and whether I thought my thoughts were out of control.
I’m standing on a frozen lake at 5,400 metres, halfway across the Cho La pass. My heart is hammering—not just from the altitude, but because each step sounds hollow and brittle, like something might give out.
Ahead, Pasang turns and grins. “We’re good,” he says, casually, like we’re strolling to lunch, not traversing a sub-zero lake on a remote pass.
12 hours ago, my alarm went off at 4am.
My clothes and water are wrapped around me in my sleeping bag to keep the clothes warm and to stop the water from freezing.
When I was 13 years old, I went on a school trip to the Forest of Dean.
The entire year came on the trip, and we all stayed in a wooden bunk house with 3 or 4 kids in each room. The teachers had their own quarters down the hallway.
We’d go on trips to nature reserves and railway stations during the day, and have lessons in the afternoon. In the evening, we’d all eat together in a tall hall with long wooden benches.
“Blessing, infinite in its modes and colours, often seems to me to be the very nature of all things, of all existence.”
—Rob Burbea, in one of his final emails
I arrived at The Barn yesterday for a 6-night solo retreat at the Hermitage. Walking along one of the garden trails, one of the coordinators asked when I was last on retreat.
“It must have been 10 years ago, at least”, I said, surprising myself. Had it been that long?
I sat against the wall feeling overwhelmed.
”Is there a part of your body that feels ok right now?” asked Susan, holding gentle eye contact.
I struggled through the fear and sadness in my chest to find somewhere safe.
“My hips”, I said.
“Ok, let your awareness sink into your hips”, she replied.
“I feel better, but it’s still painful up here,” I said, gesturing to my chest.
“Just hold the awareness down there a little longer”, she said.
It’s 8am on Monday, and I’m in my office at my standing desk with the Sun streaming through the window.
I’m kicking off the day with a frenzied triage of email, meeting prep and multiple to-do lists. Yesterday was bad enough that a second to-do list was created to manage the first one.
Slack is lit up with messages from Indian developers who were busy working while I was sleeping. They need my input on how to proceed.
A few days ago, I started a story log, as part of learning to tell better stories. Or rather, tell stories better.
Here’s how Matthew Dicks describes it in his book, Storyworthy:
At the end of every day, take a moment and sit down. Reflect upon your day. Find your most storyworthy moment, even if it doesn’t feel very storyworthy. Write it down. Not the whole story, but a few sentences at most. … What is my story from today? What is the thing about today that has made it different from any previous day?