Ann Hui is The Globe and Mail’s demographics reporter, and the author of Chop Suey Nation: The Legion Cafe and Other Stories From Canada’s Chinese Restaurants.
On one day, it was the pile of laundry sitting neglected. On another, it was a message from my mom, asking for help with her taxes. Every few days, something different, something seemingly benign, could send me spiralling.
On this day, it was dinner. Standing in front of the refrigerator, I felt wrung out, exhausted. I touched my cheek, and realized that I was weeping. The idea of summoning, from somewhere, the mental energy to decide what to eat – and then cook? Unimaginable.
Instead, my brain was flitting up and down a list of all the things still to do. I’d just shut down my laptop after a day of work, and was running late for daycare pickup. Then there were meals to cook, a fussy preschooler to feed, and bathe. And then the hour-long negotiation of coaxing her to bed.
On top of that, I’d had little sleep, because my daughter had had little sleep. This on the heels of an uninterrupted string of household illnesses. Over the course of the preceding months, we had had countless colds, mystery viruses – even a bout of food poisoning. And on top of that, COVID.
My body and brain were spent. And it felt, in front of that refrigerator, like I was standing at the bottom of a mountain and couldn’t move my legs.
But here’s the really bleak truth: That moment wasn’t even exceptional. Feeling overwhelmed – the tightness in my chest, the pinching in my throat – had long since become my status quo. Each and every day, I woke up with a fog hanging over me: a foreboding sense that I was failing my family and friends, failing at work, and failing, even, in my performance as a whole human.
I was – had been for a while – burnt out. And if I was struggling, I could only imagine what life was like for women who didn’t have the many privileges that I have: a stable salary, a supportive spouse, and a relatively flexible work-from-home schedule.
I’m not a front-line worker, not a busy chief executive. I’m not even my immigrant parents, who worked tough manual labour jobs for decades. I only have one kid, and a happy, healthy one at that. My situation, in other words, is utterly ordinary. I didn’t deserve to feel tired, I thought. And yet.
Some call it “burn out.” Others are “quiet quitting.” Everywhere around me, smart, talented, hard-working women suddenly seemed to be falling apart. Everywhere around me, I heard echoes of the same sentiment: Millennial women are not okay.
Common causes of work-related stress
Percentage of people affected, April 2023,
Statistics Canada survey
Men
Women
25.7%
21.8
17.3
14.3
Heavy workload
Balancing work and
personal life
15.4
11.8
11.7
8.2
Overtime or
long work hours
Emotional load
11.7
10.8
9.9
8.5
Pay or other
compensation-
related issues
Lack of control
or input in
decision-making
6.5
6.1
5.8
4.9
Lack of job security
Relationship
with colleagues
or supervisor
3.7
2.4
Harassment or
discrimination
Estimates are for the civilian, non-institutionalized population living in the provinces, aged 15 to 69, who were employed in April 2023. Data are not seasonally adjusted.
THE GLOBE AND MAIL, SOURCE: STATISTICS CANADA
Common causes of work-related stress
Percentage of people affected, April 2023,
Statistics Canada survey
Men
Women
25.7%
21.8
17.3
14.3
Heavy workload
Balancing work and
personal life
15.4
11.8
11.7
8.2
Overtime or
long work hours
Emotional load
11.7
10.8
9.9
8.5
Pay or other
compensation-
related issues
Lack of control
or input in
decision-making
6.5
6.1
5.8
4.9
Relationship
with colleagues
or supervisor
Lack of job security
3.7
2.4
Harassment or
discrimination
Estimates are for the civilian, non-institutionalized population living in the provinces, aged 15 to 69, who were employed in April 2023. Data are not seasonally adjusted.
THE GLOBE AND MAIL, SOURCE: STATISTICS CANADA
Common causes of work-related stress
Percentage of people affected, April 2023, Statistics Canada survey
Women
Men
25.7%
21.8
17.3
15.4
14.3
11.7
11.8
11.7
9.9
8.2
Overtime or
long work hours
Pay or other
compensation-
related issues
Heavy workload
Balancing work and
personal life
Emotional load
10.8
8.5
6.5
6.1
5.8
4.9
3.7
2.4
Lack of control
or input in
decision-making
Relationship
with colleagues
or supervisor
Lack of job security
Harassment or
discrimination
Estimates are for the civilian, non-institutionalized population living in the provinces, aged 15 to 69, who were employed in April 2023. Data are not seasonally adjusted.
