Writers, have you ever typed The End and felt… sad, bereft, or nothing much at all? Have you ever published a piece of writing and felt disappointed by the reaction? Have your book publishing dreams come true, but after the initial excitement you’ve been plunged into self-doubt, depression or existential despair? You might have gold medal syndrome.
I first heard about ‘gold medal syndrome’ on Steven Bartlett’s Diary of a CEO podcast. Digging deeper, I found a wealth of research by sports psychologists about how top athletes cope with the mental health aspects of performing at the Olympics, and, specifically, their experiences after Olympic success. The attention-grabbing conclusion is that a high percentage of Olympians suffer significant mental health issues once the pursuit of gold is over.[1]
This led me to The Weight of Gold, a 2020 documentary narrated by the most decorated Olympian of all time, swimmer, Michael Phelps. It’s unapologetically blunt about the difficult post-Olympic experiences of several well-known athletes. Phelps shares his own story and pitches the problem as an epidemic, saying he ‘wouldn’t be surprised if 80% of athletes struggle’ with the transition to post-Olympic life.
The theory goes that most Olympians have dedicated their entire lives toward achieving a specific goal – to be the best in their chosen sport. Often their lives have been singularly dedicated to this goal. Other aspects of a well-rounded life are sacrificed in pursuit of this dream – a social life, a ‘normal’ childhood, other interests and relationships. Their entire identify is defined by this pursuit of success.
When they reach the Olympics, whole teams of people are invested in their winning. The pressure, expectation and hope is enormous. They might become, momentarily, a national hero. Their whole lives have been building toward this incredible moment.
Then, within a matter of weeks, it’s all over.
As The Weight of Gold shows, regardless of any placing on the medal board, the transition to post-Olympic life can have devastating, even fatal, effects. After the high, the validation and attention, there comes an emotional crash that can result in hopelessness, confusion, loss of purpose and emptiness.
And at the centre of this, the existential question: Without this singular purpose, who am I?
Before the internet starts shouting at me, I’m not suggestion that writing and publishing a book involves the same high-stakes pressure and expectation as being an Olympic athlete, but the parallels to achieving any challenging long-held goal are obvious.
If you are ambitious for your writing, if you want to publish and make a living from it, or if you believe that writing is the thing you’re meant to do, then it’s likely that writing is tied to your sense of purpose and identity. We are encouraged to self-identify this way and to embrace the epithet – I am a writer. You may have sacrificed much to devote yourself to writing – time, money, a career, a social life, etc. You may have weathered knock backs, rejection and failure. You probably have all sorts of hopes and expectations, and you may feel external pressure to perform (or at least, for your book to perform). If the reality doesn’t quite match up (or even if it does), it can trigger self-doubt, comparison, negativity, anxiety and even an existential questioning of your purpose and identity. What am I doing it all for? If I can’t make it, what’s the point?
In the weeks and months after publishing a book, it’s not uncommon for authors to experience a period of struggle. The evidence is there in countless posts, essays and anecdotes from authors across the spectrum. This can range from a brief post-publication crash, as author Tom Cox wrote about here, to long-lasting periods of mental ill-health requiring treatment and recovery. Tawny Lara compared her own experiences (and the stories of several authors she interviewed) to post-partum depression in this revealing Lit Hub piece. I wrote about my own struggles here. It seems to be an experience that is, if not universal, then certainly common.
So, what is going on?
I suspect that underlying these existential crises is our cultural obsession with achievement and the way we derive meaning from it. In our western secular society (and to be clear I am talking specifically about this context, not other cultures that may take a different approach), we are achievement driven. From our earliest school years, we are trained to work, strive and achieve. The American dream is the epitome of our cultural belief that hard work equals reward. We buy into the idea that finding and living our purpose is what life is all about. And this is not necessarily a bad thing. A sense of working toward a rewarding goal can be motivating and worthy. It gets us out of bed in the morning. It can give our lives meaning.
