This post is a mirror of my substack post, which is where I’ll be posting going forwards. If you’d like to follow me, please subscribe to my substack.
It is Sunday afternoon in September 2013 and I am polishing my shoes for work. I am sat on our bed, looking out of the large double windows onto the shared garden of our Blackheath flat. It is sunny and the birds are singing. Stress is coiled up inside me. Work is busy and unrelenting. But as I rub the polish into the leather, I think about how it will feel in three month’s time when I leave my job for a year long career break to travel the world. I feel lighter, like dust motes in a shaft of sunlight. This is the first time that it really hits home that I’m taking a year off work to travel.
Three months later my wife and I get on a one way flight to Bangkok. We spend eight months in Asia and four months in Australasia. It’s magnificent. I write about our travels. The memories lodge deep within me.
In February 2014 I return to work. A new, exciting job. I’m ready for it. Although it turns out to be one of the most stressful jobs I’ve ever had, with long hours and many pressures. At the same time, I undertake a part time Masters in Creative Writing. This is my thing. I love it. I spend two years doing the stressful job and the demanding Masters’ degree.
Living in London makes us hate people. We want out.
It’s 2017. We have a child. She’s wonderful. There’s all the hard things about having a baby. Life is a blur. Two months later we move to Yorkshire. I’m doing a job that I specifically took so that I could relocate. For six months prior to the move, I’ve been commuting from London to Leeds two days a week.
My daughter is two and we’ve just moved into a house that for the first time isn’t a rental. I’m on a friend’s stag do, and I feel unwell. Very unwell. I am having chest pains. I go to A&E. I arrive at 8.30pm and am seen within twenty minutes. I get progressively worse during the night. I hold my friend’s hand as I think I’m dying. I am dying. My body is shutting down. I’m admitted onto a ward at 5.30am. My sodium levels are dangerously low. I’m given life saving treatment. I have a lot of tests. Five days later I’m diagnosed with Addison’s disease, a rare, chronic autoimmune condition that means I’ll be steroid dependent for the rest of my life. I have three months off work recovering, and spend another three months on a phased return. I get promoted.
The pandemic happens. Everyone’s experience is different. For me, it means that work is unimaginably busy. Time passes in a weird way.
I turn 40. It feels like a big deal. My wife rolls her eyes when I start banging on about a midlife crisis. She’s probably right to do so.
It is a Monday afternoon in April 2024. I haven’t worked Mondays for a few years. One of the best decisions I ever made. I’m giving my shoes a quick polish because that evening I’m travelling down south for a conference the next day. I’m excited for the next couple of weeks. Professionally, I feel on top of my game. It’s been a good couple of months at work. The occasional stress, but I’ve not let it drag me down. I’ve kept my good cheer. I reflect that this might be because I know I’m leaving. In two weeks I’m about to start my second career break. This time, I’m not going anywhere – I’m using the time to finish writing my novel.
This substack is the story of my second career break.
I’ve done it once before, and returned to work. I have no regrets. I’m doing it again, but this one will be different (fewer beaches, more screen time). I know a little of what to expect – the lows as well as the highs (hello existential angst from three months in my future). But, for now, I’m trying not to plan too much.
I will be writing about career breaks, creativity, writing – about leading an intentional life. I’d love it if you joined me.