Allison Pearson

Yesterday I wrote about the impact of what happened at work on my mental health. It felt like work didn't believe me, or understand how seriously unwell I was. Perhaps they didn't want to understand. The way they handed me my final redundancy notice sums it up. In August 2025, HR called asking me to come into the office the next day to be given my notice in person. I explained that I wasn't strong enough to walk down the street, let alone travel on the Tube, just to face the humiliation of being handed a notice letter. When I said my consultant had advised I go into hospital, I was asked: "So you want to be in hospital?" After the call, I remembered the reasonable adjustment we had agreed, that I would be given seven days' notice of any meeting, and emailed HR to politely remind them. A while later, I had an email saying we could meet in person the following week. As agreed, seven days later I went in, by cab, at my own expense. I can't have been looking my best. I was severely underweight, and I can only guess that someone higher up the food chain could see that. I was told they wouldn't hand me my notice that day, and that I would need an occupational health assessment first. When it came, I learned the only question the clinical psychologist had been asked was whether I was physically fit enough to be handed my notice in person. That was a light-bulb moment. For months I had been desperately trying to prove I was good enough to do my job, only to be told I wasn't. Now it was clear that all HR wanted to know was whether they could justify making me come in and open the envelope in front of them, so they could see the whites of my eyes as I read my notice letter. Naively, I had thought someone might give a damn about my health, that there might be some acknowledgement of a duty of care. There wasn't. HR didn't seem to care whether I lived or died. They just wanted to make sure it wasn't on the BBC's time. Getting me out of the job was what this whole process had been about. I had become a difficult Jew, a problem, and redundancy was a way to solve it. The psychologist advised that I wasn't fit for a face-to-face meeting and that the notice should be given to someone on my behalf. I suggested my lawyer, but HR told me they didn't deal with lawyers. My consultant said she would write to them to say that, on health grounds, it had to go to my lawyer. Then, on 3 October 2025, a phone call to say the notice would be sent that afternoon. I explained my consultant's advice that, on health grounds, it must go to my lawyer. It was brushed aside. I was told the whole thing had gone on too long. The notice landed in my inbox within the hour. I couldn't face opening it, and sent it straight to my lawyer. Eleven days later I was admitted to hospital for the third time that year. I'm not saying this to be told I'm brave. I'm not. Anyone who has lived with mental illness will know it can feel shameful and embarrassing. With anorexia in particular, it can feel like something someone my age shouldn't have. But it isn't a choice. It's an illness. In the past week I have heard from former BBC colleagues about the toll their own experiences at work are taking, and from people in other organisations who are trying to live, and work, with mental health problems that are the result of the way they have been treated by colleagues. I'm too old and too ugly to hide from the truth, and I'm done with pretending. The BBC can, and must, do better. So must the other organisations those people work for. If speaking out makes even the smallest contribution to change, then the pain won't have been for nothing. If you are struggling, @beatED's helpline is free on 0808 801 0677. #MentalHealthAtWork #DutyOfCare #Anorexia #BBC #Antisemitism