Chris Reed has been a journalist for 25 years. But last year, he walked away from the job he loved for the sake of his health. Here he describes what happened when he took the plunge - and shares some advice if you're considering a career change in 2021.
A football match and an American academic changed my life, although not at the same time.
We'll get to the latter, but first the game.
I was at home watching Manchester City play at Real Madrid in the last 16 of the Champions League last February.
City - my team through thin and emaciated when I was growing up in the UK - overturned a 1-0 deficit and won with two late goals.
Victory at Real Madrid is one of the biggest asks in world football. I went crazy when Kevin de Bruyne scored the winner from the penalty spot, wheeling round the lounge, whooping with delight.
Then the match finished and I emailed my boss to resign.
I'd been a fulltime journalist for a quarter of a century; I was never going to do anything else.
I wrote, hysterically, about music for the school magazine and did unpaid work experience at the local paper in the holidays.
After university I went to the other end of the country to get the industry standard qualification for new reporters. I did it at a sixth form college chasing alternative revenue streams - the only other "adults" were people with mad beards learning how to mine tin.
My first job arrived without too much bother - general news reporting on a decent weekly paper. Then a string of quick promotions and an offer from a big city daily before I left the country.
In New Zealand I went backwards to go forwards, reporting for a community paper to learn another nation's way of doing things. Editorships in the same group followed, then a move to the Herald on Sunday as news editor.
Eventually I became deputy editor of the Herald. And that's when it became clear that the increasing size of my role was commensurate with a decreasing ability to cope.
My boss - the one who got that email - found me crying more than once over the years. He did everything he could to help, but one day in early 2018, I sat frozen at my desk, unable even to open my emails.
I took three or four months off and went for a very long walk in the Scottish Highlands. I stayed in pubs, drank weak beer and ate haggis. By day I was alone, uncontactable and deliriously happy.
In June I returned to work on light duties - no people management, no big decisions, just me and various barmy ideas that rarely came to anything.
Eventually I felt better, and when, the following year, an opportunity came up in entertainment and lifestyle (music! telly!! food!!!) I went for it.
Within weeks, things were almost as bad as ever. Then they got worse. By the time 2020 rolled round there was an almost total absence of joy in my world. The euphoria generated by that win in Madrid was an explosion of colour in a monochrome existence.
I feel awful even thinking that, let alone writing it for a national newspaper. My wife and daughter are precious people imbued with light and love - for me, for us and for life.
My wife kept telling me I didn't need to stay where I wasn't happy. She'd done the numbers and we could survive - just - on her salary.
She said it so often she was resigned to my inactivity; her mouth was certainly inactive when I rang to tell her I'd resigned.
When Covid kicked off, I offered to stay on but my heart wasn't in it. My final act was helping oversee a restructure and redundancies. I didn't want to take a wage from someone who really wanted it.
So, one Friday in the level 4 lockdown, I finished, delivering a rambling farewell speech via Zoom.
I felt better for a few days. I could do anything. Except I didn't really want to. I was fatigued and beset by inertia, busy doing nothing.
Covid meant my wife was much busier at work. I became sole homemaker. Shopping, cooking and laundry took a decent chunk of time but I felt like I wasn't doing enough. So I cleaned the grease off the top of the kitchen cupboards, washed the windows, weeded the garden.
When lockdown ended, I made my daughter's lunch and did the school runs. With no one at home, I made music, watched telly and started training for the Auckland Half-Marathon.
But I still wasn't happy. Not yet.
A few weeks after I finished work, a former colleague called. He'd been talking to another old-stager who'd pulled the pin and was, apparently, feeling something like grief. I realised I was too.
You've got questions? I'll try to answer them.
No, this wasn't (just) what some might call a midlife crisis. I'm 50 this year with a long history of mental health malarkey. I think stuff at school created a fertile environment for anxiety that blossomed into depression during my teens and 20s. It's been there or thereabouts ever since.