THE GLOBE AND MAIL, SOURCE: STATISTICS CANADA
Millennials are not, of course, the only ones struggling. About 40 per cent of Canadians reported feeling burnt out last year, according to a survey by Robert Half – the predictable outcome of a world where everyone, everywhere, is working all of the time.
But women between the ages of about 25 and 45 today face a very specific kind of burnout. They’re at the convergence of a number of extraordinary events: They’ve firmly entered the sandwich generation, where they’re juggling the competing stresses of caring for young children and aging parents. And while past generations have faced similar pressures, millennials are doing it amid the unprecedented anxiety and upheaval of a global pandemic. And, our relative fluency in the language of mental health and “wellness” means we’re that much more likely to speak up about it.
During lockdown, we were the ones most likely to have our Zoom meetings perpetually set to mute because of a crying, sick toddler in the background. And now, we’re the ones still deciding each weekend whether it’s safe to bring along a coughing child, sick with another daycare cold, to run errands with their grandparent.
The burnout women face affects us all. Because whether or not you’re one of them, you likely rely on them. Economically, we need women in the work force. They’re workers, managers, and most notably, the ones we rely on as caregivers. Women are – have always been – the ones we depend upon to shoulder our collective burden.
In the first year of the pandemic alone, about 100,000 women dropped out of the labour force entirely. More than three-quarters of Canadian women said last year that they’ve considered quitting. Others have pulled back from their careers. The number of women in the pipeline to senior management in Canada dropped by 12 per cent between 2022 and last year. All of this comes at a cost: A labour market with equal participation between men and women, according to RBC, could lift Canada’s economic output by $100-billion each year.
Millennial women are exhausted. Disillusioned. Let down after a lifetime of being told that we – yes, we – could have it all. At work, we feel unsupported, undervalued. At home, we’re still expected to take on the heavier load of housework. Everywhere we turn, the message is this: That no matter how much we work, there’s always more to do.
Burnout is not a new phenomenon. The German-American psychologist Herbert Freudenberger first used it in the 1970s as a way of describing the symptoms he saw most commonly among caregivers – nurses and doctors and others in the “helping” professions, who described similar symptoms of exhaustion, listlessness and stress.
Burnout is not, in itself, an official medical condition. As such, the idea – which has enjoyed a resurgence in the past few years – has evolved to describe a wide range of symptoms, ranging from hopelessness or apathy, to anxiety and depression. The World Health Organization, meanwhile, recognizes it as an “occupational phenomenon,” related mostly to our work selves.
“The dedicated and the committed” were most prone to burnout, Dr. Freudenberger wrote back in 1974. “It is precisely because we are dedicated that we walk into a burnout trap,” he said. “We feel a pressure from within to work and help and we feel a pressure from the outside to give.” As society’s designated caregivers, it’s easy to see why women are most affected.
Previous generations of women experienced their own versions of burnout. For baby boomers, the pressures of caregiving were often compounded by explicit sexism and discrimination in the workplace. And Gen X women, who took up the fight from previous generations of feminists for expanded family leave and pay equity policies, did it all amid the persistence of “old boys’ networks.”
We’ve also all heard the punchlines about millennials. To Gen Z, we’re “cringe” – for our earnestness, our conformity to capitalism, and our obsession with selfies and online performance. And among older generations, millennials are “special snowflakes,” coddled and entitled, for expecting that things be different – that we be treated as different.
Except every generation is different. And millennials, especially, are different. The numbers alone justify this. Last month, Statistics Canada announced that millennials have officially outnumbered baby boomers in Canada as the dominant generation. Millennials also make up the largest share of the working-age population.
A girl in Bucharest counts the last seconds of Dec. 31, 1999, before the milestone that Millennials were named for. In Canada, they are now the largest age cohort, with Generation Z at No. 3.Reuters
Cultural expectations, too, are important. From the time many millennials were still in diapers, the idea of who we might become had already been fully formed.
