Have you ever encountered a term that snaps you to attention? For me, that term was “workaholism” – and upon hearing it through my headphones earlier this year while immersed in an audiobook during my commute, I experienced a surge of emotions that intermingled recognition and distress. It took me back to the darkest period of my life.
In May 2016, while I was close to five months pregnant, I journeyed to a remote area of Norway to create a brief documentary for the Guardian. The Norwegian government was requiring asylum seekers – primarily from Muslim-majority countries – to participate in cultural education sessions focused on women’s rights. I was invited to a class in Moi, a picturesque lakeside town encircled by pine trees, located 100km south of Stavanger.
My pregnancy had been fraught with complications. I experienced significant bleeding at nine weeks, after leaving a broadcast on Sky News. It was the early hours of Good Friday, and I endured an agonizing four-day wait for a scan, ultimately receiving the reassurance that everything was fine. However, during the routine 12-week screening, my baby was determined to have a 50 percent chance of being born with Down’s syndrome. A 20cm needle was inserted into my abdomen to assess his chromosomes; while awaiting the results, I immersed myself in work, recording segments for BBC Radio 4’s Woman’s Hour. Fortunately, my baby was cleared of Down’s syndrome and any chromosomal abnormalities, but I was advised to visit Great Ormond Street hospital for a heart examination. By 19 weeks, my pregnancy was officially declared normal. I purchased maternity shirts to accommodate my growing belly and boarded the flight to Norway.
On the day of the class, I awoke far too early. The moment I opened my eyes, I sensed that something was amiss. My throat felt constricted and tasted salty; I was on the verge of vomiting, but this didn’t seem like morning sickness. An intense pain radiated from my right side, so severe that it left me gasping for breath, yet it wasn’t the dull ache of cramps that would typically raise concern for my baby. Could it be that last night’s dinner didn’t sit well with me? I took a paracetamol and attempted to return to sleep.
I hadn’t disclosed the complexities of my pregnancy to any of my editors. As a freelancer, I harbored a deep-seated need to appear constantly in demand and, being a woman, I feared that others might think pregnancy could hinder my job performance. Or, at least, that’s the narrative I fed myself. The reality was that I didn’t want anyone advising me against overworking.
But now I found myself unable to rise from bed. I called Tom, the thoughtful and talented video journalist collaborating with me, to inform him that I wouldn’t be joining him for breakfast. He expressed concern. He arranged for an urgent consultation with a local physician who diagnosed, “I suspect you have appendicitis,” as I recoiled in agony when she palpated my side. She warned that my appendix might burst and advised immediate hospitalization. That’s absurd, I thought. What were the odds of me having that after an already tumultuous stretch of bad luck? And what did a rural GP know anyway? Appendicitis is supposed to be excruciating. This was tolerable.
The class was set to commence in an hour. The paracetamol appeared to be effective. “Let’s begin filming,” I told Tom, “and if I start feeling unwell again, I’ll head to a hospital for an evaluation.” He hesitated, but I pressed on.
We filmed for eight hours that day and continued for three hours the following morning before our return flight. The 11-minute documentary we produced remains available on the Guardian’s website. I can’t bring myself to watch it.
While flying home, with my forehead resting against the cool plastic of the tray table to alleviate the pain in my side, I began to realize this was serious. Upon arriving at Heathrow, I took a cab directly to A&E at my local hospital, which sent me up to the maternity unit. A team of obstetricians, surgeons, midwives, and nurses gathered around my bedside, their expressions grave. They suggested that it could indeed be appendicitis, but due to my pregnancy, a CT scan to confirm the diagnosis was not an option as the radiation would jeopardize my baby. I was placed on antibiotics and additional paracetamol, and closely monitored for a week. I spent my days propped up in bed with my laptop, responding to emails and working on an article.
Then, one morning at 5am, while my husband tended to our three-year-old son at home, I unexpectedly went into labor. My baby was wrapped and handed to me to hold, yet tragically, he had passed away during delivery. Aside from me and the midwife, no one else ever gazed upon his tiny, perfect face.
By 10am that very day, I was back on my phone, sifting through my work emails. I had been invited to chair a judging panel for some documentary awards. I accepted. While being wheeled in for a scan I was finally permitted to have now that I was no longer pregnant, I lay on my back and emailed my editor to inform them that the feature I was working on may arrive a few days later than scheduled.
