FOREWORD
In today’s post, I want to share a part of my personal story, with the intention of highlighting how important it is to have your own personal space and to work in an environment that encourages growth out of enjoyment, rather than extinguishing it through burnout.
This story is about me and my first year in London. I decided to share it as a reflection, following our recent Mental Health at Work Day. I believe it’s worth telling because, even though conversations about wellbeing in the workplace are becoming more common, toxic dynamics still repeat themselves.
As we’ve seen in previous posts, burnout caused by workload is a common issue. However, there are even more insidious situations — like the one I’m about to tell you — where stress and burnout aren’t caused by the work itself, but by the people who are supposed to guide and support us in doing it well.
For anyone who recognises themselves in this story and doesn’t know how to get out, know that you are not alone. Even if precarious work feels scary and the job market isn’t easy, it’s never worth staying in environments that make you feel invisible or wrong.
When I moved to London back in 2014, I was looking for a change. I decided to go for love, following my ex, who was about to embark on an experience abroad. It was an instinctive decision, one of those gut calls you make without overthinking. I still remember the reaction of my therapist, usually so composed and distant, when I told her: widening her eyes as if she were drowning in water.
I was full of hope, yet living in constant ambivalence: all or nothing, black or white. I didn’t know the middle ground. I was 23, living alone, studying at university, working to support myself, and trying, somewhat haphazardly, to build something meaningful. I was in a relationship, had a close group of friends, but no concrete plan for the future. Additionally, used to struggle with managing excessively negative emotions. Everything seemed to revolve around love, as if that alone could give meaning to the rest of life.
I decided to take a leap of faith. I thought I would stay in London for just six months, enough to improve my English, then return to Italy to finish my studies. But the future, as always, has its own plans. What was meant to be a short sabbatical turned into nine years of life, work, and personal growth.
The first months were spent as an au pair in a family in Catford, deep in the outskirts of London. I had found this job while still in Italy, so that I could leave with a bit more peace of mind and some certainty in my pocket: a roof over my head to face this transition period with some stability.
I knew I would share a room with the children I was to look after. Back then, I didn’t see it as a problem—I actually thought of it as a chance for a full immersion (how I used to romanticise precarity, I realise now, both fondly and ironically).
I lived on £40 a week, which went down to £20 after paying for the bus pass to take the kids to school. The atmosphere at home wasn’t great: more than an au pair, I felt treated like an underpaid babysitter, with no freedom or days off.
It was in that situation that I began to understand how crucial it is to have personal space — a place, even a small one, to breathe and recharge. I realised that defending your own time and well-being isn’t a luxury, but a necessity.
After a few months, I decided I couldn’t continue like that. I wanted a job that would allow me to live independently and give me the time and space to pursue my passions. It was a leap into the unknown, but I was confident — a quality that, thankfully, still defines me today.
London then gave me a second chance: a full-time job in a German bakery, right in the heart of the city, on Tottenham Court Road. The place seemed small at first glance, but downstairs there was a spacious dining area that could host about fifty people.
When I handed in my CV, the manager interviewed me on the spot and asked me to return on Monday for a trial. I remember that day vividly. I arrived with enthusiasm and a strong desire to do well. I spent the first few hours in the kitchen, alongside a guy who showed me how to prepare sandwiches and organise the storage. It was his last day, and he kept repeating how much he hated the place and its management.
At one point, the assistant manager walked into the kitchen — a young woman who immediately seemed intimidating — and began arguing loudly with him in front of me. I didn’t fully understand the English slang yet, so most of the conversation escaped me. What puzzled me was how the rest of the kitchen staff continued working as if nothing was happening, despite the tension. However, I blamed it on the famous English coldness and didn’t think much more about it.
I spent the following hours with the assistant manager, serving customers and learning to use the coffee machine. I felt the tension in the air, but I was too focused on proving that I deserved that job to care.
At the end of the shift, I thought it wasn’t so bad. They offered me the job with a permanent contract — something that, for an Italian mindset, sounded like a golden ticket to security, happiness, and retirement.
Some time later, I realised how wrong I was. That place was extremely toxic: breaks were seen as a weakness, laughing was considered unprofessional, and the real motivators for employees to stay were the salary and having weekends free from the manager’s presence.
Outside of work, my colleagues and I started meeting regularly — those were our only moments where we could be ourselves, where laughter had no consequences. Thanks to that group cohesion, we reclaimed a bit of ourselves, letting our personalities out. Inside the store, however, fear was constant. Trying to bring a bit of lightness to that environment cost two people their jobs. The assistant manager seemed to feed on tension, and those who didn’t comply were excluded or punished. Not surprisingly, those of us who tried to report the situation to management were sanctioned with unpaid days or warnings. It was a silent hell, built on daily humiliation.
The darkest point came when I realised I was starting to believe it: maybe I really was worthless. Her words — criticisms, tone, expectations — had become my inner voice. Not making a “perfect” coffee felt like a personal failure. I had internalised her absurd standards and forgotten who I was.
After a particularly harsh episode of bullying from her, something clicked inside me, and woke me from that mix of stress and depression. I understood I had to leave, and I did. Luckily, I quickly found a new job as a barista in a large chain. I stayed there for about four years — years of encounters, experiences, people, and situations that taught me so much. But that is a story for next time..
Looking back, I realise that period marked the beginning of an essential awareness: mental health is not just an individual matter, but also a collective one. A toxic environment doesn’t appear out of nowhere, but it grows in the silence of those who endure it and the indifference of those who allow it. That’s why today I believe that openly talking about psychological well-being at work is an act of responsibility, not weakness.
If I think about 23-year-old me, confused and eager to please everyone, I would tell her that perfection isn’t necessary to deserve respect. A good leader doesn’t scare you, but helps you grow. That work should make you feel part of something, not crush you into doubting your own worth. Productivity doesn’t come from pressure; it comes from trust, respect, and belonging. Perhaps this is where my attention to the environment around me comes from: I know how much a toxic context can hurt — and how much, on the contrary, a healthy context can help you flourish.
In conclusion, I think that experience, as difficult as it was, was my first true encounter with the concept of boundaries. It taught me that protecting yourself from environments that drain you is not selfish, but an act of self-respect.
Today, when I think of work, I think of how important it is to feel seen, heard, and valued. A good workplace isn’t just a place where productivity is high, but a space where a person can exist fully — with their fragilities, creativity, and need to breathe. Mental well-being is not built through corporate policies, but through the quality of the relationships we live every day.
Spoiler: You might be wondering what happened to that bakery and its assistant manager. The shop closed a few months after I left, going bankrupt. Over time, we learned indirectly that the manager was facing personal issues during her time at the store, which probably fueled her anger.
For years, I had harboured resentment, but knowing what she was going through allowed compassion and understanding to take over. Today, we don’t know where she is or what she’s doing, but her story made me realise something crucial: we never really know what someone else is going through. Often, we are quick to judge someone as “mean” or “toxic” without considering that their behavior may be a consequence of personal struggles. Her anger created distance, building a barrier of fear that kept us from approaching or genuinely caring about her. Maybe asking how she was doing would have made things worse… or maybe not. We’ll never know.
The point is that we always need to be mindful: judging without understanding can lead to wrong conclusions. Pain is often invisible, and carrying it inside for too long can consume the soul. Mindfulness and breathing practices help release what weighs on us before it becomes toxic, allowing us to maintain balance and clarity.
Talking about what happens to us can foster friendship and support, it’s never a sign of weakness. And please, let’s start seeing therapy as a genuine form of emotional care: something that always does us good, and that humanity deeply needs.
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