By my early 30s, if you looked at my life from the outside, I appeared to have it made.
On the surface, everything seemed perfect: I had high-flying jobs in the publishing world – everything from journalist to editor to UK director of one of the world’s biggest business-to-business publishing outfits. I was driving a new, top-of-the-range Audi, holidaying in the Americas and regularly jetting off for business meetings in Paris. I had the Armani clothes, the Tag Heuer watch, private healthcare and a salary and bonus package just shy of three figures. On top of that, I had an amazing partner, an active social life and a house in the countryside.
But all that glittered was most definitely not gold, and I was crumbling beneath the pinstripes. My career no longer filled me up,
I’d been promoted away from everything I enjoyed doing, I was constantly tired, frequently ill and surviving day-to-day on anti-depressants and walking on sticks while the specialists decided whether my knees were beyond saving.