I left the hospital the next day, equipped with stronger antibiotics. Two days later, I returned to Sky News, performing my regular live segment. A few weeks thereafter, I underwent surgery to remove my appendix. And following another miscarriage a few months later, the routine was the same: I was on live television within days of losing the baby.
Eventually, I had a daughter who is now eight, four years younger than her brother – but I struggled to believe she was real until I held her close. My pregnancy was marked by constant monitoring and painful interventions; my loss at 20 weeks caused lasting damage to my cervix, putting me at a higher risk for early labor again. For nine months, every time I used the bathroom, I anticipated seeing blood. I buried myself in work, presenting a Panorama for BBC One, drafting a book proposal and – once cleared to travel – boarding a plane to Los Angeles to film a report for Vice News while I was 32 weeks pregnant.
None of this work was urgent, non-reschedulable, or even particularly meaningful. Yet, I couldn’t help myself. During the most unimaginable times in my life, my instinct – a compelling, deep-seated, inescapable urge – was to work.
Nine years later, I am haunted by my decision to push through the darkest days of my life with work. I have never faced anything as bleak since, but regarding my relationship with work, I’m uncertain how much has transformed. I labored seven days a week for two years during the pandemic, writing from Monday to Thursday and waking at 3.30am on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays to host a live breakfast radio show from 6-10am (before heading home to try to be a “fun mum” to my little ones). Today, I consistently work every Saturday morning, several evenings each week, during family vacations, and throughout bouts of Covid and tonsillitis. This is made possible by my very understanding husband and children, who are aware that I am happiest when I’m working. I work from home, so I’m still available for them. Or so I convince myself.
The documentary I created in Norway has been circulating on social media (migrants and their perceptions of women, it turns out, is a perennially relevant topic, especially following the protests outside the migrant hotel in Epping in July). This has meant that I am frequently faced with the most traumatic event of my life. However, I’ve started to reflect on my immediate response to it with new perspective.
It was while I was listening to Ed Zwick’s memoir about his experiences as a Hollywood director, and heard him solemnly and repeatedly mention the term “workaholism,” that I felt a sudden jolt. Like many others, I searched for it online (inquiries on the subject have spiked since the lockdown), and discovered that there are now numerous chapters of Workaholics Anonymous worldwide, including 14 different gatherings across the UK, from Scotland to Bognor Regis and Liverpool.
Had I been turning to work in a manner akin to how an alcoholic reaches for a drink? Was I utilizing it to numb my emotions and evade reality like a heroin addict? Could I genuinely be addicted to work?
“Many of us initially regarded workaholism as an addiction with skepticism,” states the Workaholics Anonymous Book of Recovery. “Isn’t hard work the key to success?” The term “workaholic” dates back to the 1940s and is often used casually – frequently positively – in capitalist societies like ours, where job titles, salaries, and other indicators of professional success can be viewed as scores in the life’s game. Workaholism has yet to receive extensive academic attention or formal acknowledgment by any global organization, yet most behavioral addiction experts now agree that it is feasible to become addicted to work similar to other activities, such as gambling and gaming, that activate our brain’s reward pathways. A research team at the University of Bergen concluded in 2023 that the “commonly accepted” definition of workaholism is “an obsessive and extreme compulsion to work, identifiable by an unyielding drive to work excessively, take on additional job responsibilities, and prioritize work over various aspects of life.” Approximately 10% of Americans are estimated to be work addicts. The repercussions can be dire: workaholics are more prone to anxiety or depression, to depend on stimulants ranging from caffeine to cocaine and methamphetamines, and to face a heightened risk of sleep disorders and cardiovascular illnesses.
Unlike addictions to gambling, gaming, or sex, there’s no helpline for those who suspect they are addicted to work. Workaholics Anonymous (WA) is essentially the only support resource available, and its website serves as the starting point for individuals like me contemplating whether they might have an issue.
Established in the United States in 1983, WA employs the 12-step method pioneered by Alcoholics Anonymous. “Workaholism encompasses both a substance addiction (to adrenaline and other stress hormones) and a process addiction (compulsive behavior) and transcends our paid working life,” the Book of Recovery elaborates. “Workaholism is less about the volume of work we perform and more about our emotional and spiritual connection to work and activity, and how it can negatively impact us and those surrounding us.”
On the WA website, there is a section titled “Am I a Workaholic?” I perused the list of 20 questions, acknowledging many of them with nods of recognition (“Do you immerse yourself in activities to alter your feelings or escape grief, anxiety, and shame?”; “Do you bring work to bed? On weekends? On vacation?”) while shaking my head at others (“Do you pull all-nighters?”; “Do you harbor resentment towards your work or colleagues for imposing excessive pressure on you?”).
