I used to think hard work was the ultimate virtue.
If you put in the hours, stayed late, answered emails at midnight — you’d get ahead. That’s what I believed when I joined Apex Consulting in Chicago straight out of my MBA in 2019. I was 25, ambitious, ready to climb.
Apex was a management consulting firm — boutique but aggressive, working with Fortune 500 clients on turnarounds, cost-cutting, digital transformations. The culture was intense from day one: “We don’t hire people who watch the clock.” Everyone bragged about all-nighters. The partners walked around like rock stars. The money was good — starting salary $95k, big bonuses if you billed enough hours.
I wanted to be one of the best.
My first project was a six-month engagement for a manufacturing client. Official schedule: 45–50 hours a week. Reality: 70–80. We flew out Monday morning, stayed in a hotel near the client site, worked until midnight most nights, flew back Friday evening. Weekends were for catching up on slides, emails, prep for the next week.
I thrived on it at first. Adrenaline carried me. I got glowing feedback: “High potential,” “Partner track material.” I made senior consultant in two years — fast for the firm.
Then the overtime became permanent.
By 2021, COVID had changed everything. Clients wanted more for less. Projects got squeezed. Staffing was lean — “do more with less” became the mantra. One partner, Greg, ran our practice area like a machine. He’d send emails at 2 AM: “Team, need revised financial model by 8 AM. Let’s crush this.”
No one said no.
Refuse overtime? You got the worst assignments, the smallest bonus, subtle comments in reviews about “commitment.” Say yes every time? You were “a rock star,” invited to partner dinners, put on high-visibility projects.
I said yes every time.
My weeks settled into a rhythm: 70 hours was light, 80–90 was normal, 100+ during crunch periods. I stopped going to the gym. Meals were Seamless at my desk. Sleep was 4–5 hours a night if I was lucky. I lived on coffee, Red Bull, and the high of delivering flawless decks at 3 AM.
I told myself it was temporary. “Just until I make manager.” Then “Just until principal.” Always one more milestone.
My body started sending signals in 2022.
Chronic headaches. Constant fatigue. Heart palpitations during presentations. I’d be in a client meeting and suddenly feel like I couldn’t breathe. I gained 30 pounds from stress eating and no movement. My hands shook from caffeine overload. Friends stopped inviting me out — I always canceled last-minute for “work emergencies.”
I went to a doctor. Diagnosis: anxiety, high blood pressure (at 28), early adrenal fatigue. He prescribed rest, exercise, less caffeine. I laughed. Rest wasn’t an option.
I kept going.
2023 was the worst year.
I got promoted to manager — the goal I’d sacrificed everything for. Celebration? A bottle of champagne in the office and straight into a new project. This one was brutal: a distressed retail client, C-suite in crisis mode, daily steering committee calls at 7 AM. We staffed it lean on purpose — “to drive efficiency.”
My team was me, two seniors, three analysts. Expected hours: “whatever it takes.”
It took everything.
We worked seven days a week. I was billing 95–110 hours weekly. I stopped going home some nights — just slept on the office couch under my coat. My apartment became a place to shower and change clothes. I missed family holidays, birthdays, my best friend’s wedding.
My health crumbled fast.
Insomnia hit hard — I’d lie awake wired from stress. Hair started falling out in clumps. My resting heart rate was 100+ bpm. Panic attacks became regular: chest pain, dizziness, convinced I was having a heart attack.
I finally collapsed in April 2024.
It was a Wednesday. I’d worked until 4 AM finishing a board presentation, grabbed two hours of sleep at my desk, then led a 7 AM client call. Around noon, in the middle of a meeting room full of executives, the room started spinning. My vision tunneled. I remember mumbling “I need air” before everything went black.
I woke up in an ambulance.
Diagnosis: complete physical and mental burnout, severe dehydration, dangerously high cortisol levels, early stage heart arrhythmia. The ER doctor was blunt: “Your body is shutting down. If you keep this pace, you’ll have a stroke or heart attack before 35.”
I was hospitalized for three days. IV fluids, heart monitors, forced rest.
My mom flew in. Seeing her cry at my bedside broke something in me.
While I was out, Greg emailed the team: “Sophie’s under the weather. Let’s rally and cover for her.”
No “get well.” No call. Just pressure to keep billing.
That was the moment I knew I had to leave.
I gave notice from my hospital bed. Greg called — first time he’d spoken to me directly in months. Not to check on me, but to negotiate: “Take two weeks paid leave. Come back refreshed. We need you for the next phase.”
I said no.
I quit officially in May 2024. No new job lined up. Savings from years of big bonuses gave me a runway.
Recovery was slow and humiliating.
For months I could barely function. Brain fog so bad I couldn’t read a book. Crippling anxiety attacks. Guilt for “failing.” Therapy helped unpack how I’d tied my entire worth to productivity.
I moved back home with my parents for a while. Started walking 20 minutes a day. Ate vegetables. Slept 10 hours a night. Slowly, the shaking stopped. The hair grew back. The panic attacks faded.
It’s been 18 months now. I’m 31. I work freelance — 30–35 hours a week max, all remote, for clients who respect boundaries. Pay is lower, but I’m alive.
I heard Apex lost that retail client last year. Too many mistakes from exhausted teams.
Greg is still there. Still sending 2 AM emails.
Sometimes I see old coworkers on LinkedIn — same exhausted smiles in new project photos. Some have left too. Others are still grinding, waiting for the next promotion that never makes it worth it.
I learned the hard way that no job, no title, no bonus is worth your health.
Companies don’t love you back. They’ll squeeze everything out of you, praise your “dedication,” then replace you the moment you break.
Overtime culture isn’t dedication.
It’s slow suicide disguised as ambition.
And I almost paid the ultimate price for it.
TL;DR: Relentless overtime demands (80–100+ hours/week) at a high-pressure consulting firm led to severe burnout. After years of pushing my body to the limit, I collapsed in a client meeting and was hospitalized with heart issues and exhaustion at age 29. The experience forced me to quit and rebuild my life with strict boundaries. The job nearly killed me.
