What The Water Gave Me

Tales from the Ponds

TW: Difficult mental health

I thought it was fitting to start this post with the title of a Florence and the Machine song, as her voice has been one of a small handful of artists who have the pleasure of being the soundtrack to my burnout and subsequent (and very much in process) recovery.

If you’ve been following this Substack since I announced I would be writing regularly, you will of course noticed that I have, in fact, not. That’s because my promise to you (and myself) was swiftly broken when, mid July, I finally, finally stopped. And when I stopped, all hell seemed to break loose and writing felt impossible. Honestly, everything felt impossible. I stepped down as CEO of Bloody Good Period at the end of May, but had to hang on, emotionally, until the middle of June for my leaving party. I then barrelled into the end the month finding reserves of energy here and there for my sister’s wedding, and mine and Alex’s honeymoon.

And then I was finally allowed to just be. Not work. Not campaign. Not even go anywhere. And following that came some of the worst anxiety I’ve ever had. Not just your classic, oh I’m a bit worried about this, but full blown anxiety attacks about seemingly nothing, heart palpitations, huge surges of adrenaline that made me feel like I was dying, all coupled with a heavy, heavy fatigue.

Lots of people talk about burnout when what they mean is tiredness, but lots of people also talk about being tired/anxious/depressed/detached when they’re really burned out. And actual burnout is serious, and all too real. I won’t go too hard into what it is, and its causes, as there are some fantastic resources out there, most notably, my friend Seyi Akiwowo’s own Substack, Notes from a Reluctant Adult, Amelia and Emily Nagoski’s brilliant book, Burnout (also bought for me by Seyi) and all of the expertise featured in Dr Laurie Santos’ podcast episode “Burnout and How to Avoid It” from The Happiness Lab, but trust me when I say every day felt like a nightmare I’ve only begun to wake up from in the past few weeks.

For some, it’s the pressure of working in underpaid, under-resourced caregiving professions, for others it’s giving over your days to meaningless work for a company that doesn’t care about you at all. They’re just two examples from people I know. For me, it was the result of 5 and a half years of constant adrenaline as I navigated setting up and running an inclusive charity, and all the trolling and abuse that entailed from refusing to adhere to the status quo, supporting a growing team through the pandemic and trying to lead openly and compassionately in a sector jam packed with ego and scarcity. Feeling like I had literally poured my soul into my work, thinking about it every moment. Even though I enforced strict work/life boundaries by the end, the emotional demands of something you’ve founded never seem to lessen or ease up.

And then I had to stop. With nothing to do but think. My therapist likened it sticking your fingers in a plug socket, getting electrocuted over and over, but instead of jumping away, I held on for years and then just assumed I’d be in perfect health. A helpful analogy to remind myself of why I’m still not quite myself, because don’t forget the extreme shame that comes with burnout - classics such as “CEOs are too privileged to burn out” and other “you don’t deserve to stop” records spun on repeat in my brain.

So I had to recover. Not recover so that I could bounce back and start again, but recover so that I could literally live again. I looked at my therapist through the Zoom screen a month ago and said (more to myself than to her) “I am never living like that again". But I did have to find a new way of living, and working because I don’t have a trust fund (the cheek of it) and I do need to pay rent. But even more than any need to work and and any ego-feeding, I knew my health had to come first. So I started to make changes in my life that would allow recovery.

The first change I made was meditation - every day I meditate with the Ten Percent Happier app (I wish I was being paid to promote it) and after that I go swimming. I go swimming every morning in the Kenwood Ladies Pond in Hampstead Heath. I swim alongside the ducks and the kingfisher and a dozen other women who have carried on swimming past the August heat. Every morning I remind myself how brave and excellent I am. I am not a water baby, nor someone my friends would be like, oh yeah, she’s the type of person to swim in a muddy lake. Noooo... I had a big old phobia of sharks, and by proxy, water for many many years, so much so that I didn’t even like baths, let alone swimming pools. I’m still not 100% comfy in the sea. I’m not an amazing swimmer, I can do breast stroke and that’s it. One morning I decided to try front crawl, casually, just you know, for the first time since I was 10. My god am I glad you’re not allowed cameras there.

I’m also terrified of what’s living in the pond. I spent a week thinking there might actually be merpeople down there like in Harry Potter before my therapist and I established that was probably my subconscious wanting to chat about a contract I was worried about (thank you Carl Jung - I appreciate your work.) Oh yeah, also I don’t like fish and I don’t wish to see any up close. And it’s fucking cold. OK it’s not that cold it’s currently 19°C but it’s no leisure centre. But every day I get in, with my John Lewis cozzie and scuba socks and I swim.

It’s been transformative. Just seeing what I’m capable of, beyond period activism, in something that has no benefit to anyone but me and the treasurer of Hampstead Heath has been… new. Getting physically stronger, braver, and noticing the change in my mood after every swim, seeing how the cold water can actively change how I feel has been reassuring. Naked, open air, cold showers among women of all ages and shapes has done wonders for my confidence. Not in a comparison way or anything, but in a way that feels like the very antithesis of what Instagram does to your body image. Learning to be patient and slow - no one’s racing here and no one gives a shit if you can do a front crawl (phew).

Next week I’m planning to do a mikveh in the pond with the wonderful Rabbi Debbie who married Alex and I in March. It’s a Jewish ceremony of water immersion that usually happens before you get married, but according to Debbie is actually perfect for any change in circumstances, to mark that time. I will be marking the end of the old life that I am never going back to - one of self-flagellation, overwork, and constant guilt and splashing messily into my new life, one which I am having to build myself up again into someone who loves themself before the rest of the world and understands that more than OK, but absolutely crucial.

The Ladies Pond is maybe the one place in London you’re not allowed to take pics, but this is an accidental one of the open air changing rooms where I sit and dry my toes for 85 minutes to avoid athletes foot and life.

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