When I Was Forced to Take Leave for My Mental Health
The silence after workplace harm is never neutral. It’s strategic.
When I was forced to take time off for my mental health, not because I wanted to, but because the alternative was psychological collapse, I didn’t know what to do with myself.
I was lost.
The bullying and harassment I endured at my workplace, a union no less, had worn me down to the bone. This wasn’t about a few tense conversations or office politics. It was systemic, sustained, and sanctioned. And it was happening in the very place that claimed to fight for fairness and dignity at work.
I wasn’t just exhausted. I was unraveling.
And the most jarring part? I wasn’t the only one.
The people I once stood beside in solidarity had become silent spectators. Some turned a blind eye. Others joined in.
Taking leave was framed as “self-care,” but it didn’t feel like care. It felt like exile. I was cut out without a word. My name disappeared from reports. Meetings went on without me. But the silence wasn’t clean. My inbox kept filling up. Delegates were still messaging me, on Facebook, no less, asking work-related questions like nothing had changed. No one had told them I was gone. Hell, no one had really told me either. I was just… erased.
There was no plan for reintegration. No accountability for what I’d endured. No recognition that stepping away wasn’t a choice. It was survival.
When the Watchdogs Look the Other Way
We trust unions to protect us. That’s their mandate. So what happens when that trust is betrayed from the inside?
What happened to me wasn’t a one-off or an unfortunate oversight. It was the product of collusion, complacency, and cowardice. A pattern of behaviour that allowed bullies to thrive while targets were gaslit, silenced, or discarded.
My story is part of a much bigger problem. One that can’t be dismissed as “personality clashes” or “workplace culture issues.” This is about power. And how it’s wielded behind closed doors.
The Cost of Silence
There’s a reason so many whistleblowers disappear from public view. The cost of speaking up is high. The cost of staying silent can be even higher.
What’s rarely spoken about is what happens after the formal complaints are lodged. After the inboxes are full of “noted” and the employment meetings end. That’s when the slow erasure begins. The reputational damage. The professional sidelining. The whisper campaigns.
That’s also when the healing has to begin, if it ever can.
I’m Still Here
This post isn’t just about what happened to me. It’s about what happens to so many others who are forced to choose between their mental health and their job.
Who are made to feel like the problem for daring to speak up.
Who leave quietly because staying becomes impossible.
But I didn’t leave quietly.
I’m writing. I’m reckoning. I’m reclaiming my power in the only way I know how: by telling the truth.
And if you’ve ever felt like you were the only one, know that you’re not.
If this resonates with you, share it. Forward it. Talk about it. Because silence protects the wrong people, and we’ve been quiet for too long.
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This post is part of The Reckoning Room, where we examine workplace abuse, systemic failure, and the cost of telling the truth. If you found value here, consider becoming a paid subscriber to support ongoing whistleblower-led writing.
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