I love watching television – ideally in bed with a bowl of salt and vinegar potato chips and a bottle of Coke, zoning out for hours. I’ve always been like this. In my teens and 20s I watched back-to-back-to-back Law & Order and Law & Order SVU episodes. I loved the comfort and reliability of the form: the drama of a murder, investigation, plot twist and resolution, all in under 60 minutes. But several years ago, I stopped watching Law & Order; I grew uncomfortable with its uncritical portrayal of the police. I couldn’t quite quit the police procedural, though. I switched from American crime dramas to British ones (admittedly still problematic, but the ocean in between the two countries allowed room for rationalization). I am obsessed with Unforgotten, Prime Suspect and Vera, starring Nicola Walker, Helen Mirren and Brenda Blethyn, respectively. (See also: Happy Valley and Broadchurch.) I came to these women for the satisfaction of a mystery neatly solved; I stayed for the potent midlife inspiration. In contrast to the expensive-looking conformity of Hollywood, these British shows feature middle-aged women whose hair, makeup and wardrobe convey a vibrant reality. I find these women stunning, with nuanced facial expressions capable of holding multiple emotions at once, eyes that convey disgust or heartbreak with a brief look. They are refreshingly familiar, with slightly yellow teeth, downward-pointing breasts, sensible shoes and a little weight around the middle. Their lipstick wears off throughout the day and their faces carry the same smile lines, crow’s feet and deepening furrow between the brows that mine has – the hard-won evidence of living. These Detective Chief Inspectors (DCI) and Chief Superintendents (Ch Supt) run departments, and command respect and obedience. But they are also flawed and complex people living messy lives: caring for ageing parents, worrying about their children, wanting the best for their loved ones without knowing quite how to convey that affection. They are often quick to judgment, with sharp tongues that show no mercy and consciences they wrathfully turn on themselves after. It’s gratifying to watch Unforgotten’s DCI Cassie Stuart (Walker) brilliantly solve cold cases and handle grief-stricken families delicately. At home, though, she snaps at her father, who is in the early stages of dementia, fumbles to connect with her grown son and has a hard time accepting the support of her devoted partner. Over four seasons, Stuart goes from committed and infallible to burnt-out and overwhelmed. The American detectives I grew up watching were heroic and aggressive – and noticeably lacked any meaningful domestic life. But I related to the consequences of Cassie’s devotion to relentless work. “They have not one single idea of what doing this job does to a person,” Stuart tells her commanding officer in Unforgotten’s final season. “Having to mop up the blood, and the tears, and the rage, and the despair on a daily basis.” She is talking about police work, yes, but also the emotional labor of caring for a family. My relationship with work has also been all-consuming. My parents emigrated to this country with very little and worked their way into the middle class. They taught me that my worth was tied to professional success. But I haven’t achieved the same level of financial security as my parents, and am trying to do so in the infamously precarious creative industry. So I believed myself to be lazy – a child not to be proud of. For years I drank to reinforce that belief, before understanding that mistaken idea could kill me. In her forthcoming memoir Ambition Monster, Jennifer Romolini reckons with decades-long workaholism and the toll it took on her mental and physical health. Romolini believed that living entirely for her career was the only way to safeguard herself from the unpredictability of life. “It’s the monster,” Romolini tells me over the phone from her home in Los Angeles, of her previous relationship to work. “You overwork for attention for the overwork you’re doing, or you’re drinking to block out pain. Work is a substance like anything else – ambition is too.” In her book, Romolini writes that “a separation from work necessitates a reunion with yourself, with life”. In later seasons of Unforgotten, Stuart cries in bathroom stalls over mistakes she’s made, desperately trying to wrap up one more case before she can retire. As I watched, a surge of recognition and desperation ran through my body. I wanted out too – of the self-destructive story I’d been telling myself for years. Despite my doubts, I know I am a success on my own terms. I make a living as a writer. I work hard and I do not need to work harder. Some days I still find this hard to believe, but I am trying. These British television detectives helped me develop self-compassion. Instead of running myself into the ground or looking for external validation from strangers and peers, I measure myself by the only metric that matters – my own.