Matt and I met recently to discuss the second draft of our research manuscript at the Sabbatical Project. One of the findings that we’re playing with is a comparison between our interviewees’ relationships to work, and that of an unwitting alcoholic. Specifically, what’s termed high-functioning, or functional alcoholism. We’re arriving at this belief because the most common phrase that people use to describe their relationship towards work — burned out — isn’t quite right.

Most of the people we interviewed weren’t definitionally burned out. Rather, they were able to operate at a relatively high level, often for many years and across multiple jobs. Their degradation may not have even been apparent to those around them. And the extent to which they are unhealthy, and not fully themselves, only becomes clear once they have extracted themselves from their routine relationship with work. For example, here are some key signs of a high-functioning alcoholic, with the terms “alcohol” and “drinking” removed:

• People who have a dependence on, or tolerance to, [work]
• Despite having the outward appearance of having everything together, they have problems [not engaging with/thinking about/stressing over work]
• Because they succeed in society, they are often in denial that they have a problem
• It is not until their health begins to suffer, or they experience major life issues, or reach an emotional tipping point that they realize how bad their situation has become

Quotes like this, from a finance executive, appear frequently among the interviewees:

I developed a number of health issues throughout that time and I just kept powering through. Every specialist I would talk to, every one of them was like, ‘This is stress related.’ And I’m like, ‘Whatever, I’ve powered through, I’ll just continue powering through.’ So, I kept having to get GI tests, developed migraines, developed vision issues, sleeping issues. I developed trigger thumb. It ran the entire gamut. And I was somebody who worked out, ate vegetarian, didn’t smoke, and didn’t drink that much. So there was no other reason for any of these health issues; it was all based on, just working 60–70 hours a week, which isn’t a healthy way to live. But I was continuing to be that and was on track to be a director. I wanted to become a senior director VP. I’ve done that most of my career.

Within a month of beginning her sabbatical, (the first part of which was spent recovering in Bali,) her health issues disappeared, with no medical intervention performed.

Two similar stories from two different consultants:

“My health was diminished. I had sort of pre-stomach ulcer stuff that had resulted in one hospitalization and basically orders from the doctor not to drink coffee and I’d already given up coffee. I hadn’t been drinking coffee at that stage for probably three years. I wasn’t sleeping enough. I mean, I’d never go to bed before midnight and regularly working-working until immediately before collapsing. Um, and then-and then starting early, starting as early as-as before, as always.” — Lorenzo

“I worked these like really, really long days — you know, just always, and my mode of operating was: you get up early, you work, you eat while you work, you work some more, you workout in the afternoon or in the evening so as to wake yourself up to work until midnight. You know, that was like sort of my mode of operating and like, you know, I had fun on the weekends and I had relationships and a fun life. My life was fine. Totally, totally fine. But I kind of treated myself like, if you’re tired, you don’t go to bed, what you do is you like work out to wake yourself up because you should just keep working. Right? But I had this moment of clarity on a work trip where I was feeling horrible about skipping a dinner with colleagues to workout, and I looked in the mirror, and said ‘You are not machine,’ like, ‘You’re tired, you can just go to bed.’” — Natalie

Another interviewee spent six years at two high-growth startups before taking a break. At one point, she got a call that her apartment building was on fire, but was so stressed out by the “intense draw of work” that she decided to wait a few hours before returning to salvage her (by then, destroyed) possessions.

A similar story from a University research lab director:

“It was like, every weekend I was at a cafe near my house. Like I couldn’t get through a weekend without carving out like four hours at a minimum to, you know, work on a proposal or do something. And so I was killing myself and I desperately needed a break from that. And, I don’t know that it was conscious, but like subconsciously like I knew I needed this break. Oh, I was overwhelmed a lot. I worked my f***ing ass off.” — Carter

To be clear, these people weren’t all magically cured and completely restored upon taking extended time off. For most, it served mainly to give perspective about a dynamic which they can now work towards solving over the course of their lives.

