Angry red notification bubbles pepper my devices. Tupperwares of leftovers go uneaten in the fridge. A stack of colorful, empty folders sits on my desk, waiting patiently for me to get my shit together. The coffeemaker is perpetually filled with coffee, the primary substance I consume.
This is life as a workaholic.
I’ve written a lot about burnout and productivity, and I have a confession to make: I’m not good at taking my own advice. I sometimes work for hours at a time with no breaks. I don’t leave room in my schedule for relaxation, chores, or even meals. And I pack my to-do list as full as possible in desperate search of a future that I haven’t fully visualized.
I could blame it all on being a freelancer and the 24/7 need to hustle, but the fact is that I’ve always been a workaholic. I’ve always been addicted to work, craving the thrill of Getting Things Done and the sweet feeling of validation. Today, I realized that I’ve been too busy to even put the toilet paper roll on the holder. It sits on top of the toilet, mocking me. And for good reason. Recently, I’ve punished myself for daring to break away from my laptop and use the bathroom.
Afterward, I stared out the window at the rain, appropriately falling to match my mood. A few realizations came to mind, and with them a pressing need for change.
