A few years ago, I started an exciting new role. I was looking forward to being a strategic advisor to an executive, sharpening my strategic policymaking and operational risk management skills. Within a month, the world ground to a halt, and much of my job shifted toward supporting the welfare of staff – implementing a framework to ensure the physical safety of our teams, setting up initiatives to keep everyone connected, and trying to make sure no one felt left behind. It was meaningful work, and I was proud to be part of it. But the irony, of course, is that while I was so focused on other people’s wellbeing, I completely overlooked my own.
Like many others, by the time I suspected burnout might be approaching, the physical, mental and emotional exhaustion was already in full swing. I could spot the warning signs in colleagues - their tiredness, irritability, disengagement - but I couldn’t recognise them in myself. I thought I was “pushing through” and being resilient, but really, I was just running on empty.
When restrictions eventually lifted, I expected to feel a sense of relief and renewal. Instead, I found myself in an unfamiliar place: all the things I had relied on as outlets for stress or as sources of joy didn’t feel the same anymore. Running, which was my reset button, suddenly became a chore. Cooking, once creative and grounding, felt like just another task on the list. Even book club felt strangely effortful – like my mind couldn’t settle long enough to enjoy reading anymore.
It was unsettling to realise that the usual toolkit I had built up over the years wasn’t working anymore. I felt a bit lost without it. For so long, my sense of balance had relied on those routines and hobbies, and when they no longer helped, I didn’t know what to replace them with.
If I’m honest, I’m still figuring it out. I’d love to say I found a new passion, or that I’ve reinvented my approach to wellbeing, but that’s not really the case. What I have started doing, though, is being a little kinder to myself in the process. I’ve had to accept that it’s okay not to bounce back immediately, and it’s okay if the things that once worked don’t work forever. Wellbeing isn’t a fixed formula—it changes, just as we change.
I’ve also realised that part of the problem was my expectations. I was looking for the same feelings I used to get – expecting a run to make me feel refreshed or baking to make me feel creative; and when they didn’t deliver, I felt disappointed in myself. Now, I try to approach these activities differently. Instead of asking them to “fix” me, I try to notice what they do offer in that moment… even if it’s small. A short walk outside may not feel like the old 5k run, but it still gives me fresh air. Cooking a quick meal may not feel like an experiment in creativity, but it still feeds me and gives me a pause in the day.
I’m learning to lower the pressure on what self-care “should” look like. Sometimes it’s not a perfect morning routine or a Pilates class; sometimes it’s going to bed early, or saying no to an extra commitment, or just giving myself permission to rest without guilt.
Sharing this feels a bit vulnerable, because part of me still thinks I should have it “figured out” by now – it has been five years, after all! But I know I’m not the only one who’s been here. Big life events like the pandemic can disrupt so much and often leaves many of us rethinking what wellbeing means in practice.
For me, the lesson has been that looking after myself doesn’t have to be neat, polished, or even the most consistent – it just has to be intentional.
