6:30am the alarm blares in my flat on Camden Road, though I could have slept later. I set it not because I truly need to rise so early but because I dread the thought of falling behind. While the house is still quiet I manage to toss a load of laundry into the washer, pack a tin of buckwheat and chicken for Stephen, check that Jamie has signed his English workbook, and skim through the Urgent emails in my inbox. The bathroom mirror fogs up from the shower, and I only see fragments of myself: my forehead, lashes, the line of my mouth that has grown a little tighter over the past months.
I work as a project manager for a consultancy where everything is measured in deadlines and risk registers. Every minute a new chat ping pops up, and my hand reaches for the keyboard even when Im stirring the kettle. I know that if I dont answer straight away someone will assume Ive dropped off and Ill have to prove Im still there. Im always there.
Jamie, ten, wakes groggy and irritable. Stephen gets up before me and heads to the construction site, dropping Jamie off at school if Im running late. He isnt a bad husband; he simply lives in mustdo mode, just like me, and when he collapses onto the sofa at night his fatigue looks like a law of nature. I catch myself envying that honesty: tired means you can lie down. My own fatigue always demands an explanation.
On Monday I realised I was 41 when a birthday reminder popped up on my calendar a reminder Id set myself and then forgotten. I stared at the date, at the endless todo list, and dismissed the alert. On the tube I clung to the pole, replaying in my head all the things I still had to sort: approve a budget, collect an order from the depot, call my mother because shell feel hurt if I dont. Colleagues sent me short thanks emojis, and I replied automatically.
Across town, at the secondary school, Mrs. Helen Hughes starts her first lesson at 8:15. Shes 48 and teaches English literature, though lately she feels more like a dispatcher. The corridors roar with noisy pupils, parents pinging her on WhatsApp, the deputy head sending spreadsheets that must be filled in by evening. Helen carries a bag of notebooks, grading essays on the bus and in the kitchen while a pot of potatoes simmers.
Her daughter, a university student, lives on her own but calls almost daily, usually ending the conversation with requests: transfer some money, check the train timetable, help with paperwork. Helen cant say not now. She fears that refusing will make her a bad mother, a bad teacher, a bad person. She holds other peoples expectations like an unbreakable rulebook.
In the staffroom there are biscuits on the table someone brought for tea. Helen takes one, then another, and feels a rising irritation. Not at the biscuit, but at herself. She hears colleagues chatting about weekend trips, about who managed to squeeze in a massage, and the word managed feels like a thinly veiled reproach. She thinks, I could have managed too, if I were more organised. The same pattern repeats with every request that isnt her own.
At the GP practice where Dr. Susan Clarke works, a line of patients has already formed by nine. Susan is 52, a GP, and her consulting room smells of antiseptic and old paperwork. People walk in with coughs, blood pressure worries, certificates for work. She listens, prescribes, explains, and between appointments she answers the nurses queries and checks that the computer system hasnt frozen.
She rarely measures her own blood pressure, not because shes ignorant of the risks, but because she doesnt want to see the numbers. When everyone elses numbers are on display all day, your own feels like an unnecessary extra problem. At home her elderly father, who suffered a stroke three years ago, lives with her. He can get to the kitchen on his own but mixes up his medication, so Susan painstakingly sorts pills into weekly boxes as if that could bring order to everything else.
The fourth woman, Amy, is selfemployed. At 37 she runs a homebased nail salon from a studio flat in a new development, juggling a mortgage, two windows onto a busy road. She works from dawn till dusk because every cancelled appointment means a hole in her budget. She posts immaculate nail photos on Instagram, tags them available slots, and replies to messages at two in the morning.
Her boyfriend, Dave, lives with her but behaves more like a guest. He helps occasionally picking up parcels, taking out the rubbish but mostly assumes Amy is her own boss, meaning shell manage. Amy doesnt argue; she fears a clash will become a breakup, and a breakup will be another item on her evergrowing list of problems. She already has enough.
What ties them together isnt age or profession. Its how they each clutch life by its threads, as if the whole thing would fall apart the moment a single strand loosens. And its the constant chorus of contradictory voices surrounding them.
I hear these voices in the office, where colleagues debate productivity and the right balance. Social media feeds me videos of women jogging, sipping green smoothies, preaching selflove. I watch with a tired anger; their smiles feel like another duty.
Helen hears them in the parents WhatsApp group, where mums argue over afterschool clubs and tutors, and in chats with neighbours who can both scold careerwoman and giggle at housewife. Susan hears them in the waiting room, where patients demand attention while simultaneously complaining that doctors do nothing. Amy hears them in comment sections: How do you manage everything? and right after, You just stay at home, dont you?