“There were all these stories they had about us as being these ethics-focused people who would make the markets fairer, and the world a better, more balanced place,” said Malcolm Harris, author of Kids These Days: Human Capital and the Making of Millennials.
Our parents were the original helicopter parents, he said, packing our schedules with activities meant to boost our potential for success as future workers and leaders. All of it was designed to make us into smarter, more optimized versions of our little selves.
We were bright-eyed idealists, off to build social enterprises, and perform work with purpose. As young girls, we wore T-shirts emblazoned with slogans of “girls can do anything.” We were raised with the promise of “girl power.” Taught to expect more.
More than 44 per cent of young women (aged 25 to 34) in Canada have a university degree, compared with 33 per cent of young men. Young women are also much more likely than our male or older counterparts to have a master’s or PhD.
Among 25- to 34-year-olds in Canada, men are less likely than women to have a university education.Darryl Dyck/The Canadian Press
The next part of the story is well-known. There was the 2008 financial crisis, and record-level unemployment. There were (and are) the continuing effects of baby boomers putting off retirement. A housing crisis and record-level inflation. Our ascent into adulthood has instead been defined by precarity, economic anxiety, and above all else, an overwhelming sense of unfulfilled potential.
Millennials were also the first to live with the unrelenting expectation – from friends, our professors, and now our employers – to be available, online 24 hours a day.
The archetypes for millennial women are inescapable online – our Pinterest and Instagram feeds filled with images of “female founders,” of picture-perfect pantries, and “wellness moms” arranging rainbow-coloured, plant-based meals in lunch boxes. For millennial women, the internet, and our phones, like everything else, are a constant reminder of all the things still to do.
No longer up-and-comers, millennials are now firmly middle aged, as well. So there’s also the standard midlife crisis stuff – the head-in-our-hands, muttering “I coulda been a contender” stuff.
And then the pandemic happened.
For parents, but especially mothers, this marked a turning point, when the merely difficult suddenly felt impossible.
Home-schooling, or providing ad hoc “daycare” to cooped-up preschoolers (or for some women, both) while also performing our actual work was a bridge too far. Women accounted for about 63 per cent of job losses in the first month of the pandemic in Canada. (In the years since, employment figures for both men and women have mostly restored to prepandemic levels. But the figures don’t reflect the many women who chose to switch roles or industries, or from full-time to part-time jobs.)
This was especially pronounced in female-dominated front-line industries such as nursing, where job vacancies between 2019 and 2021 skyrocketed by 117 per cent. Other female-dominated workplaces similarly saw workers dropping out: restaurant servers (where vacancies rose by 145 per cent), personal support workers (88 per cent), daycare workers (91 per cent), and cleaners (140 per cent).
In the first months of the pandemic, even as men who initially found themselves unemployed regained their footing in the labour market, more than 20,000 women dropped out of the work force entirely. Over two-thirds of those women were mothers.
Julie Savard-Shaw graduated with a master’s degree in international development more than a decade ago.
She was smart, driven and hard-working. She was going to work in politics, and Make A Difference. She, like me, had been raised on the belief that the major battles of feminism had been fought and won. That girls could do anything.
These days, she’s a poster child for a different kind of millennial.
Her first experience with burnout happened while working in the Prime Minister’s Office. She was a policy adviser for foreign affairs, which meant constant travel, and long working hours. On a work trip back from Asia, she was so exhausted she couldn’t stop sobbing for the entire 18-hour flight. She left her job shortly after.
A few years later, she went back to work at Parliament Hill. By then, she had a young son, and vowed to create boundaries between her work and home life.
But boundaries weren’t enough. It didn’t matter if she blocked off hours in her calendar for dinner, or bathtime. Work calls would inevitably interfere. It didn’t matter how many times she’d ask the daycare to call her husband during emergencies. They always called the mother first.
Ms. Savard-Shaw lasted 10 months in the job. The problem, she realized, wasn’t her. The world wasn’t set up to support young mothers at work.
The non-profit organization she now runs, The Prosperity Project – which aims to mitigate the impact of the pandemic on women – released a survey last year that showed that women in the pipeline to senior management roles dropped from 55 per cent to 43 per cent from 2022 to 2023 alone.
Women, said Ms. Savard-Shaw, “are just putting their heads down, and trying to do the best they can.”
