I had been ignoring the signs of my impending mental nosedive—the increasing anxiety, the burnout, the moments of dread that came with facing another day. I did what most people do: I pushed on and trudged through the exhaustion. I had accepted a “truth” that I knew to absolutely not be true: that strong people don’t need breaks or timeouts and just keep going.
Compromised mental health (and actively hiding it) has become commonplace. It’s why we all need to talk about it. To bring it into the light, offer perspective, and grant permission for others to share their own inner struggles. It’s how we heal and grow closer as a community.
This article, in part, is a retelling of my book Civil Warrior: The raw, gritty truth about anxiety, depression, and workplace burnout. In addition to transparency into my own recent spiral, I want to offer insight on the work and the wins that placed me on a path to healing and an empowering comeback.
The accounting profession is a shining example of a relationship-based industry. It’s one where we love community; where we crave it. Sharing our mental health stories serves to strengthen our bonds, superboost our sense of belonging, and confirm that none of us are alone.
Civil Warrior didn’t come about because I wanted to pen a memoir or self-help(ish) book. Journaling my mental health struggles was a coping mechanism. The book was a by-product of a life peppered with anxiety, sporadic depressive episodes, and soul-crushing workplace burnout.
As a life-long journaler, writing is how I release the internal poison. As I would come to realize, it also became a way to share perspective with all those who experience the heart-rending effects of declining mental health and crave a community to share and to learn from.
If you’re a living, breathing human, at some point you’ve come face-to-face with anxiety’s wrath or been sucked dry by burnout. The more I talk to my peers, the more I find this to be true. Too many are wandering around in the dark, convinced that revealing their fears or waving the white flag are out of bounds, signs of weakness.
They’re not. Quite the opposite. They are, in fact, the truest representation of strength.
Owning your spirals is how you survive them—and maybe, even turn the pain into something that matters. It’s my hope that all my fellow movers and shakers find something in my story that resonates, and that, perhaps, moves you to action.
Great leaders aren’t just good at their respective jobs. The real magic comes in the form of emotional intelligence—that thing that allows leaders to show up for their people when people can’t show up for themselves.
My recent crash was textbook: the mile markers on my road trip to Hell ignored and a dug-in belief that I could power through if just given a little more time. It took someone else to detect my pain, jolt me out of denial, and place me on a path of healing.
My then boss was that someone—armed with the emotional smarts to see that my old routines weren’t working anymore. She didn’t soak me with judgement or inauthentic sympathy but, rather, stepped up, placed me on medical leave, and allowed me to unravel (and eventually heal) in a safe space. Despite entering my leave kicking and screaming, I eventually viewed it as a gift. One that just might have saved my life.
At the end of 2024, my mind and soul had had enough: they cashed in their chips and threw in the towel.
After a few years of perpetual gut punches—divorce, death, and severe workplace burnout—I was living a “just make it through the day” existence. I had stopped eating and was getting little to no sleep.
I was operating in zombie mode, walking around empty and lifeless—craving the brain of someone stable and sane.
My brain had turned on me, firing off one unfounded lie after another: you’re a loser, worthless, a phony. My limbic system had taken over and left any hard-earned reasoning to burn up, disintegrate, and fly away.
After showing up to several meetings withdrawn and gray, my boss called me into a one-on-one for an open, heartfelt talk. I laid it all out for her: the sleepless nights, the panic attacks that drove me to the floor of my closet to rock and sob. I hung up only to receive a call five minutes later, my boss in toe with HR. I was placed on medical leave that day.
The first week of leave I stayed on my mom’s couch—a splayed-out lump of tears, insomnia, and hunger. I would experience short-lived moments of clarity and calm in thirty-second hits. As quickly as they would come, they would fade and leave me hopeless again.
As the days went by, those much-anticipated periods of peace were more frequent and longer-lived. They were the cracks of light I needed to get up, get moving, and be proactive in my own recovery.
During the second week, I started planning. I refined “My Program”—the name assigned to my carefully curated self-care routine. I upped my workouts, signing up for three additional days of CrossFit. I started sucking down protein shakes, despite the low-grade nausea left behind by lingering anxiety. I went outside for 10 minutes a day to soak up a few Vitamin D-rich sun rays. I practiced daily gratitude, mediated each night, relocated my work apps to the last page of my phone’s four-page scroll. My plan was aggressive, but it was the blast of fresh air I needed to reboot and revive.
I had turned the tables on my emotional collapse. I slowly started to rebuild my confidence and enjoy longer durations of rational thought. More importantly, my proactive stance chipped away at anxiety’s grip, slowly mitigating its power.
Over the next month, I got back to being me. In the weeks that followed, I banged out page after page, chapter after chapter of Civil Warrior. My only goal: To share my story and hope it helped someone else.
None of this was easy. My complete trek to healing and my continued work to stay mentally fit could go on and on, because the road to good mental health is never ending. It requires regular attention and daily effort. It demands that we are active participants. It requires vigilance and surrounding ourselves with others who get it and who care.
We all face tough times—a collection of events, situations, and schedules that can lead to anxiety, depression, and debilitating burnout. That’s why it’s so important that we continue to talk and share our stories. The more we do, the more we provide perspective to others who are struggling right along with us.
If you made it this far, my guess is that something resonated. That at one point you nodded along in agreement and maybe even uttered, “I thought I was the only one.”
I hope now you know you’re not.
Kristy Short, EdD, is an author, content strategist, and has 25 years serving the accounting profession. She can be reached at kristy@aliigncreative.com.
Sign up for PICPA's weekly professional and technical updates by completing this form.
Statements of fact and opinion are the author's responsibility alone and do not imply an opinion on the part of the PICPA's officers or members. The information contained herein does not constitute accounting, legal, or professional advice. For actionable advice, you must engage or consult with a qualified professional.