I find relief in knowing that I can only affirmatively respond to about 12 of these queries. Then I reach the end of the list. “If you answered ‘yes’ to three or more of these questions,” it states, “you may be a workaholic.”
The in-person WA chapters I reach out to prefer that I don’t attend a meeting if I plan to write about it, but several regular attendees agree to share their experiences. Jen was involved in establishing the City of London WA meeting a couple of years ago. “It’s in the church behind my office,” she mentions. “As a highly focused workaholic, I knew I wouldn’t go if I had to take the subway.”
We meet at a café in south London on a day she’s taken off from her investment banking job. Jen has arrived early, and a neat stack of WA books sits on the table before her. “I came prepared, like a good workaholic,” she says wryly.
Jen had never considered that her relationship with work might be problematic until she entered rehab for substance dependency in December 2021. She’d been having frequent three-day binges on drugs and alcohol, and her employer had begun to notice. He supported her in her rehab journey, which she thought would last four weeks. Jen entered rehab determined to tackle her issues as effectively and efficiently as possible. “I explained that I understood this was a 12-step rehab program, so I could work on three steps per week within the four weeks. What could they do to assist me in achieving that?”
However, she soon discovered that recovery wasn’t a task that could merely be crossed off her to-do list. Jen ended up staying in rehab for three months, during which time she completely disengaged from her job. Giving up work proved to be far more challenging than abandoning drugs and alcohol, she shares. “I had never stopped like that before. I was incapable of just being present.” She realized that work was her “primary addiction.”
Prior to the pandemic, Jen’s standard workday began at 7:45am. “I felt guilty if I hadn’t clocked 12 hours and seldom took a lunch break. I would challenge myself: I wouldn’t permit myself to go to the restroom, eat, or grab a cup of coffee until I completed X task.” With her global responsibilities, Jen was always occupied – working with markets in Asia in the morning, then focusing on Europe, and closing out the day with the US. It wasn’t merely a matter of wanting to be seen as hardworking, she insists; she was profoundly determined to make it appear effortless. “That was the brand: hand it to Jen, and it will get done.”
When shut-in measures were imposed and Jen transitioned to remote work, her workload intensified even further. She would labor until 10 at night, often dozing off with her email open. In April 2021, she was appointed managing director – a goal she had aspired to for her entire career – yet instead of feeling relieved, she sensed an obligation to exert even more effort. “No single person in the organization grasped the entirety of what I was managing.” Hoarding work and performing it discreetly resembles alcoholics hiding bottles to consume privately, I remark. “It was precisely that.”
Jen characterizes her workaholism as a physical dependency. “It’s my internal pharmacy – adrenaline, cortisol, undoubtedly many others – but it essentially creates this stressful, fight-or-flight state.” I can resonate with this – it was the rush of being live on television that I craved just days after losing my children. It made me feel alive and invincible. Yet, a reliance on stress hormones can be perilous, Jen warns. “You can forgo eating or sleeping because you’re operating in survival mode.” The only way Jen could turn off was by drowning herself in substances. “I felt like I wanted to cut my head off and place my brain in a bowl of water to cool off.”
She traces the origins of this behavior to her childhood. After her parents separated when she was two, Jen, along with her mother and younger sister, became homeless, first living in a hostel before eventually securing council housing. Her mother pursued a PhD and instilled the belief in Jen that success equated to academic excellence. Simultaneously, her father remarried and had three additional children; he resided in grand homes and drove luxury cars. “He led this ostentatious life that I also desired. How could I attain success in both aspects and financially support my mother and sister?”
In the midst of all this, Jen endured years of sexual abuse. “I spoke out about it when I was 11 or 12, leading to a court case. Unfortunately, he was not found guilty. I could almost say that the judicial process was more traumatizing than the abuse itself.” Subsequently, her mother was diagnosed with cancer. Jen coped by immersing herself in her schoolwork. She would complete entire term-long math books in a single evening. She earned a scholarship to a private school, landed the lead role in the school play, participated in the orchestra, the choir, sports teams, gained admission to Cambridge University, and then secured her competitive job.