How Canadians are affected by
work-related stress and burnout
Percentage of people affected, 2023 Canadian
Household Perspectives survey
Women
Men
80%
77
66
63
Are parents of kids
under 13 years who
have considered quitting
Considered quitting
their jobs over
work-related issues
57
53
43
42
Likely to experience
work-related stress
Find it more difficult to
manage their households
and work responsibility
39
38
30
25
Likely to say they quit
their jobs because of
stress or burnout
Likely to think of
quitting their jobs
at least occasionally
37
36
31
28
Decided to prioritize
themselves over work
Are not looking
to advance
in their career
9
5
Likely to consider
taking a step back
from their work
THE GLOBE AND MAIL, SOURCE:
THE PROSPERITY PROJECT
How Canadians are affected by
work-related stress and burnout
Percentage of people affected, 2023 Canadian
Household Perspectives survey
Women
Men
80%
77
66
63
Are parents of kids
under 13 years who
have considered quitting
Considered quitting
their jobs over
work-related issues
57
53
43
42
Likely to experience
work-related stress
Find it more difficult to
manage their households
and work responsibility
39
38
30
25
Likely to say they quit
their jobs because of
stress or burnout
Likely to think of
quitting their jobs
at least occasionally
37
36
31
28
Decided to prioritize
themselves over work
Are not looking
to advance
in their career
9
5
Likely to consider
taking a step back
from their work
THE GLOBE AND MAIL, SOURCE:
THE PROSPERITY PROJECT
How Canadians are affected by work-related stress and burnout
Percentage of people affected, 2023 Canadian Household Perspectives survey
Women
Men
80%
77
66
63
57
53
43
42
39
25
Are parents of
kids under 13
years who have
considered quitting
Considered quitting
their jobs over
work-related issues
Likely to experience
work-related stress
Find it more difficult
to manage their
households and
work responsibility
Likely to say they quit
their jobs because of
stress or burnout
37
38
36
31
30
28
9
5
Likely to think of
quitting their jobs
at least occasionally
Likely to consider
taking a step back
from their work
Decided to prioritize
themselves over work
Are not looking
to advance
in their career
THE GLOBE AND MAIL, SOURCE: THE PROSPERITY PROJECT
For Black, Indigenous and racialized women, the story is especially grim. As Dr. Freudenberger noted, “excessive demands on energy, strength, or resources” are a contributing factor to burn out. And facing a subtle but pervasive headwind – of sexism, or racism, or any combination thereof – can sap these things.
Many of the industries that saw the largest job losses in the first few months of the pandemic were industries disproportionately staffed by racialized women.
Many of these were front line, essential jobs. More than one-quarter of personal-support workers and daycare workers in Canada, for instance, are racialized. These were women working lower-wage jobs with the highest risk of infection, and often with the least amount of job protection.
And while it’s easy to think of these two groups of women – the white-collar millennial women like Ms. Savard-Shaw, and the women performing front-line, and blue-collar work – as distinct demographics, the truth is that we’re interconnected.
The teachers at my daughter’s daycare, for instance – who do the hard work of feeding and caring for my daughter while I’m doing my work – are almost exclusively racialized young women. They’re women I’m grateful for each and every single day, and whose well-being directly affects my own well-being.
For every Jacinda Ardern (the millennial New Zealand prime minister who stepped down last year saying she no longer had “a full tank”); Isabelle Lessard ( the millennial/Gen Z-cusp Quebec mayor who also resigned due to stress); or Kim Kardashian (who once famously advised women to “get up and work” only to spend much of last year talking about exhaustion), there are the countless restaurant, retail and health care workers who also quietly endured their own burnout.
In the pandemic, racialized people made up many of the front-line workers that kept services running in Canada and other countries.Nathan Denette/The Canadian Press
Jacinda Ardern gives her parliamentary farewell speech on April 5, months after the prime minister who led New Zealand through the pandemic said she did not have 'enough in the tank' to continue.MARK COOTE/AFP via Getty Images
Black, Indigenous and racialized women in the corporate world, meanwhile, face their own challenges.
Racialized women hold less than 10 per cent of senior leadership or pipeline to senior leadership roles in corporate Canada. For Black, Indigenous and LGBTQ+ women, that figure drops below 2 per cent.
