Hi, I’m Joanne, and I Call Myself a Recovering Career Woman

It literally took walking into a wall to wake me up.

At the height of the pandemic, I was at my dining room table, working long hours, running on autopilot as an Executive Director in the Canadian Federal Government.

For decades, I had poured myself into my career, believing that reaching the top was the ultimate goal. But when I finally got there, the view wasn’t what I expected. The climb had left me drained, and the reality of life at the top felt heavy, stressful, and strangely hollow. I was in denial about how my health was slipping away.

From the outside, it looked like success: the title, the responsibilities, the paycheck. I had built a career I was proud of; one I believed I had earned through years of dedication and hard work. But looking back now, I see how far I had drifted from myself.

I was so intent on proving my strength—on showing up as capable, reliable, unshakable—that I forgot what true strength really is. Strength isn’t about ignoring pain or pushing through exhaustion. It’s about listening. It’s about honouring the quiet messages our bodies send us, even when they arrive at the most inconvenient times, even when they force us to face truths we’d rather avoid.

Month after month, I ignored those signals.

My health continued to unravel in ways I couldn’t disguise. I was running on empty, my mind clouded with fatigue, my emotions raw and unpredictable. My body felt as though it was carrying the weight of the world, and still I kept going—automatic, relentless and totally disconnected.

Then came the moment I couldn’t ignore. It was three o’clock one morning when I woke up dizzy and unwell. I stumbled toward the kitchen in the dark, desperate for something to drink. My feet felt heavy, unsteady. I misjudged the turn and slammed straight into the wall. The thud reverberated through my body. My forehead throbbed, and I was completely disoriented. Clinging to the wall, I thought: Seriously? I just walked into a wall!

I poured a glass of orange juice, crawled back into bed, and stubbornly told myself:

“You’ll be fine in the morning.”

The next day, still on autopilot, I logged into a virtual meeting with my boss. She leaned forward, squinting.

“Joanne… what happened to you?”

I touched the tender bump on my forehead.

“Oh… I walked into the wall last night,”

I said sheepishly. Her eyes softened, but her silence said it all. In that moment, I knew I could no longer deny myself. My body had been shouting, and it was time to listen.

It would have been easy to blame the job—four different bosses in two years, a department on the verge of being dismantled—but deep down I knew the truth: I am responsible for my own life.

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It took a week of wrestling with fear and doubt before I finally made a decision. I told my boss I needed time off. I was terrified. I had been working my entire adult life. My old self-talk whispered: What will people think? You can’t just stop—you have a mortgage to pay! But that voice was quiet now. Something stronger had taken its place: the clear knowing that my health had to be my top priority.

That was the beginning of something new—putting myself first.

I started to care for myself, not out of guilt or fear, but out of love. It was slow, sometimes frustrating, but necessary. Some days my goal was as simple as stepping outside for fresh air. I paid attention to the basics—drinking more water, stretching to ease tension, reminding myself that caring for my body was the right thing to do, it was not optional, it was essential.

I had always leaned on logic. I used to make lists of pros and cons, analyzed every angle, and trusted that careful reasoning would lead me to the right answer. But now, I began asking myself a different question: Does this feel right? That shift changed everything. Honouring my body, respecting my energy, and choosing to live in alignment with my truth became my new compass.

I began practicing affirmations—simple phrases like

“I am enough”

and

“I deserve to be healthy and happy.”

At first, they felt awkward, almost forced, like words that belonged to someone else. But the more I repeated them, the more they began to take root.

Slowly, I realized something I had overlooked for years: worthiness isn’t earned through titles, achievements, or endless effort. Worthiness is inherent. I am worthy simply because I am me.

The journey back to myself was not a straight line. There were days I doubted, days I felt guilty for stepping away, days I wondered if I was doing the right thing. But each time I chose to honour my health, I felt a little lighter. Slowly, I began to rebuild a foundation of well-being that could support the life I truly wanted.

I learned that slowing down is not weakness—it is wisdom.
I learned that rest is not indulgence—it is medicine.
I learned that joy is not frivolous—it is fuel.

And I learned that my worth is not measured by titles or paychecks, but by the way I treat myself and others.

What surprised me most was how much courage it took to choose myself. Fearlessness wasn’t about never being afraid—it was about moving forward even when fear whispered in my ear. Bravery lived in the small, everyday choices: saying no when I used to say yes, admitting I needed rest when I once would have pushed through, daring to believe that my well-being mattered more than anyone’s expectations. Each act of courage became a stepping stone, guiding me back to my truth.

Today, I live differently. I call myself a recovering career woman because I now understand that my identity is not defined by my job. I put myself first.

I remember hearing Bishop T.D. Jakes explain that it’s important to “fill your cup so you can give from the saucer.” That wisdom resonates deeply with me now. When I am full, when I am nourished, when I am aligned, I can give more generously, more joyfully, and more authentically.

This is not the end of my story—it is the beginning of a new chapter. A chapter where I carry the lessons I’ve learned, the strength I’ve reclaimed, and the bravery it took to begin again. I trust my heart, I trust my path, and I take one small step forward.

And with each step, I now remember—my heart knows the way.

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