My first anxiety attack struck on a Wednesday in the tube. I was standing in the carriage, phone in hand, reading a message from the boss: We need to close today or well fall behind. The train lurched to a sudden brake, and I felt a tight knot in my chest, as if someone had clenched my heart. The air grew thin. I tried to take a deeper breath, but it came out short and sharp.
I thought I was about to collapse. Shame surged falling felt like weakness. I got off at the next stop, sat on a bench and pressed my hand to my chest. People passed by, some on phones, some biting into a sausage roll. I stared at my knees, counting breaths.
I pulled a bottle of water from my bag, took a sip, and felt a tiny release. It wasnt instant, not graceful, but it loosened a little, as if my body were arguing with my mind. Ten minutes later I called a taxi to the office, typed a quick reply to the boss: Ill be in an hour, feeling unwell. My fingers trembled, and I imagined the tremor was visible on the screen.
He replied: Okay. Hang in there. The phrase hang in there is so familiar, yet now it sounded like an order.
Helens anxiety spike came as a confrontation. Friday night she was grading papers, the soup cooling on the stove, when her daughter called, panicked, saying she urgently needed money for some payment. Helen tried to work out what the payment was, while also remembering she had the schools volunteer day tomorrow.
A parent then messaged: Why did my son get a C? You must explain. A hot wave rose inside Helen. She snapped at her daughter, Wait, I cant right now, which hurt the girls feelings. Then she opened the parents message and shot back a curt, almost rude reply. She sent it and immediately regretted it.
She sat staring at the screen, shame clinging to her throat. She wanted to rewind, delete, do it differently, but the message was already sent. She turned off her phone, went into the bathroom, shut the door, and just stood by the sink, gripping the tap. In the mirror she saw red marks on her neck.
Susans anxiety alarm was medical but unexpected. After a morning clinic she felt a crushing headache and nausea. A nurse said, Susan, you look pale. She brushed it off, but an hour later realised she couldnt shake it off.
She went to the treatment room, asked to have her blood pressure taken. The numbers were high. She stared at them, thinking not of herself but of tomorrows packed schedule, of her father who would need meals, of patients who would complain if she cancelled. Then she heard her own professional voice, dry and precise: I need a sick note. Asking for it felt harder than diagnosing a patient.
Amys crisis manifested as numbness in her fingertips. One evening, while applying a polish to a client, she realised she couldnt feel the tip of her thumb. She smiled at the client, said Just a moment, and slipped into the bathroom, turning on cold water, holding her hands under the stream. The numbness lingered.
She finished the job, took the payment, saw the client out, closed the door, and sat on the hallway floor. The thought ran through her head: if my hands give out, everything collapses mortgage, supplies, food, bills. She searched her phone for numb fingers manicure and read articles warning of carpal tunnel, inflammation, surgery. Panic rose.
Dave arrived late with a grocery bag, saw Amy on the floor and asked, Whats wrong? She tried to explain, words breaking. He sat beside her, looked at her hands, said, Just take a few days off. He meant it simply, without malice, but Amy heard it as misunderstanding. A few days off meant lost money and angry clients.
These crises werent catastrophes. No one died, no one lost a job in a single day. Yet each left their previous equilibrium shaky. All four women sensed that they could not keep going the same way, but didnt know how to change.
That evening I came home later than planned. Stephen had already fed Jamie; a cold plate of pasta sat on the table. I slipped off my coat, sat down, and said, I felt ill on the tube. My voice trembled despite my effort to stay calm.
Stephen looked at me, asked, Heart? I shrugged. I wanted him to understand it wasnt just about my heart. He said, See a doctor tomorrow. Ill take Jamie. His tone was practical, not pity, and that oddly helped.
The next day I booked an appointment through the NHS app. The only slot was the following week, early morning. I wanted to cancel because I had a planning meeting, but I remembered the tube and the fear of falling. I messaged the boss: Ill need to leave an hour early for a doctors appointment. I sent it and waited, halfexpecting a reprimand.
He replied within a minute: Okay, let the team know. I reread it and felt a small tension ease. The world didnt become kinder; I simply allowed myself a tiny act without justification.
Helen went to the deputy head the next day, notebook in hand, the angry parents message printed out. The deputy head was stern but weary. Helen said, I lost my composure. Im embarrassed. I cant keep this flood of messages coming. Could we set a time limit for responding?
The deputy head sighed, Were all overloaded. Lets try a rule: replies by 7pm, anything later goes to the next day. Ill announce it in the staff chat. Relief washed over Helen, quickly followed by guilt, as if shed asked for a privilege.
She called her daughter, saying, I can help, but not instantly. I need rest too. The daughter was silent, then asked, Mum, are you ill? Helen answered, No, just tired. Saying it out loud felt frightening; fatigue in her world was something to endure in silence.
