Dealing with mental health challenges and then going back to work after a difficult episode is tough enough. But returning to a workplace where your desk has been relocated, five colleagues have resigned, and they couldn’t even say goodbye because you had to switch off your phone… that’s another level.

Suddenly, everything is urgent now that you’re back. Deadlines have been pulled forward to impossible dates. Your calendar and inbox are packed with meetings and leave requests that quietly ensure you won’t be taking time off during any critical period. Then you spend 45 minutes wrestling with a new password setup because of an authenticator app, teetering on the edge of shaving your head in protest.

Finally, the day begins.

You have five minutes to shower, get dressed, eat breakfast, brush your teeth, drink coffee, feed the dog, and look presentable. You log in. Your manager is already on a call, scheduled during your absence, barely managing a smile and unwilling to entertain explanations.

All this, despite waking up an hour earlier to prepare for the unexpected.

No matter.

Corporate life is full of surprises.

Welcome to the new year.

The team lead’s email — a cheerful, all-caps declaration of “TEAM MEETING – MANDATORY” — lands precisely as the first bite of cold toast goes down. The agenda promises a review of “Q4 successes” and “strategic planning for the future,” topics that feel like they belong to a different universe.

The dog, at least, seems content. Tail wagging. Mildly judgemental.

Coffee in hand, a deep breath is taken. The laptop flickers to life.

The first task?

An online survey about employee engagement. Deadline: yesterday.

The irony is not subtle.

Before touching the mountain of emails or assessing the damage to active projects, the message is clear: your feelings, your recent ordeal — irrelevant. It’s time to be engaged.

The survey asks about satisfaction with “leadership direction” and “opportunities for growth.” A dry chuckle escapes.

More boxes follow: “communication effectiveness.” “team collaboration.”

A tiny section marked additional comments offers a brief illusion of agency. A chance to explain the absurdity of returning to a burning building while being handed a clipboard.

I stare at it.

What’s the point?

The answers will vanish into the polite void of an HR database, never to be felt by human hands.

Cold toast and lukewarm coffee are more real.

Then the notifications begin.

Teams pings. Email alerts. Calendar reminders. The digital equivalent of being pelted with small, angry stones.

The workday has officially begun.

Just when you think you’re getting somewhere, the requests multiply. What. Where. Who. Why. All urgent. All required yesterday.

It’s the beginning of the year. Q4 reviews are wrapping up. Everyone is aiming for 110% — which probably involved some creative accounting in pursuit of promotions, bonuses, or survival.

I’m no different. Except I didn’t lie.

There is no 250%.

If there were, I’d already be there.

My superiors don’t see it that way. Especially the man with 35 years of experience they hired to repair the damage left by the previous person — who was clearly hired on a budget, judging by the wreckage.

I spend most of my time fixing things instead of improving them. And by fixing, I mean patching — because there’s no time or capacity to rebuild properly.

Especially when you’re the only one who can carry your particular pile of bricks.

It gets heavy.

Every now and then, someone says, “You’re the best,” or “You’re so good.”

Those messages tend to arrive near payday.

Curious timing.

The problems keep returning anyway. Issues that were “resolved” last month crawl back into existence, angrier than before.

It’s Sisyphus, but with Wi-Fi.

The praise becomes a thin umbrella in a hurricane.

At least the coffee machine still works.

Small mercies.

Caffeine powers my writing, my sentence construction, my ability to exist inside the endless queue of tasks.

Each finished project feels less like achievement and more like intermission.

The responsibility settles in my chest. Quiet. Constant.

I start to wonder if I’m not just a cog in the machine…

…but the entire machine.

Trying not to collapse.

It’s almost six.

I’ve handled eleven of 163 emails. Joined seven of eight calls. Replied to four of twenty-one Teams messages.

I reviewed my Q4 performance deck.

Updated four of six documentation sites.

Helped two colleagues with stakeholder-facing documentation.

Assisted the head of marketing with copy and visuals for a new signup experience launching tomorrow — just before she leaves for maternity.

Skimmed developer specs for a new product that still make no sense and probably won’t three days from now either.

Moved desks.

Met new hires.

Listened to departing colleagues’ plans.

Bought my wife a magazine and emergency dog food.

Now I’m driving home.

Seventy-five kilometres.

Somewhere between ninety minutes and three hours, depending on the mood of the universe.

Having survived that — and already eaten while driving — I’ve written this.

So, being polite, I’ll ask:

How the hell is your day going?

It’s only day one.

There are officially 356 days until the next reset.

Oh — and I forgot to mention:

I’m juggling two jobs.

Full-time technical writer.

Indie author.

Oops.