The Kitchen Was Loud. Pearl Jam Was Louder.

Burnout has a soundtrack. For me, it’s always been Pearl Jam.

Some songs are tied to specific memories. Others just know how you’re feeling before you do. In kitchens, where the pressure never drops and the speakers are a battlefield, music isn’t just background noise—it’s survival.

Every chef I’ve worked with has fought for control of the playlist. Because when your body’s running on fumes and your head’s full of doubt, the right song can hold you together. For me, it’s always been Pearl Jam. Not just one track—all of it. Their music has carried me through career shifts, burnouts, heartbreak, and the quiet moments where I’ve had to come back to myself and ask: Is this still worth it?

These are the songs that have stayed with me. The ones I turn to when I don’t have the words. The ones that have helped me walk away, come home, start over—and still keep choosing this life.

🎵 Black

This one might not seem like a motivational track. It’s about heartbreak, loss, and trying to move on from something that mattered deeply. But for me, it’s the song I play when I know I have to leave something that’s no longer good for me—even if I once loved it.

Every time I’ve had to walk away from a job that became toxic, from a city I was trying to make work, or from the version of my career I’d built up in my head, Black has been the song that’s with me. It’s not about anger—it’s about grief. And sometimes, that’s exactly what it feels like: grieving the love you once had for a job, for a place, or for the people who were part of it.

🎵 Society (Eddie Vedder)

This gif is from a scene in The Bear that perfectly captures the feeling of being trapped in the performance side of the kitchen—the pressure, the exhaustion, the disconnect. It’s why Society resonates so deeply for me.

I don’t even know why this song feels so healing—but it does. It’s what I listen to when I’m overwhelmed by the way the world works—especially the food world. The expectations. The pressure to be a product. The way it feels like people expect restaurants to be performance pieces instead of places where real humans cook real food.

Society is what I put on when I’m quietly raging. It doesn’t fix anything. But it reminds me that I’m not alone in how I feel—and that maybe there’s another way to exist in this industry without losing myself.

🎵 No More (Eddie Vedder)

This became my song during the final months of running my bakery. It wasn’t a boss pushing me to breaking point—it was everything else. The constant fight to make things viable. The cost of ingredients. The competition. The burnout that comes when you are the boss, and there’s no one to tell you it’s okay to stop.

No More gave me a voice when I didn’t know how to say: this isn’t working. Not because I didn’t try hard enough. But because the system is broken. And I refuse to keep sacrificing myself to it.

🎵 Amongst the Waves

This one is tied to a very specific day. I was back in Pembrokeshire for a quick visit—still working what turned out to be the most toxic job I’ve ever had. The owner made it very clear we were all replaceable. It was exhausting, and bleak, and I’d started to feel like I was too.

Then I found myself at the beach with my parents and our dog. Standing at the edge of the sea, watching the waves crash in and out. For the first time in a while, I felt calm. And I knew—quietly, clearly—that this was where I needed to be again. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just true.

🎵 Sirens

The actual move home happened fast. I didn’t need to give notice. I packed my flat into my tiny car and drove away in one night. I didn’t have deep ties keeping me in the city—I just left.

I kept thinking back to the first time I moved away. The car was full, I was nervous, and just before I set off, our family dog climbed in and sat himself down like he was coming too. He wasn’t, of course—but it broke me a little. Because I knew what I was leaving behind wasn’t just a place. It was him. It was home.

Coming back meant coming back to that—to my parents, to slow evenings, to muddy paws on the kitchen floor. Everything changed almost overnight. A new job. A different pace. Financial breathing room—even if it came at the cost of some personal freedom.

Sirens reminds me how fragile it all is. How quickly a life can shift. But it also reminds me I was lucky. I had support. I had skills. And when it all turned upside down, I came back to something solid.

🎵 Hard Sun

This one is the kitchen. Every day is a hard sun. You show up. You get burned. You go back. It’s hot, repetitive, draining, sometimes brutal—and yet, I keep choosing it. Because somewhere in all of it, there’s still something I love.

Hard Sun captures that exhaustion and resilience. You burn—but you’re still there. Maybe a little scorched. But still showing up.

🎵 Just Breathe

For a long time, Just Breathe was my favourite Pearl Jam song—mostly because it was the only one I really knew. My copy of Backspacer came from my dad’s CD collection, and most of my early music taste was shaped in the passenger seat of his car, just listening together on quiet drives.

These days, I rarely make time to sit beside him like that. But whenever Just Breathe comes on, it takes me straight back. It was the first song that ever made me feel calm—like everything could slow down for a moment.

It’s about mortality, yes, but it never feels heavy. It feels like an exhale.

And I think that’s why it’s stayed with me. In kitchens, in burnout, in the pressure to keep going no matter what—Just Breathe cuts through all of it. It reminds me to stop. Even for a second. Because sometimes that’s the only way to keep going.

🎵 Alive

What else is there to say about Alive? It’s the anthem. The reminder. The rallying cry. It doesn’t matter what I’ve been through, how many times I’ve burned out, started over, or nearly given up. I’m still here. I’m still standing.

I’m still alive.

🎧 What’s on Your Burnout Playlist?

If you’ve got a song that pulled you through something hard, I’d love to know what it was. Drop me a message or share it in the comments.