No, I don't think that's the only reason I became so unhappy at work. I was frustrated by a lack of time to do everything I wanted to do as well as I wanted to do it. I think that's common in most workplaces these days.
Yes, I know not everyone can afford to take a break. I was in a privileged position and I've never taken it for granted.
No, I'm not fixed, but I'm getting there. I've had the most sustained period without deep and cloying gloom I can remember.
For that, I thank pioneering American psychologist Elaine Aron.
I heard about her from my latest counsellor who wondered if I might be a Highly Sensitive Person (HSP).
This relatively new personality trait was identified by Aron and her husband, Arthur. Their research led them to conclude that some people - perhaps one in five - are born with an increased sensitivity to physical, emotional and social stimuli.
Typically they're easily overwhelmed by all sorts of things - loud noises, strong smells, violent films, conflict at work. The flipside, though, is that they develop deep relationships, connect strongly with art and experience rich inner lives.
I bought Elaine Aron's book, which explains how HSPs behave when overwhelmed. My mum bought it too. We agreed it could have been my biography. All explained: teenage truculence and tantrums; adult truculence and tantrums.
Knowing how and why I act in certain situations has helped me avoid them. Avoiding them has significantly reduced the amount of anxiety, panic and stress in my life.
And now when people tell me I'm being sensitive, I think, thanks!
Many people will wake today wondering if they can go through another year at work like the last.
They won't all be HSPs or 25-year veterans of the only career they ever considered.
I wanted to see how typical my experience was, so I talked to Kate Billing.
Our paths have crossed socially over the years and she was once good enough to listen to me question my professional direction at some length.
As a "human-centred leadership specialist", her focus is personal leadership - how you lead yourself and the people you interact with through work, at home and in the wider community.
Kate thinks that 2020 "maybe made the scales fall from people's eyes, about certainty and security in life, not just in their job".
"What I hope is that more people are waking up to the fact that they have more control over the circumstances of their life than they might think," she says.
That doesn't necessarily mean doing what I did.
"This whole 'follow your passion and purpose' ... it's got to be a total wellbeing decision, including things like financial wellbeing," says Kate.
"Most people don't recognise how much scaffolding a job provides. 'I get up, I get dressed, I go to a place, I do some things with some people that I get paid for regularly, I get in the car, I come home.'
"A lot of people have these rose-tinted spectacles about doing what you love, what you're passionate about. First, try falling in love with what you've got. If that doesn't work, then think about something else."
I'm still in love with the craft of journalism - holding the powerful to account has never been more important - but felt I was no longer compatible with a fulltime role.
When people ask what I'm doing now, I say more of what makes me happy.
I've created indelible memories with my daughter; my wife and I have more time to relax because I do the chores during the day.
I've started earning again, although not regularly; I've been doing freelance writing for businesses and a little bit of work for the Herald from home.
Music is back in my life: I'm DJing again (weddings, corporate functions and underground raves all specialities) and will this year start a record label.
I'm enjoying the variety and am unsure if I'll ever return to the scaffolding that Kate talks about. I may try, although my honesty may mean some people reading this will deem me unemployable: I wouldn't want to work for you anyway.
But oddly, I've lost a little bit of interest in football this season. It feels like the Brits should have more to worry about, with Brexit and Covid. But that's okay, I'm getting my kicks elsewhere now.
My takeaways
1. No takeaways!
We were lucky that we could survive on one salary for a while. Our financial "problems" were all First World - goodbye Uber Eats, hello chickpeas.
2. I can beat a Chaser
Routines kept my mind and body active. A favourite was making family dinner while watching The Chase. I could ace the finale and have a chickpea-based meal on the table moments later.
3. Table talk
While we ate chickpeas, we talked about our days. Admittedly, I rarely had much to report, but I became a much better listener. I think our inter-family communication is better all-round.
4. FOMO KO
Thanks to Covid, it was a good year to quit. With overseas travel off the agenda and, at least initially, no events to attend, I never felt like I was missing anything, certainly not chickpeas.