I took six weeks off this summer. I’ve endured the multi-tasking frenzy and mammoth workload of the startup scene since the beginning of my career and, after two years of running my own business, I was on the brink of walking away. I had sacrificed a long-term relationship and almost every penny I had for that business; to be frank, I was sick of the sight of it.
A family friend offered her place in Amsterdam for a month in return for minding the cats. It was just after my birthday, so in lieu of presents I didn’t need, I asked for contributions to a sanity fund, topped up with meagre savings (try GoFundMe, Patchwork Present or Trevolta if you’re tempted to do the same).
Until my departure I’d been a card-carrying member of the cult of busy and secretly proud of it. Psychologist Oliver James has written extensively about this; one of the side-effects of capitalism, he argues, is that it encourages women to define their self worth almost exclusively through their careers, to the detriment of other roles. I’d never realised just how tightly, and unhealthily, my identity was bound up with the nine-to-five.
The first week of freedom was lovely. I left my phone and laptop at home and walked the city for hours. I took in galleries, books and mountains of pancakes. Then I started feeling twitchy and it took all my self-control not to start checking email and Twitter. I needed a distraction, and fast. Tinder seemed as good a solution as any, though perhaps not the healthiest option, in hindsight.
Everything I’d hated about the app in London was great in a new city. My request for conversation and cocktails was met by a very clever American, who told me about his yoga practice and political affiliations over drinks. While he was interesting, I was worried about what I’d say when conversation turned to me. Sure enough, I spent the whole time talking about work. “Wow, sounds like you’re really in a difficult place”, he said. “Maybe you should stop taking work so seriously. Have some fun.” This was followed by an unhelpful reminder about the startup “valley of death” and an anecdote about a self-made millionaire relative. We went home separately.
After a few more depressing dates, I resolved to avoid talking about the business at all costs. I was horrified to find, , however, that when another well-meaning companion inquired about my interests I had absolutely nothing to say. Work had dominated every aspect of my life for as long as I could remember, save for a handful of weddings and birthday drinks. I’d formed no new opinions, discovered no new cities, made no new friends.
For the rest of the month, I had fun like it was, well, my job. It took a while to remember how, and solo nights out were particularly challenging (until I got to drink number three). Every time I got the urge to run to the computer, I’d go to a yoga class, doodle, or have coffee with a friend. Some days the anxiety got really bad and I’d just sit there, remonstrating with myself for not doing more or trying harder.
I’m aware while writing this that I was very lucky to have the break at all; it’s hard enough to find the time and funds for a weekend away, let alone a six-week sabbatical. But it was as valuable an investment as a new qualification – what is really at a premium in our frantic culture is the space to get some perspective.
Now I’m making better decisions. I’ve learned to say no to the wrong opportunities, and I have a renewed sense of purpose about where my business is going. Now that my daily to-do list has three things on it rather than three dozen, work has finally stopped feeling like a self-imposed prison.
