Today will be my best shift. It will also be my worst. It will also be my last, at least for now.

I awake in a makeshift camper van, converted from an old Ford Transit. It’s parked in a field in Zeewolde in the central Netherlands. As I open my eyes, I can hear the sound of tapping on metal a few inches from my head. Rain? No, it’s heavier than that. A deep, thudding knock, like a fist.

Then, there’s a voice too. “Hello? I was just wondering what time breakfast is today?”

I check my watch and see that it’s a few minutes after 8am.

Shit. I’ve overslept. On the bright side, last night’s prep work is seeming pretty sensible now. With a raging headache, I wrench myself from my sleeping bag and pull on a clean t-shirt, and yesterday’s trousers, which smell of grease and food. Specifically, fried onions, beef fat and the cumin seeds that got burnt on the bottom of the pan.

It’s a short walk to the kitchen tent, across the grass. A line of hungry guests begins to form outside the entrance. I set the coffee pot to boil and a bit of adrenaline kicks in while I’m waiting for my hit of caffeine. I’ll work nearly twelve hours today, just like yesterday, and once again I’m regretting shortening my sleep window by winding down with a few beers after the shift, instead of collapsing onto my bed with a cup of tea.

““I’ve gone from feeding off the energy of a busy kitchen to setting myself on fire to keep it warm. “”

How did I get here? Well, that depends. Do you want the short answer or the long one? The simple explanation for why I’m standing in a tent putting out slices of ham, cheese and fruit for a crowd of ravenous hacker camp set-up volunteers is that someone asked me to, and I’m good at finding reasons to say yes. More specifically, the organisers of this event are closely affiliated with a similar UK festival that I helped to cater to previously.

This one is bigger, there are more volunteers involved with the build and therefore more mouths to feed, and the kitchen team is even smaller, but I agreed to do it anyway, even though I have a suit-wearing day job these days. Brave, or foolish? I’ll have to get back to you on that. The truth is, I missed the kitchen. I gravitate towards them. At house parties, when I lean against refrigerators, chatting to the people topping up their drinks, and also for work.

When someone asks how long I’ve worked in kitchens, I’m never sure how to answer, because it all happened by accident. Chatting and smoking with the chefs after a bar shift turned into washing a few pots to help them recover from a late surge and close down the kitchen on time. Waiting tables on a slow night when one chef was out sick led to helping to dress salads and prep veg. Kitchens can be great places to work. When the vibe is right, I love the camaraderie and the chef slang. It’s like a private language that only a few understand. It’s a clique for outcasts, a tribe for misfits. During the best times, it can feel like a family. During the worst times, the gruelling shifts and unsociable hours drain my ability to focus on anything other than work.

I’m cooking for close to 100 people three times a day here. It’s an endeavour outside my wheelhouse and I’m exhausted, but the gratification kick is worth it. That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway. Every cut that I make leads me towards that post-shift elation. The look on a person’s face when they bite into their perfectly cooked burger, garnished with rocket and a thick slab of brie. That first sip of beer after taking off my apron, laying on the grass as the sky turns pink. I don’t even look at the label on the bottle, but it tastes better than any other sip of beer I will ever enjoy.

““There’s a cost to caring so deeply about something. That has left marks on me.””

I love that feeling, but it’s not sustainable. This is my knife-edge, my boiling point. I don’t know it yet, but with each second, I’m burning my love for working in catering and hospitality. I’ve gone from feeding off the energy of a busy kitchen to setting myself on fire to keep it warm. I’m pouring every ounce of my stamina into the quality of every guest’s full plate, leaving none to take care of myself.

It’s happening already, and I’d know it if I sat with my own thoughts for a few minutes. But when has there ever been time for something so indulgent in hospitality? Come to think of it, maybe that’s part of what I’ve always loved? Juggling multiple tasks, spinning multiple plates. The excuse to procrastinate on even thinking about mental health by filling my brain up with something—anything—else. I’ve gone longer in an apron without unwelcome and intrusive thoughts than at any other time, but it’s not a fix. It’s just kicking the can.

And then, there’s the physical side. The sweet euphoria of the constant workout and the satisfaction in my body feeling tired. My right upper arm still hurts after stirring a risotto yesterday, and my feet are blistered from standing on them all day, but I barely even notice the pain anymore. After months at a desk, it’s bliss. I can’t stop moving even for a second, because if I do, something may go wrong. Right now, that exhilaration is like a drug (and I say this standing in a field in the Netherlands where, believe me, there are other drugs to be had if one is so inclined.)

Finding a job that gets you motivated can feel like hitting the jackpot, but when the space between success and failure is as fragile as it can be in hospitality, it’s often a curse. In my corporate jobs, I’ve never been particularly distraught to tell a manager that the PowerPoint presentation won’t quite be ready by the deadline. But ask me to tell someone that we’re all out of their favourite meal? I’m a mess. There’s a cost to caring so deeply about something. That has left marks on me. Invisible ones, beyond the calluses on my hand from gripping a knife too tightly.

One day, those marks will fade. I will associate cooking with home, not with work. I’ll cook for just me and my partner, as slowly and as carefully as I like. And sometimes, I’ll cook carelessly, because nothing ever matters as much as I think it does, not really. I’ll still have nightmares about burning things in industrial ovens from time to time. When I start to miss cooking under pressure I’ll host ambitious dinner parties to put myself under strain deliberately, but it won’t be quite the same. Eventually, I will even dream of getting back into hospitality again someday. I’ll allow myself the fantasies, but caution myself against burning out again, because it will probably be too soon. And it might always be too soon.

Perhaps you think this all sounds a little dramatic. If you’ve never worked in hospitality, you won’t have a clue what I’m banging on about. But if you have, then maybe you can understand. Perhaps you’re remembering your own best shift or your worst. Or maybe, like me, the difference between the best and the worst just depends on whether you’re still in the heat of the moment, or whether you’re cooling off afterwards.