But where our ancestors might have found that meaning in spiritual purpose, we search for it in our achievements. We too often define our sense of self by ‘what we do’. Even if you have a strong spiritual practice, it’s virtually impossible to step outside this goal-driven culture. Instead of striving to reach heaven (or its equivalent), we strive for material, professional or social success. Gold-medal winning Olympians are the embodiment of that.
Some argue that the striving is a reward in itself. Many serial entrepreneurs report a similar negative reaction to achieving significant business goals. After the high of getting the thing they worked so hard for, they find themselves aimless and depressed, looking for the next challenge. There is no end point, no sense of arrival. They thrive in working toward the next goal. The work itself – the pursuit – is their purpose.[2] This might be one reason why so many writers feel heavy-hearted or grief-stricken when they finish a manuscript.
Perhaps it’s all biology. As Tawny Lara notes, the process of publishing a book causes a big spike in adrenaline and dopamine – the validation, attention, approval, etc. Or, conversely, disappointment and disillusion. Whatever the outcome, we can’t stay in that state of high arousal indefinitely – we’re in for a crash, just as Tom Cox described.
So, how can we protect ourselves?
Let’s go back to the research. In a 2019 Australian study, the authors suggest some key factors that eased athletes’ experience of gold medal syndrome.[3]
‘…given how many external factors can influence performance outcomes, attention must also be focused on things that are more easily controlled. Pre-Olympic planning and having social supports in place, for example, were key for those who transitioned more easily to a post-Olympic life.
Several athletes described the importance of having a plan for what they would do next, saying this was crucial to their wellbeing. These plans varied from getting married or going on holiday to beginning a degree, a new job, or even a new athletic season.’
Three things jump out at me here. First, the importance of focusing on the things we can control. In the world of traditional publishing, the author has very little control over outcomes. Whatever your publishing approach, reader reaction and broader market forces are out of your hands. So, what can we control? We can control the work. Ultimately, this means focusing on process over publication.
Once the madness of publication is over, the best thing you can do for your writing practice is to get back to work. Start slowly if you must. Engaging with a new project will help reignite enthusiasm and motivation, and help you remember why you write in the first place.
Which brings me to the second point. Create a post-publication plan. I might not advocate a quickie marriage as the solution to post-publication blues, but there’s a reason debut authors are advised to start on their next book before the first one comes out.
Also, a happy life is a balanced one. We are writers, but we are not only writers. What else brings you joy? What plans can you put in place to make sure you’re not spending all waking hours obsessing about your Amazon rankings? Who can we spend time with for a bit of perspective? What’s your next adventure?
And lastly, the importance of what the researchers call ‘social supports’. I talk a lot about the value of community and believe that sharing experiences with other writers is essential to writer wellbeing. Whether it’s your writer buddies or your therapist, having someone with whom you can share your challenges without fear of judgement is going to help. It’s common to feel we can’t talk about such things, and to feel ashamed that we even have these feelings in the first place. After all, if we’ve achieved the dream of writing and publishing a book – a dream held by many – what on earth do we have to complain about? But the more we talk about this experience, the more we normalise it, and the more we diminish its power.
Writers are great at supporting each other, and generous in sharing experience. Find people who have been there and done that, who get it, who will help you find fresh perspective and gently nudge you to get back on that horse. Investing your time in those relationships is probably your best protection – your writer friends might just turn out to be worth their weight in gold.
[1] The International Olympic Committee commissioned a review of research on the issue and subsequently issued a mental health action plan in 2023.
[2] Steven Bartlett again, talking to Trinny Woodall.
[3] This qualitative study was small, but reinforces the findings presented elsewhere.
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This makes so much sense! Thanks for this.
I think you have hit on an answer. Don't invest your entire self worth in a single project. Don't let that define you. Have a plan for what's next, and be ready to throw yourself into the madness all over again. And having a spiritual goal as you say ancestors did isn't a bad thing either.