Susan received a weeklong sick note. Leaving the clinic with a prescription bag, she felt eyes on her as if she were faking illness and she did feel that way. At home her father asked, What are you doing here? She said, The doctor said I need to rest. He muttered, Rest is for the young. She didnt argue.
She called a socialcare service, as a friend had suggested, to ask about a parttime carer. They explained the paperwork, the waiting list, the necessary forms. Susan listed everything on a scrap of paper and felt irritation rise again the bureaucracy never ceases. Still, she started the process, because otherwise her blood pressure would become more than a number.
Amy didnt cancel any clients the next day. She shifted two appointments to the evening, one to the next day a small catastrophe in her mind. She messaged regulars, I need to lighten my schedule for health reasons. Some replied understandingly, others curtly: Okay. One client wrote, Are you sick? Amy stared at the message, didnt answer right away.
She found an orthopaedic surgeon online and booked a private consultation, using savings earmarked for a holiday that never materialised. The doctor talked about wrist overload, the need for breaks, exercises, and a splint. The word necessity sounded like a threat.
She told Dave at home, I need you to take on some chores. I cant do it all. He was initially offended. Youre at home, right? he said. Amy looked at him and, for the first time, didnt soften: I work from home. Its still work. If I collapse, we both lose income. He paused, then said, Fine, lets split the tasks. It wasnt a romantic epiphany, just a negotiation where she didnt back down.
Midmonth each of us hit a point of no return.
For me, it was a meeting with the senior manager. He offered another project, saying, You handle this better than anyone. Pride flared, then fear. I imagined the tube again, the breathlessness, the inner voice saying, Hold on. I said, I wont take it. Im at my limit. I can hand over the handover, but I wont lead. The room fell silent. I heard a pen click. He asked, Are you sure? I nodded. My insides trembled, but I held on not out of habit, but out of decision. He said, Alright, well reallocate. His tone held irritation, not anger. I realised the world hadnt collapsed, yet I felt the lingering dread that colleagues might label me as having given up.
Helens breaking point was the confrontation with the angry parent at the school gate. He shouted, demanded an apology, threatened a complaint. Helen said, Im ready to discuss the grade, but I will not speak to you in that tone. If you want, we can involve the deputy head and set a time. He fumed, but the deputy head stepped in and backed her. Helen left the office with shaky legs, scared, yet also feeling for the first time that she hadnt swallowed herself whole.
Susans point came when, on the third day of her sick leave, a colleague begged her to pop into the clinic for an hour to finish a report. She walked to the bus stop, felt her blood pressure spike again, and realised she was lying to herself. She called the colleague, I cant, Im on sick leave. The colleague sighed, Understood. Susan finally lay down in her living room, listened to her father tinkering with a tea spoon, and felt both guilt and an unfamiliar relief.
Amys turning point arrived when a client demanded immediate service, threatening to go elsewhere. Amy typed, I cant take it today, I have a slot Thursday. The client replied, That doesnt work for me. Amy felt a tightening in her chest but didnt apologise. She closed the laptop, made a simple dinner, and ate without scrolling. The warm food steadied her.
After those moments, tiny sustainable changes began to appear.
I told Stephen later that evening, I turned down the project. He raised an eyebrow. And? he asked. I expected a lecture, but he simply said, Good. Youre not a robot. It wasnt pity, just plain sense, and it eased a knot in my throat. I went to Jamies room, sat while he packed his bag, and for the first time in ages I wasnt thinking about the inbox.
Helen switched off notifications after 7pm. The first few days she still reached for her phone like a hot pan, fearing something terrible would happen if she didnt. Nothing terrible happened. Mornings still brought a flood of messages, but now she had a rule to lean on.
She left school with one stack of notebooks instead of a mountain, leaving the rest in the cupboard. At home she allowed herself to sit on the sofa, stare out the window for ten minutes, doing nothing. That nothing felt strange and hard, yet comforting.
Susan spent her week gathering paperwork for the socialcare service, visiting the local council office, submitting forms. The queue, the tickets, the waiting room it was draining, but at the end she held a document confirming her application. It was concrete.
She bought a new digital blood pressure monitor, because the old one kept spitting out odd numbers. At home she checks it morning and night, writes the readings in a notebook. Her father grumbles, but gradually he gets used to it. Susan isnt a heroine who suddenly loves selfcare; she simply stopped pretending her body didnt exist.
Amy purchased a wrist orthosis and set a timer on her phone for breaks. The first days she broke the rule when clients were late or when she wanted extra earnings. Then a sharp pain in her hand made it impossible to hold the drill. She closed bookings for two days, watched the money drain faster than she liked, but saw the world didnt end.
Dave started cooking dinner twice a weekAs the evenings grew quieter, I finally allowed myself to breathe, knowing that small compromises could stitch the frayed edges of our lives together.