From that same consultant earlier with the health issues:

“I realized, what I thought was [my employer], actually wasn’t, it was me. And the source of getting riled up and stressed and that behavior, that mode of operating was entirely self-inflicted. And perhaps I was in an environment that encouraged it or made it difficult to break, but that-that was me. And so that was a massive insight for me. Seems simple, but it was a really big deal to realize that this was not an exogenous set of factors that was creating my health and stress and lack of sleep situation, but that it was an entirely a choice that I was making, and a mode of operating that I’ve grown accustomed to and, actually was relying on.” — Lorenzo

A manager at a design firm after her sabbatical:

“Upon returning, I didn’t leave [the company]. I’m much more at peace with me contributing to the mission, which I deeply believe in, while also not feeling like my identity is entirely interwoven in this organization. I was too intertwined with the company, which is why I threw myself at all the problems we worked on. I didn’t really realize that I wasn’t entirely conscious about making those choices for myself. By pulling out of [the company] and redefining for myself a set of values that I was going to shoot for in life, I just started feeling like I was driving as opposed to being driven.” — Jamie

How do we address functional workaholism? Our research suggests that sabbaticals — extended time off of routine work — can offer three helpful tools: greater perspective, decreased risk-aversion, and enhanced relationships with loved ones. Combined, these raw materials allow people to make changes, approach old problems in new ways, and restore balance between the competing priorities in their lives.

Follow along with our research updates HERE and at www.thesabbaticalproject.org

Originally published at https://www.thesabbaticalproject.org on February 6, 2020.

In the spring of 2017, I walked almost 900 miles through Japan. I was a rare foreigner on an obscure pilgrimage which connects 88 temples scattered across the island of Shikoku. Pilgrims, known as Henro, trace the path of Kobo Daishi, a monk who first brought Buddhism from China to Japan in 804 CE.

Embodying a Henro means donning a traditional straw conical hat, white vestments, a sacred sash, and carrying a walking stick with a bell mounted atop at all times. As with most things Japanese, there’s a richness and depth of meaning to the traditions, but practically speaking, it meant that it was 100% clear to everyone that I was a pilgrim, on a pilgrimage, at all times.

Shikoku is by far the least developed and most sparsely populated Japanese island, but much of the route follows along modern roads, through small towns and several cities. This means that almost every day you’re coming into contact with regular Shikoku residents, going about their routine: driving to work, meeting with friends, picking their kids up from school. Henros stick out like sore thumbs in the modern world; imagine a filthy, backpack-hauling through-hiker on Appalachian trail if it passed through the middle of Washington DC en route to Maine.

But there are advantages to wearing an outfit from the 9th century. First, it gives you access to the magical tradition of ossetai, or alms-giving to the pilgrims. Almost every day for six weeks — and often multiple times daily — someone would stop to give me food or money, or to offer me lodging. On such a solitary and isolating trip, it meant the world, and often brought me to tears. I lacked the vocabulary to sufficiently express my gratitude, and I knew I would never be able to repay their gifts.

Second, it’s an outward display of inner struggle. While very few people who witness the pilgrims on a daily basis have done the walk themselves, the pilgrimage has a reputation for its difficulty. Back in the real world, most of us are suffering somehow or another under the surface. Pilgrims wear it on their brows and the soles of their shoes. For six weeks, it turned me inside out, displaying my physical suffering and spiritual search on the surface.

Returning to the US, the importance of ossetai stuck with me, but I struggled with how to enact it with strangers in everyday life. People can easily detect pregnancy, and it sometimes squeezes out some humanity and creates connection, (oftentimes, as most pregnant women experience, the wall drops a little too low and people’s best intentions to be compassionate cross the line.) But how to tell if someone is hurting, or on a journey needing encouragement? Unfortunately, we don’t all have a pilgrimage running through our backyard to hone our compassion.

About a month ago, my desire to experience ossetai in the US arrived in the form of a torn ACL. Normally one to impatiently (read: obnoxiously) pass people on hiking trails, and generally drag friends on physically trying adventures, I’d never before had a bodily setback of any sort. After the injury, I was amazed at how the mere presence of my crutches moved people to connect with me. On public transportation, people of all shapes and sizes insisted I take their seats. In airports, security whisked me to the front of lines, despite my insistence to the contrary. Normally frenzied offices gave way and packed elevators cleared. One woman looked at me with earnest concern and asked: “I hope it’s not permanent?”

Looking to experience a little empathy? If you have good health insurance and a hankering for spending a few months indoors, tearing your ACL is a reliable option. Otherwise, I don’t know. Perhaps we can take a bit of extra time to offer ones’ seats to strangers, let people who look like they’re in a rush gain the last entry into the subway, or earnestly ask cashiers how their days are going while we’re ordering. Walking across an island in Japan, and tearing my ACL helped me to elicit a sentiment often attributed to various philosophers: “be kind to others, for everyone is fighting their own difficult battle.”

“Uh oh, looks like grandpa’s got a tallboy in hand,” said my cousin, the brother of the bride to-be.

Having officiated three weddings for friends previously, I wasn’t nervous in the lead up to my cousin’s wedding ceremony until I saw the tuxedoed patriarch clutching a cold Miller Lite in row one. It was a bit early to start drinking, and I was positive that the reception’s bar wasn’t yet open.