Take Sarah Mariani, whose parents immigrated from Trinidad and Pakistan. She’s another ambitious, hard worker who found herself quickly burnt out. She emphasized that her burnout “was not due to lack of boundaries. It’s due to being the only one in the room.”
It’s sometimes referred to as the “emotional tax” – the energy and time that racialized or LGBTQ+ employees spend being on guard for, or protecting against discrimination and exclusion.
“I was educated, I was smart, I was young. Also a woman of colour,” Ms. Mariani said. “If you’re coming into a space for the first time as all of those things, nobody around you has any idea what the hell to do.”
Or take it from me. As a journalist and writer, I’ve served on diversity committees, given workshops on race and written about my experience as a racialized woman. It’s work that on any day feels vulnerable and mildly humiliating – like having to beg for a simple acknowledgment of my existence.
On the worst days – days where I’m challenged by all-white audiences, accused of playing “the race card” or questioned on whether my experiences are real – it’s dehumanizing. And it’s work that nobody thanks you for doing.
I speak with Janan Lewars, a 28-year-old who immigrated to Canada at the age of 5 from Jamaica, over Zoom. She’s visiting her parents, and sitting in her childhood bedroom. The many certificates and medals she won as a girl are still on display behind her.
She, too, is an Achiever. She, too, has gone in and out of spells of burnout over the past few years: Periods where she can’t sleep or focus.
She echoed what so many others had described: That everything has been so much harder than she feels she was led to expect. That we’d been told to lean in, only to find we’d been standing on the edge of a cliff.
“A lot of us were sold this dream,” she said, “that if we studied hard, worked hard, made all the right decisions, that we could have it all.”
“Instead, we’re now feeling disillusioned.”
We’ve made some good progress, Ms. Lewars acknowledges. She’s speaking generally now, of the work of previous generations of feminists. “But it’s not the kind of progress we need,” she said. It’s not enough.
Take the recent rollout of the Canada-wide Early Learning and Child Care program – which aims to provide $10-a-day daycare, for example. It’s a major step forward, but there aren’t nearly enough spots for the demand. Daycares continue to experience critical staffing shortages.
There’s also the wage gap, which remains at under 90 cents for every dollar a man makes – a gap that persists across industries, roles and levels of expertise. It’s a gap that widens for women with children, women at the executive level, and for racialized and Indigenous women.
And while higher wages or promotions aren’t, of course, a solution for burnout, they do contribute to women’s feelings on whether they’re valued in the workplace – whether they feel seen and appreciated, or overlooked.
Even the most privileged millennial women like myself, who work in places with gender equity policies, with paid parental leave, still see this play out each and every day.
The subtle messaging is enforced by our all-male executive boardrooms. It’s in the e-mails that come in late at night, or on the weekends. It’s in the many, many decisions that still take place over late-night drinks at the bar.
Each of these moments at work, whispers in themselves, come together in a loud chorus. It screams at us, impossible to ignore: These places are not built for us.
Toronto's financial district is one of many around the world whose boardrooms still fall short of gender equity.Fred Lum/The Globe and Mail
The personal cost of all of this is one thing – the wage penalties incurred by individual women who step back or out of the labour market entirely. “You get punished for being away,” said Parisa Mahboubi, a senior policy analyst at C.D. Howe Institute.
That’s a cost reflected both in the lost income itself, but also in the opportunity cost – of losing skills while away from the work force, or having to start again at a lower level.
But this reality costs us all. There’s the ripple effect on the overall economy that women being away from work has, said Ms. Mahboubi: When families no longer send their children to child care, or spend money on other services during a typical work day.
There’s also the benefit that employment among women has on the economy overall. The opportunity that gender equity represents – where women hold between 40 per cent and 60 per cent of leadership roles – could add $150-billion to the Canadian economy over a decade, according to McKinsey Global Institute.
And while working from home has made things easier for many women, it presents pitfalls, too. Women who are only able to work from home might lose out on access to face-to-face networking opportunities – what some have already begun referring to as “presenteeism.”
Research has also shown that working from home also disproportionately affects how much housework women end up doing – above and beyond the 1.6 times more unpaid work Canadian women were already performing at home.
