Hustle Culture Devoured Me

Three a.m. emails. Midnight deadlines. A life measured in notifications. I was good at it. Great, even. Promotions piled up. Accolades, too. Empty melatonin bottles by my desk. My laughter started sounding like a dial tone. That’s what happens when your identity revolves around tasks. Then my niece handed me a crumpled drawing from last year, showing me and her at a small park. She said, “But you kept canceling.” Her stick figures wore big grins, but guilt ate me alive. I’d swapped bedtime stories for Slack threads, weekends for spreadsheets. For what? A spiffy job title? A soulless LinkedIn post? We’re all a little drunk on hustle culture, huh? That mania seeps in, then takes over everything. I felt trapped, suffocating, but nobody noticed.

Self-care became another box to check, and I wore burnout like a gold medal. I was unstoppable, or so I thought, ignoring the creeping dread under my skin. Productivity gurus barked about hacking each moment, monetizing every breath. “Rise and grind,” they said, while my soul whimpered. Some nights, I stared at the ceiling, pulse racing, mind swirling with undone tasks. But hey, I had a promotion, right? The praise rolled in, fueling me to push harder. My body eventually fought back: headaches, tension, insomnia. I popped pills just to sleep for four hours. People said, “You’re so disciplined!” but I felt like a fraud. My niece’s drawing haunted me. I realized I’d let everything that mattered slip away, all for shallow applause. So pathetic.

I tried burying the guilt under more tasks, signing up for fancy apps that dinged if I dared to pause. My phone turned into a relentless drill sergeant. The stress hammered my temples, but I forced a grin. People praised my “grind,” clueless about the meltdown brewing. Then my niece asked me why I never showed up to family stuff. I mumbled excuses about deadlines. She just blinked, confused. That tiny moment stung more than any performance review. I saw the reflection of my life in her eyes: frantic, hollow, missing out. Something in me cracked. I vowed to step back, at least a little, before I lost everything. Hustle had become my identity, but I couldn’t keep pretending it was worth the sacrifice. Honestly.

I started small: unsubscribed from half my newsletters, and deleted ping-happy apps. Waited for disaster, but nothing exploded. My boss didn’t combust. My phone still chimed, though less often. I realized how addicted I was to constant stimulation, always chasing the next ping. A random afternoon, I took a silent walk, no earbuds, just me and the breeze. Felt like skipping class. My brain whispered, “Check your phone.” I resisted. The sky didn’t fall. The meltdown in my head eased. That night, I actually listened to music without reading emails. My shoulders unclenched. My niece called, asked if I’d visit soon. I said yes without hesitation. For once, I wasn’t juggling ten things. I felt a sliver of peace. Maybe I could be free. Finally.

Did I fix everything overnight? Nah. I still caught myself sneaking peeks at email during dinner. Old habits die slow. But each time, I paused and asked: Do I really need this? Often, the answer was no. My niece, oblivious to corporate pressure, became my guide back to sanity. We built silly towers from random junk. We giggled at dumb puns, unconcerned with efficiency. Work still existed, but it stopped owning me. Sometimes folks bragged about all-nighters, and I’d feel a pang of doubt. Then I remembered those hollow eyes in the mirror. Burnout isn’t a trophy—it’s a red flag. People said, “Aren’t you scared of falling behind?” Sure, a bit. But I was more terrified of losing myself. That fear drove me forward. Obviously.

I tested boundaries. Turned off notifications after eight p.m. Left emails unread until morning. Scary at first, like I was tempting fate. But guess what? The company didn’t collapse. My colleagues adapted. I actually slept better, realized I wasn’t a machine. My niece noticed I seemed lighter, more present. We took random walks, spotting shapes in the sky. I found myself smiling at stupid jokes, letting my brain rest instead of pumping out solutions. The next time a coworker boasted about 4 a.m. hustle, I didn’t feel envy. I felt relief that I was no longer trapped in that spiral. Sleep is not lazy. Fun is not frivolous. I had to learn that the hard way. But once learned, it clung to my soul. Permanently.

People asked, “Don’t you worry about falling behind?” Sure, the fear creeps in sometimes, like a ghost. But I realized there’s no finish line. Hustle never ends. It devours you if you let it. I’d rather miss a promotion than miss my own life. So I started ditching pointless meetings, unsubscribing from hollow hype. Freed my schedule for actual thinking, not just frantic reacting. My niece hammered home the importance of presence—she’s too young to care about work emails, so why did I let them rule me? The quieter I got, the more I could hear my own voice. My creativity returned in small bursts. I found time to doodle, to wonder, to breathe. Funny how stepping away from hustle made me more alive. Totally.

So here’s my truth: The productivity cult consumed me, but I walked away. Not perfectly, not all at once. I still slip up, still feel that itch to push harder. But now I recognize the trap. I see my niece’s drawing, remember the guilt, and choose differently. You can too. Maybe start small—turn off notifications for an hour, or skip that pointless Zoom. Try daydreaming. Dare to let your mind wander without apology. Hustle will keep screaming that you’re behind. Let it scream. Life is bigger than checklists. Rest isn’t laziness. Joy isn’t wasted time. I’m living proof it’s possible to slow down and still be okay. Maybe even better than okay. We deserve more than exhaustion. Go ahead, take a breath. It’s allowed. Always."