- I worked as a
pastry chef at high-end restaurants for 12 years before losing my job in the pandemic. - I went through so much physical and mental anguish on the job that I was relieved when I lost it.
- Editor's note: This post mentions suicide.
For 12 years, I made dessert for a living.
I always told others that I half-expected someone to walk into the kitchen one day and put an end to my frivolity. Who's lucky enough to make dessert every day and collect a paycheck for it?
So when my boss told me in March 2020 that I was laid off because my job was unessential amid the coronavirus pandemic, I wasn't surprised. In many ways, I felt relieved.
Losing my job was scary, but it was also the biggest relief for my mental and physical well-being
As scary as it was to face the fact that I'd need to collect unemployment, deep down, I was so happy to have permission to rest.
Throughout my career, I rarely took a vacation or sick days. I wasn't prepared to admit to anyone that I was horribly burned out. But the quality of my work had deteriorated, I was exhausted and unhealthy, and I hated my job.
The restaurant industry did to me what it's done to countless others - it turned me into a bitter, angry person.
I spent years losing myself as I gained success in my field
From the outside, I was a young success, but no one could see my desperation, shame, and pain.
On good days, I went through 10-, 15-, and occasionally 18-hour shifts with minimal conflict. On bad days, I had things thrown at me, got insulted and called names, and received abuse from chefs who never bothered to learn how to be decent people or managers.
I'd finish off every shift with at least a couple of drinks to take the edge off and soothe the pain in my back. On the weekends, I binged on drugs and alcohol.
Everyone I knew was doing the same thing. We all lived paycheck to paycheck, not only because of our lifestyles but also because we'd never really been paid a living wage. For a while, I was making $50,000 to live in San Francisco, one of the most expensive US cities.
I rarely went to the doctor because health insurance was an occasional extravagance, and what would the doctor have told me anyway? I knew I should stop drinking so much and eat healthier.
I also wasn't able to maintain a healthy relationship with a partner because instead of addressing or dealing with my trauma, I plugged into it every day. I used it as my fuel, and I spiraled.
Few people know that while I was on a team receiving three Michelin stars at a San Francisco restaurant, I made regular trips to the Golden Gate Bridge to contemplate dying by suicide.
I wanted to be the best and thrive in the upper echelon of American restaurants. All of my pain felt like the price I had to pay for that success.
This pattern followed me from San Francisco to New York City.
While others excitedly returned to reopening kitchens, I started prioritizing my own needs
A few months into the pandemic, my former colleagues told me they couldn't wait to get back into the kitchen. I didn't share their eagerness.
I was exercising regularly for the first time in my life, eating healthy meals in which I wasn't hunched over a sink in a restaurant basement, and seeing sunshine every day. I discovered therapy and carved out time for daily meditation practices.
I was also baking things I wanted to for the people I loved, not out of obligation to a company that didn't care about my well-being.
There was absolutely no way I was going back.
In June 2020, I decided to pursue a new career. By October, I had enrolled in a software-engineering boot camp, and now I'm looking for work in that industry.
My well-being means so much more to me than any amount of success in the restaurant industry
My identity was so thoroughly enmeshed with being a pastry
I'm not a natural at anything as I was at making
More than anything, I want to be emotionally and physically healthy, have financial stability, and find real, healthy love that I can nurture from a place of sincerity. I want all of this more than any amount of recognition or perceived success.
I'm also motivated to help other people like me.
We don't talk about mental health in the restaurant industry enough, even after losing so many to death by suicide or substance abuse. People who work in hospitality are natural givers, and when they're taken advantage of by an industry that refuses to adopt fair labor practices, they become husks of themselves.
Restaurant workers deserve better, and unfortunately, it's taken a global pandemic for some to finally start believing it.