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  • When I Finally Told the Truth

    When I Finally Told the Truth

    Field Notes from the Edge

    ✦ Journal Entry – Shared During Peer Support

    A moment of reflection during a peer support session triggers an unfiltered truth: how do you go from being driven and high-functioning… to not caring if you live or die? This is the story of what I discovered when everything inside me stopped — and how a 17-year-old cat helped me move again.

    It was my second peer support group meeting. I had my cup of tea, was watching the dogs sleep, and had taken care of all the daily tasks I had set myself. I was calm, not stressed. But when it was my turn to speak, what came out was:

    “I don’t know how I got here. I really don’t. How did I go from being highly functional and ambitious to not caring whether I live or die?”

    It wasn’t said for dramatic effect. It was simply the truth. And it stayed with me long after the session.

    To understand how I got to this point, you need to understand a few things:

    I was raised German. That’s not a nationality, it’s a code. We don’t quit. We solve problems. We keep going. It doesn’t matter what happened — we figure it out, carry on, and keep moving. Efficiency and productivity are proof of character. Emotions are irrelevant to outcomes.

    So when my body started breaking down and my nervous system began to collapse, I didn’t know what was happening. I just thought I was lazy. Soft. Failing. I didn’t realise I was burning through the last scraps of survival instinct.

    The worst part? Everyone around me thought I was doing okay. Even I thought I was doing okay. It was only when I stopped — truly stopped — that I realised I couldn’t remember the last time I felt joy.

    It all hit me the day after my wife died. That night, I lay on the couch beside Pearl, my 17-year-old cat, who had been with me through everything. She stood on my chest, purred gently, and looked at me with those ancient, knowing eyes. I could barely move. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just stared at the ceiling, hollow.

    That was the moment I realised I wasn’t functioning. I was performing.

    I had been surviving on habit, structure, and responsibility. But inside? I was gone.

    And yet, in that moment of stillness, something shifted. Pearl curled up beside me. The dogs snored softly. And for the first time in months, I didn’t feel like I had to do anything. There was no one to impress. No one to fix. Just breath and presence.

    I’m still walking the slow road back to myself. I’m still figuring out what peace feels like when you didn’t grow up believing you were allowed to have any.

    But if you’re reading this and you’ve found yourself asking the same question: How did I get here? — know this:

    You’re not broken. You’re not weak. You’re just tired from holding up the sky for too long.

    And there’s a way back. It starts with stopping. It starts with telling the truth.

    Even if it’s just to a cat.

  • The Cost of Going Back

    The Cost of Going Back

    Field Notes from the Edge

    ✦ Journal Entry — Post-Corporate Reckoning

    Written during a stretch of intense internal questioning. This entry holds the weight of everything I feared, everything I was conditioned to believe, and the quiet truth I was beginning to uncover — that survival is not laziness, and peace is not cowardice.

    If there are two words that describe how I feel right now, they’re “overwhelmed” and “defeated.”
    “Exhausted” is not far behind.

    The truth is, I’m still reeling from the realisation that my return to that vocational world — in any form — is officially off the table. It’s not theoretical anymore. There’s no back door. No pivot. No quiet reintegration. That chapter is closed.

    And yes, there’s grief.
    But what’s catching me off guard is how loud the internal questioning has become.

    Am I giving up too easily?
    Am I being lazy?
    Am I just afraid?

    Or — and this is harder to believe — am I actually doing the right thing?

    The emotional toll of even imagining going back into that environment is enormous. I feel it in my chest, in my breath, in my focus. Just thinking about those systems — the metrics, the emotional load, the performance loops — and my whole body tenses like it’s bracing for impact.

    The part that’s hardest to reconcile?

    I used to thrive there.
    And now, it would crush me.

    So I keep circling the core questions:

    • Would going back re-traumatise me?
    • Is walking away an act of failure — or the first real act of self-protection I’ve ever made?
    • Are these the choices of a good man… or someone taking the easy road?

    I’ve sat with all of it — and what keeps rising is this:
    Returning would not be a comeback. It would be a collapse.

    The environment hasn’t changed. The systems haven’t softened. And no amount of nostalgia or loyalty can justify re-entering a space that my nervous system now recognises as unsafe.

    Even those supporting my recovery — medical, personal, professional — have echoed that this isn’t avoidance. It’s discernment.

    So what am I grieving, really?

    Maybe I’m mourning the man who could keep pushing.
    The one who could operate at all costs.
    The loyal one. The high-performer. The anchor.
    He served me well. But he doesn’t exist anymore.

    And in his place is someone quieter.
    More fractured, maybe. But more whole.

    Someone who’s starting to understand that leaving a structure doesn’t mean abandoning integrity — it means returning to it.

    ✦ Reflection

    There’s no blueprint for this. Only presence. Only truth. I didn’t walk away from a job — I walked away from an environment that made wellness impossible. And in doing so, I chose peace over pressure. That has to count for something.