After departing rehab for substance abuse, Jen experienced a phased return to her career but still found herself seeking additional tasks to hoard. If her work emails had been addressed, she would contemplate writing her will, scheduling reminders for when her vehicle registration was due, “life goals, friendships to cultivate, aspirations.” Although she may have accomplished work-related milestones, she felt that she lacked a child and a home. She sped through the 12 steps for her substance dependency in nine months, soon afterwards volunteering to chair meetings, assuming every role and responsibility available within the fellowship. She was exhausted but unable to halt herself. “That’s when I began exploring Workaholics Anonymous.”
“I’ve had four miscarriages, and I was responding to emails from the hospital each time,” Sarah confides in a video call. “I’ve had family members suffer abrupt, severe illnesses, and I would sneak away to the restroom just to check my emails while being with them in the hospital.” She shrugs. “It’s a way to evade feelings.”
Sarah isn’t her real name – she prefers to maintain an even deeper level of anonymity than the first-name basis of WA, as she doesn’t want her coworkers to identify her. She’s agreeable for me to reveal that she’s in her 50s, works in consulting, has two school-aged children, and separated from their father three years ago.
“I didn’t recognize this behavior, let alone the term, until my relationship ended,” she shares. Her ex accused her of being a workaholic; the term struck her, just as it did me, yet Sarah did not contest it. Then, last year, she heard playwright James Graham discussing attending WA meetings during an episode of Desert Island Discs. Graham had been getting up at 5am to work, lying to friends and family about his hours, and frequently going entire days without food due to his workload. “I thought, goodness, I recognized much of that in myself.”
During the peak of summer, Sarah often found herself sweating profusely in her home office, not having the energy to cross the room to turn on the fan or fetch a glass of water because it would require leaving her desk. “I fear having nothing to occupy my time,” she admits. Whenever a gap appears in her schedule for any reason, her mind “reverts inward” and she feels despondent.
“I do take time off, as I have children, so I must,” she states plainly. On vacations, Sarah intentionally blocks out periods for her kids, planning activities such as swimming that compel her to leave her phone behind. “Yet that feels daunting,” she confides.
Sarah’s consulting role necessitates that her time be tracked so it can be billed to clients in six-minute increments. This gamifies her job: each working day comes with a score that can be improved upon the following day. “It’s thrilling to reach the target, to see it turn green,” she says, her eyes sparkling. “That contributes significantly to my self-esteem. But it resets every day, week, month.”
This strikes me as a dystopian capitalist nightmare, completely different from how I engage with my work. I am passionate about what I do, driven by that passion rather than by time constraints. However, Sarah insists that she loves her job, too. The issue isn’t the work itself, she asserts, it’s how she has come to depend on it for her fundamental functioning. “I literally cannot envision what I would do with my day if I didn’t work.”
Sarah’s inaugural WA meeting in February felt like “a significant relief,” she recounts. “People come for varied reasons, yet share one common goal: to cease obsessive working. With alcohol, the objective is to stop drinking – but most individuals cannot quit working, so you must figure out a way to manage it without unnecessary obsession.”
What does sobriety look like for a workaholic? “It’s quite similar in Overeaters Anonymous, where abstaining from food isn’t feasible,” Jen clarifies. “In WA, we discuss upper and lower limits – boundaries for positive and negative behaviors. Your lower limit might be refraining from working a 70-hour week. For some, it’s not the hours logged – it could be the level of joy experienced.”
Jen has been attending meetings since March 2023, going once a week. “It is just like the movies,” she remarks with a knowing grin. “My name’s Jen, and I’m a workaholic.”
Once Jen began to truly hear the other attendees in the meetings, she envisioned a future where it was plausible to work while also being present and at peace. Jen no longer works during weekends or while on holiday. After reflecting on all the important aspects of her life beyond her profession, she located a sperm donor, had embryos created, and had them frozen. “I could accomplish all of that because I had cleared up this time.”
I express my discomfort about having worked through my life’s most challenging periods. “It’s quite human to seek escape from something profoundly painful. The degree to which whatever you’re using to avoid reality becomes so powerful that it controls you – I believe that’s what should be examined,” Jen responds. “The best way to discover is to attend a meeting.”
But I hesitate to attend a meeting, as I’m fearful of what I might uncover. My work provides me immense joy alongside adrenaline. I’m reluctant to discover that I need to adjust my outlook on it, even though I’m aware that I have engaged with it in a pathological manner.
Jen locks eyes with me. “I think if you’re apprehensive about going to a meeting, that’s even more reason to attend.”
Mark Griffiths is one of the few academic researchers who has extensively researched work addiction. He is an emeritus professor at Nottingham Trent University, having focused on behavioral addictions for 38 years before retiring this summer. I emailed him (on a Saturday, scheduling it to arrive during working hours), and to my surprise, he responded within minutes of my message arriving, even though he is no longer officially working.
