The Dream I Walked Away From

I was around three years old when I fell in love with food. My first word was more and it was almost certainly in the context of food! At least that’s what my family tell me. Apparently I was forever in the kitchen, wanting to stir things, taste things and probably asking far too many questions. As I got older, not much changed. While most kids were glued to cartoons, I’d happily sit and watch chefs on TV. I wasn’t interested in becoming a footballer, musician or police officer like my friends, I wanted to be a chef.

It wasn’t just something I fancied doing. It was a massive part of who I was. I spent a lot of my childhood cooking, often with my Grandma who was the source of my inspiration. But any opportunity to cook I always seized. Photos of the dishes I created would be the backgrounds and wallpapers on phones and laptops, I was consumed by everything relating to food.

When I was in Year 10, school arranged a week of work experience. I managed to get a place at a Michelin Star restaurant and absolutely loved it. I worked hard, asked questions and tried to absorb everything I could. At the end of the week, they offered me a weekend job. I don’t think I’ve ever been prouder. My family and teachers at school were thrilled for me. This was the start of my journey and every one knew it. A year or so later, at sixteen, that weekend job became an apprenticeship.

This was it. The dream I’d carried around for thirteen years was finally happening. Or so I thought.

Looking back now, I think people imagine that leaving was one big rushed decision. It wasn’t. It was hundreds of little moments that slowly chipped away at me. Living away from home was harder than I expected. There was no Wi-Fi and barely any phone signal. That probably sounds ridiculous now, but when you’re sixteen and you’ve suddenly left everyone you’ve ever known behind, those little things matter.

My friends thought I’d gone quiet. Some thought I couldn’t be bothered with them anymore because I never replied to messages or met up. The truth was I was working split shifts, getting a few hours in the afternoon before going back in for service, and by the time I had chance to look at my phone, people had stopped asking.

Life carried on without me. Family meals happened without me. Birthdays happened without me. The group chats carried on without me. Nobody had done anything wrong. That’s just what hospitality is like. It was then, it still is now. When we go out for meals or drinks, someone is serving us, looking after us and therefore isn’t with their family or friends. And whilst it’s such an obvious thing to say, it’s often something we overlook.

But anyway. The restaurant became my world. At sixteen, it felt like a very lonely world. Then there was the culture.

I want to be careful here because this isn’t about blaming anyone. Hospitality has changed enormously, and there were some brilliant people around me working in it today who are making it better. But there was a culture that, if I’m honest, I just wasn’t ready for.

After events like wine pairing evenings, everyone would head for a beer. I didn’t really want one, but it felt like the thing you were supposed to do. Conversations were often full of sexual jokes and the sort of laddish banter that made me feel awkward rather than included. I remember laughing along sometimes because it felt easier than admitting I was uncomfortable. I’d gone from school, where teachers looked after you, encouraged you and noticed when something wasn’t quite right, to an industry where everyone simply expected you to get on with it.

No one pulled me aside and asked if I was alright. Maybe they assumed I was. Maybe I told them I was. The truth is, I don’t think I knew how to answer that question anyway. Mental health wasn’t something people talked about back then. I certainly didn’t.

After a few months, I made the decision to leave. Even now, writing those words feels strange. My family couldn’t understand it. Neither could my friends. As far as they were concerned, I’d spent my entire childhood wanting to become a chef and I’d finally been handed the opportunity most young cooks dream of. Why would I throw that away? The honest answer is, I wasn’t throwing away my dream. I was trying to save myself. The problem was, I didn’t know that’s what I was doing. I didn’t have the words “mental health.” I didn’t know what anxiety looked like. I couldn’t explain why I felt constantly overwhelmed or why I dreaded going back after my days off. I just knew I wasn’t happy anymore.

So I left.

For a long time, I wondered if I’d failed. If I’d been tougher, maybe I’d have stayed. If I’d fitted in a little better, maybe things would have been different. It’s funny how your younger self can spend years blaming themselves for something they never really understood.

My life had other plans. I went back into education, then to university, and eventually became a food teacher. I’ve now spent over a decade helping young people discover the same love of cooking that I had as a little boy. Along the way, I started the Aroma Catering Foundation from nothing. Watching it grow into a multi award-winning registered charity and even now that remains one of the proudest achievements of my life. More recently, I’ve poured my creativity into Savvy by Nick Hall, creating dining experiences that remind me why I fell in love with food in the first place.

And somehow, despite walking away from professional kitchens all those years ago, I’ve found myself back in hospitality again through The Burnt Chef Project. I’ve been proud to serve as a Burnt Chef Ambassador and Cumbria Chief, helping to start conversations that simply didn’t exist when I was sixteen.

Sometimes I catch myself wondering though what if The Burnt Chef Project had been around back then? Would someone have recognised what I couldn’t? Would someone have told me that struggling didn’t mean I was weak? Would someone have helped me find a way to stay in the industry I loved? I guess I’ll never know.

But I do know this. If organisations like The Burnt Chef Project had existed, I don’t think I’d have felt quite so alone. Do I regret leaving? No. Not for a second. Because becoming a teacher led me to meet my wife. Together we’ve built a family that means more to me than I could ever put into words. I’ve had opportunities I could never have imagined at sixteen, and they’ve shaped the person I am today.

I don’t look back wishing my life had been different. I look back wishing sixteen-year-old me had known he wasn’t failing. He was struggling. There’s a huge difference.

Today, I still encourage young people to become chefs. Hospitality is one of the most creative, exciting and rewarding industries in the world. It should be hard. It should challenge you. It should push you to be better than you thought you could be. But it should never make a young person believe they have to sacrifice their wellbeing to belong. 

As a teacher, that’s the message I want my students to hear. As a Burnt Chef Ambassador, it’s the message I’ll keep sharing.

And if just one young person reads this and realises they can ask for help before they decide to walk away from something they love, then perhaps the story I never thought I’d tell has been worth telling after all.

Author

Nick Hall

The Burnt Chef Project Chief Ambassador (Cumbria)

Nick Hall is a food teacher, former chef, founder of the award-winning Aroma Catering Foundation, and the creative force behind Savvy by Nick Hall. He is also a proud Burnt Chef Ambassador and Cumbria Chief, where he works to raise awareness of mental health across the hospitality industry. Passionate about inspiring the next generation, Nick combines his love of food, education and wellbeing to encourage young people to pursue careers in hospitality while helping to create a culture where they feel supported, valued and able to thrive.