In 2012, I had taken to hiding and sobbing in a meeting room at the London advertising agency I worked for. I held a senior position at the company and, if I had been found, it would have been deeply embarrassing. But most days, I woke up feeling as if a lead weight was pressing on my chest; I would spend my commute overwhelmed by an inexplicable feeling of sorrow. Every ringing phone in the office felt like an electric shock. Hiding in the barely used meeting room, hoping for respite had become a regular occurrence.
But respite didn’t come. Despite my picture-perfect life – high-flying career, happy home and good health – my mind unravelled. I was signed off work with depression and, initially, spent weeks curled beneath the duvet with the curtains drawn, unable to face life, and consumed by shame. The good fortune of understanding bosses and private health cover meant I had access to drugs, therapy, doctors – whatever I needed. But real healing, hope and even a whole new career eventually came from an unlikely place: a vegetable patch.