Was he self-medicating for what the more progressive relatives feared would be a chilly reception to our family’s first lesbian wedding? Lines from SNL’s “Xanax for gay summer weddings” skit flashed through my head as the rest of the crowd began to filter in and take their seats.

I ducked behind a pillar at the front of the foyer to gather my thoughts and take a sip from a water bottle I’d stashed out of view. My opening lines contained a sideswipe at Catholic wedding tradition, followed by a somewhat defensive chronology of same sex marriage legality; my confidence was waning.

What was I worried about? Though I hadn’t let the wedding couple review the script ahead of time, I suspected they would like it. Plus, no one remembers the ceremony anyway, least of all the betrothed couple. I’d been sure to keep it under a half hour, it would garner some laughs, and the setting was gorgeous. After all, the officiant’s role is less referee than doula; everyone wants you to succeed, even if they don’t approve of your methods.

— — — — — — — — — — —

My fears when officiating always straddle two rails. The first is textbook performance anxiety: will I lose my place or forget my lines? Will the microphones work? What other unanticipated, extremely embarrassing and visible, snafu would befall me? The second concern is something I have less agency over, and is much more complicated: looking a fool for what I represent.

More and more people choose non-religious ceremonies each year: the Knot’s annual study calculates a 50% drop in marriages within a religious institution in America over the past decade*, and Catholic weddings have dropped by over 60% over the past forty years**, even as the number of Catholics have grown. As an officiant, I’ve found myself uncomfortably wedged between religious, or at least traditional, families and their a-religious, non-traditional offspring. For many families, the officiant is a front and center reminder of the abandonment of tradition in one of the most sacred non-religious societal institutions: marriage. It highlights the schism between generations, and an open assault on what has historically been a proxy war over religion’s role in secular traditions. For example, just minutes before beginning the ceremony for my college roommate, his mother thrust a unity candle into my arms, entreating me to find a way to fit it into the ceremony somehow.

In the past, couples’ desires to have a wedding which more accurately represented their relationship or views toward religion took backseat to keeping the peace among family. For example, despite it being both of my parents’ second wedding, and occuring outside, on a boat, my father still went to great lengths to talk a liberal-leaning Catholic priest who’d never met my (quasi-presbyterian) mom into officiating their ceremony. It’s not clear if my grandparents were happy about this, but it certainly avoided the funeral which would have instead occurred had my Dad’s unemployed college roommate read quotes from Jerry Garcia.

— — — — —

The sound of the ukulele strumming “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” snapped me out of my thoughts, and I watched as the wedding party processed towards me. It was the stuff of millennial coffee table books: both bride and groom were female, the bridesmaids were co-ed, and practically everyone had hipstery suspenders, or beards, or both. It was Sunday, but only because it was Earth Day. A family of midwestern farmers sat side-by-side with Italian-Irish-Catholic aviators, in central Texas, where gay marriage had only been legal for one thousand days.

By the time I began, grandpa had presumably finished his drink, and it was out of sight. Over the course of the ceremony, the sound cut in and out, (despite rigorous sound checks, new batteries, and a backup hand microphone,) meaning many in the audience couldn’t even hear me, but the front rows were all family, who were all ears and encouraging looks. Some of my jokes didn’t land, but others made the couple laugh so hard I had to stop and regain composure.

Afterwards, many approached me to say that I did a great job. Some seemed to avoid me, while one gave an awkward non-compliment about how she, “was emotional all day, and was really glad my ceremony didn’t make her cry.” There were little more than rumblings about the non-traditionality of it all. What seemed to be less enthusiasm for wedding couple kisses likely had more to do with the sterile, cavernous venue. The most remotely homophobic thing I heard from our family was a half-hearted joke about how they’d expected the gay wedding attendees to have dressed better.

In the end, the most surprising thing to our older, more conservative parents’ generation at the wedding was how similar to a “wedding” it was: it was too chilly to be outside during the ceremony, the DJ was too loud (and bad), and they were the last table to be called up for the dinner buffet. To our generation, that was precisely the point; it’s just another wedding. During the toasts, each person mentioned how excited they were for the couple’s attempts to have a family of their own. The thought of their children’s generation’s nonchalance at this issue fills me with eager anticipation for a return to what weddings are supposed to be about: wondering what the guy drinking during the ceremony is going to say in his toast.

* https://xogroupinc.com/press-releases/the-knot-2017-real-weddings-study-wedding-spend/

** https://www.commonwealmagazine.org/decline-catholic-marriages