It wasn’t the trade that broke me: My battle with bipolar.

It took me 28 years of suffering in the trade I love to finally start being kind to myself!

Burns, fights, knife callouses, posture problems, alcoholism, addiction, sore

feet—the list goes on. Hours of unpaid work, week in and week out, horrendous pay

if you actually stopped to think about it. Still, it never stopped me from getting up

each day (sometimes straight from a night out), repeating the process until I would

finally crash or have a manic episode.

However, during those 28 years, produce, cooking, new techniques, butchery, chef

unity, and all the skills we are able to learn and absorb saved my life time and time

again.

There’s a general stigma around people who have lived a life like

mine—assumptions that they had a bad upbringing or came from an underprivileged

background. None of this was true for me. I had every opportunity in life, financially

and emotionally. If we allow ourselves to believe these stereotypes, we are mistaken,

and I spent years being mistaken about myself and others.

Low, if not nonexistent, self-esteem, manic episodes, and periods of crippling

depression shattered my life in and out of the kitchen. My change came later in life

with a diagnosis of Bipolar 1 disorder, something I am still coming to terms with. The

treatment has changed the direction of my career into something that works for me.

So, I am incredibly proud to write this blog for The Burnt Chef Project and to

contribute to the amazing work they do worldwide. If my story helps just one other

person, it’s worth it.

Growing up, I had every opportunity. My parents were caring and hardworking,

driving me to rugby, athletics, county-level table tennis, and badminton. I made the

national schools for athletics. But I never fit in anywhere. It didn’t matter how good I

was—I still felt like an outsider. It knocked my confidence and self-esteem, leaving

me unsure of who I was.

Shortly after leaving college, I found a job as a commis chef in a Michelin kitchen in

Somerset. I instantly felt at home. I wasn’t an outsider—though I was run ragged and

verbally abused! The rush and urgency of the kitchen were exactly what I needed at

the time. Amidst the burns and constant pressure, my mind was occupied and

quieted. The kitchen provided a safe space, even as I progressed in my career. I

could always reset myself with a busy service.

Mise-en-place lists as long as your arm that never seemed achievable. The constant

din and banter. The back and forth to the walk-in fridges because of my selective

kitchen memory loss. The kitchen provided both solace and sheer terror, peace and

mania, friends and lost friendships.

I’ve always been a strong advocate for the hospitality industry and the opportunities

it provides. As seasoned chefs, it’s our role to support and nurture the next

generation in ways that promote well-being and mental health. The culture of

screaming, shouting, burning, and overworking young chefs is outdated. We already

face a massive shortage in the UK after Brexit and the pandemic. The ones we do

have are the future of the trade. Passing on our years of knowledge in a supportive

and inclusive environment is the solution.

I have worked in both privately owned and corporate properties, and each has its

pros and cons. Corporate environments generally have more structured support

systems, including well-being initiatives. As I mentioned earlier, my Bipolar diagnosis

is relatively recent. There were 27 years prior to that where chaos reigned, and I

pushed myself to the edge, working 90-hour weeks, striving for perfection in high-

pressure kitchens, and struggling to maintain stability.

Eventually, I decided I needed a change. In classic Neil fashion, I uprooted my life

and moved to France. At the time, I didn’t understand that I was mentally ill—I simply

thought a fresh start in a new country would help. I found a sous chef role in

Bordeaux, where the kitchen culture was vastly different. Staff had a work-life

balance. The job ended when the shift was over. It was a revelation. For the first

time, I wasn’t surrounded by the relentless pressure of toxic kitchen environments. It

took time to adjust, but over the years, I began to see the benefits of this approach.

Then, Covid shut the world down. I spent lockdown in France, drinking my way

through isolation. Eventually, I decided to return to the UK, but by then, the country

was in lockdown too. I found myself living in a friend’s static caravan on a farm,

taking time to figure out my next move.

I landed a role as Group Head Chef for six hotels in the Southwest. I started full of

optimism but quickly realized I missed France’s structured and supportive kitchen

environments. Staff retention was terrible, head chefs at different sites were resistant

to change, and I was expected to work unsustainable hours. After 14 months, my

mental health was at an all-time low.

I took a brief detour, working on a fishing trawler—a physically grueling but strangely

grounding experience. Then, in a turn of events, I found myself as Head Chef of a

250-bedroom hotel. Fine dining, a bistro, private dining, massive breakfast trade. It

wasn’t what I had planned, but here I was. My team was young, loyal, and talented,

and I was proud of what we built.

But I knew I wasn’t okay. The joy of cooking and seeing people’s faces light up had

always kept me going, but I needed help. I spent almost a year on an NHS waiting

list for mental health support. Nine months of assessments and testing later, I was

diagnosed with Bipolar 1 and ADHD. It was a defining moment. For the first time,

things started to make sense.

Over the years, I’ve had extreme highs and devastating lows. I’ve been flown home

from foreign countries by my family after manic episodes took over. I’ve spent weeks

in bed, too anxious to face the world. And yet, there have also been times when

you’d never know there was anything wrong with me. I’ve worked in kitchens

alongside incredible people, delivering incredible food.

Now, I’ve adapted my life to work with my diagnosis. I’ve found peace in knowing

that I’m in a safer place, that my loved ones don’t have to worry about my next

unpredictable adventure. I still need creativity in my life, so I’ve started a pop-up,

bringing joy to others through food.

My wife often asks if I have any regrets about my life in the kitchen. Absolutely none.

Bipolar ruled me, but it didn’t define me.

Author

Neil Gibbs