“A recurring finding,” said the Harvard Business Review on one Yale University study, “is that women are more likely to carry out more domestic responsibilities while working flexibly, whereas men are more likely to prioritize and expand their work spheres.”
For all the talk about younger men embracing gender equity, the reality is that women still bear a larger share of the burden. And that frustration is only amplified by the experience of having already seen our mothers, and oftentimes grandmothers, fight these exact same battles. At believing, naively, that these were problems that had already been solved.
“The lived experience is really not matching the ideal,” explains Andrea Gunraj, a spokesperson for the Canadian Women’s Foundation.
“And we’re seeing that cognitive dissonance playing out.”
Why are women so underrepresented in the upper echelons of Canadian business and public institutions? Because, too often, they're getting stalled in middle management, according to an analysis in The Globe's Power Gap investigation. Journalists Robyn Doolittle and Chen Wang explain some of their key findings.
The Globe and Mail
This is the part where I talk about the lessons I’ve learned, and the progress I’ve made. But the truth, like the problem, is complicated.
Recently, my daughter requested Little Miss Busy – who loved nothing more than to be busy – as a bedtime story. As I read aloud, I realized I might well have been talking about myself.
Even when Little Miss Busy eventually falls ill, she cries, “Oh, calamity! I won’t be able to do any work!”
All along, I realized, I’d been looking at the problem from the wrong perspective. I’d been looking at the symptoms – exhaustion, disillusionment, my inability to do more work – as the problem. Like Little Miss Busy, I only wanted to “fix” my burnout in order to get back to work.
The part of me that wants to be busy is deeply rooted. It’s from watching my own parents struggle. From the validation of good grades. The smiles, curtsies and trophies won at piano competitions. From the “hustle culture” I adopted as an adult, without question.
My sense of identity, my purpose, came from, comes from work. Accomplishment. To do anything less would have been antithetical to my upbringing – to my millennial spirit.
And true to this spirit, I felt obligated to overcome the obstacles with even more work. Because instead of systemic solutions, our burnout is often met with messages of self-care and wellness. As though the solution to our exhaustion is in consuming and doing even more. And that the antidote to our suffering can be found in yoga, supplements or jade face rollers.
But in actual fact, the most urgent and essential work is larger than each one of us. It’s the collective struggle to implement structural solutions around pay equity, gendered poverty and women in leadership.
This includes, most notably, the work of understanding the deficits in our care industry, and ensuring that men and women who do the essential work of caring for young children and older adults are fairly treated and compensated.
There’s also the responsibility that companies and institutions, big and small, face: thinking through their day-to-day processes, and asking questions such as: “What do family-friendly workplaces actually look like?” The advice of Dr. Freudenberger back in 1974 – for employers to take a pro-active approach in part by “insisting that people take time and evenings off” – that “time off means time off” – still applies.
“The things we are told, like ‘Fight for yourself, stand up, and demand more, and overcome the barriers,’ just ring so untrue,” says Ms. Gunraj. “Because one individual cannot overcome a barrier. The barrier is there. The barrier is bigger than them.”
Even as I write this, that part of me fears the potential repercussions, personally, but mostly professionally, of publicly stating all this. But that fear, I know, is a part of the problem.
I told a friend about this hesitation – about how terrifying it felt to admit, out loud, that I can’t do it all. Her response was clarifying.
“But,” she replied gently, “you are doing it. It just doesn’t feel good.”
And I’m embarrassed to admit I’ve only recently begun considering all the other parts, too: The parts that make me whole. Of my daughter’s wild laughter as my husband, a ferocious bear, roars after her – of her hot, marshmallow cheeks squeezing against mine. Of cooking for friends, and really good meals. Of the sight of the frozen lake, and cold air on my face.
While we push for the big changes, and for the world around us to recognize the value of women’s work, we can also make decisions, every day, to offer ourselves a little kindness. Because peace won’t come from a week away, a subscription to a meditation app, a trip to the spa.
It’s in the way we live. Of making small choices in each moment to make things just a little bit easier.
Likely, this will mean learning what not to do. When to not cook, opting for takeout instead. How to not check my work e-mail when I’m off the clock. When not to ask “What’s next?”
And I’ll also resist, despite every inclination otherwise, to call it “working on myself.”
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