My Life on Stress Leave

Part One: Breaking Point

I could feel it slowly building for about two years. I was becoming more and more agitated, progressively more worn out. The shine of working as a professional was wearing off. The drive to make a difference, create real change and make life better for my patients was replaced by anger. I used to love my job, I used to feel lucky to have landed such a great role. For years, my work was fulfilling, meaningful, enjoyable even. But the longer I worked within it, the more exposed the system’s rusted, rotting foundation became. The structure wasn’t designed to support my efforts, it was designed to dilute them. The system wasn’t an ally, it was an adversary. Its driving force wasn’t quality of care, it was money and appearances. “Solutions” were, in reality, just band-aids. “Improvements” were distractions and “incentives” were misdirected insults. My time was commandeered by useless busy-work and mediating. Most of my time, the time I should have been spending with my patients, was spent attempting to jump arbitrary hurdles and apologizing for flawed procedures. How could I work within a broken system? How could I maintain my integrity and provide optimal care while working against the very structure I represent? I couldn’t. It broke me. 

It was a particularly tough year, at work and in my personal life. Some big changes at work shined a spotlight on the vast disconnection between the front line workers and those at the top making the decisions. It became shockingly clear how little the higher-ups understood about the needs of the patients and how little they valued the front line workers’ insights. It infuriated me. That harsh realization extinguished any remaining shred of hope I had that I could create real change, that things would improve. On the personal side, some toxic family dynamics reached new heights; to the point where I could no longer ignore them. Another relationship was challenged when rising tensions and old wounds came to a head. Then there were loved ones’ health scares and a death in the family. It was a lot to take. I, myself, had also developed multiple physical health issues, no doubt perpetuated by my rising anxiety and anger. Nothing serious but definitely uncomfortable and frustrating. As the physical ailments accumulated, my capacity for workplace and family stress disintegrated. I slowly sank. Month by month, I could feel myself being drained. I kept thinking that I could handle it and that it had to get better soon. There had to be light at the end of this dreadful tunnel. The light never came. Instead, the dimness faded further and eventually disappeared all together. My world got dark. I gave up. I had nothing left.

Although my counsellor had recommended taking time off work on multiple occasions over the years, I never considered taking a leave of absence. To me, taking a leave would mean abandoning my patients and my team. I knew I wouldn’t have any coverage and I couldn’t do that to my patients. I felt responsible for them and figured the guilt would consume me. I didn’t want to do that to myself either; I knew I’d come back to a complete gong show. Taking a formal leave also felt pathetic; like it would somehow make me a failure. Instead, I only considered extremes. I came very close to resigning several times that year. At least then, they could hire a replacement and my patients wouldn’t be abandoned. As the year wore on, as I sank lower, I began thinking that leaving my job wouldn’t be enough. I had sustained too many blows; my body was giving up on me, my mind was malfunctioning. I was living a life half lived, and I was so tired of it. By the fall, I had convinced myself that I was done. I wanted out, not just of work, but of life. At the end of October 2023, I crafted a detailed plan to get out. That’s when my husband stepped in. I had been in dark places before, he had witnessed other breakdowns over the years. But this time was different. I was by far the lowest I’d ever been and I was having an increasingly hard time hiding it. He saw it and bluntly asked if I was suicidal. I couldn’t lie to him. He took action and called my good friend, who I consider family and who is also a Nurse Practitioner. Together, they convinced me that I had to take a leave of absence, get back on antidepressants and accept any and all support available. I didn’t want to do any of it, I didn’t think I had enough fight left in me to endure the grueling process. Part of me was even angry that they were standing in my way of doing what I thought was best for me. I resented that they were forcing me to keep suffering. But ultimately, I promised to try. I made it clear that I wasn’t doing it for myself, I was doing it for them. I felt I owed them both that much. I kept my promise and embarked on what would be the most challenging, confusing and eye-opening few months of my life.