Yesterday, frustration got the better of me.
I found out that a project I’d helped shape — one we all agreed would be put on hold as a proof of concept — had quietly moved forward without me.
A wave of emotion hit me. Something I was part of had been taken and built without my input. I felt cut out and worthless, like my skills were undervalued. That fed my frustration.
Worse still, I let that frustration spill over onto one of my closest, longest friends.
Someone who has always had my back.
Instead of stepping away to process, I stayed in the moment — and fought my corner. But I fought it badly. It wasn’t their fault. None of this was. They were just the messenger, caught in the crossfire.
I haven’t felt like this in a long time.
The last time I did, I was approaching burnout.
That same wired, restless energy — not anxious exactly, just… unable to switch off.
Tired. Not sleeping. Snappy. And it got me thinking.
I’m working myself to the bone — and for what?
There’s no reward, no recognition, no real value to me in this anymore.
If I left tomorrow, I’d be replaced. Or maybe not replaced at all. The work would just stop.
So why am I pushing myself this hard? Why am I risking friendships, testing relationships, and trashing my own health for something that doesn’t even see me?
As I walk into the weekend, thoughts heavy in my hands, I know something has to change.
The extra hours have to stop.
The overworking has to stop.
And to those I’ve hurt over the past few weeks — I’m sorry. Truly.