“I’ve been a workaholic for most of my adult life. Even now, in retirement, I still log too many hours each week because I just love it,” he states straight away. While others I’ve chatted with interchangeably lament the phrases “workaholism” and “work addiction,” Griffiths distinguishes between them. “I’ve authored a few papers attempting to distinguish the two. Healthy enthusiasm enhances life, while addictions detract from it. I don’t experience conflict in my life because of my work and how hard I’ve labored for decades. Hence, I am not addicted to work.”
Conflict is the fundamental element of any addiction, Griffiths asserts, be it to gambling, sex, exercise, work, alcohol, or drugs. The extent of time dedicated to something does not inherently make you an addict. “For me, a work addict is someone for whom work has completely overshadowed their life. They do so at the cost of everything else, including their partner, children, hobbies, and friendships. Very few individuals are truly addicted to work.”
Griffiths completed his PhD and became a lecturer at 23; at that time, he would work 12 hours a day, nearly every day. “I rapidly advanced in my career and traveled globally. Everything was fantastic.” Once he had children, he reduced his working hours, but he and his partner would both pull out their laptops once their kids were asleep to continue working. He maximized his working hours, yet it did not adversely affect his life. This exemplifies workaholism rather than work addiction, according to the demarcation Griffiths makes; the essential factor is that work fulfills him without causing harm or conflict in his life.
Mood alteration (engaging in something to experience euphoria or to numb and escape) and salience (when that activity becomes the central focus in a person’s life) are two additional vital components of addiction, Griffiths continues, but these elements alone do not classify someone as an addict. “I deal with major health problems, and work, for me, serves as the best painkiller imaginable. I feel no pain while working. Mood modification by itself is not necessarily a negative thing.”
Upon hearing this, I was overwhelmed with relief. I shared my personal motivations for wanting to grasp the concept of work addiction, along with my struggles with the idea, as I have no desire to alter my ways. Then Griffiths shares his story. Five years ago, he underwent major spinal surgery. “It rendered me permanently unable to walk. I’m now in a wheelchair,” he reveals; I hadn’t realized this from his camera setup during our call. Griffiths spent four days in intensive care and three months in the hospital overall; during the peak of the Covid lockdown, he had no visitors for the first 42 days.
“As soon as I transitioned to the general ward, my partner brought my laptop, and I spent the next two and a half months working nonstop. I genuinely enjoyed it. I delivered lectures to my students from my hospital bed. I was like you, Jenny: I utilized work as a way to suppress the reality of a really challenging situation.”
Similar to my husband and children, Griffiths indicates that his partner and grown kids have always recognized the significant benefits he derives from his work. Both of us likely push things further than most when it comes to leaning on work for mood regulation. Arguably, we have both misused work. However, as one instance of binge drinking does not qualify you as an alcoholic, abuse does not necessarily equate to addiction, Griffiths reassures.
“For a short period, you might indeed be neglecting your family and friends. But it’s episodic,” he explains gently. “For you, the behavior was functional. It was a coping mechanism that allowed you to navigate a trying period in your life. That’s not work addiction.”
We tend to use “addiction” too liberally in today’s context, according to Griffiths, yet work addiction is genuine, though not well understood compared to gambling and gaming disorders, recognized by the World Health Organization (WHO) and included in the American Psychological Association’s diagnostic and statistical manual (DSM-5). The WHO does acknowledge burnout. That’s what people report to their GPs, along with stress and cardiovascular issues, if they are struggling with work addiction. “They seek assistance due to the consequences of work addiction, the long-term effects that have come to a head.” Regardless, Griffiths suggests that if you believe you have a problem, you should consult your GP.
Jen and Sarah described their work like it was an obsession, a harmful, pathological compulsion. Griffiths depicted his experience as a life-enhancing passion. I hope to find a way to retain the rewards of my career without enduring the detrimental effects that would classify me as an addict. Thus far, I believe I have succeeded.
The moments I’ve felt driven to work have been when I sought to vanish into a simpler realm of inputs and outputs, known quantities, and straightforward rewards. I have abused work during times when I aimed to evade reality – through the pandemic and the loss of my children – though I could have chosen far more detrimental avenues. Today, with my family complete, I feel entirely at ease in the present.
I’m uncertain if I will ever watch the documentary I filmed in Norway. Yet, I no longer feel horrified by my decision to create it.
