There are people who believe that having a corporate job, with a decent steady paycheck, must be such a blessing. “At least you have stability,” they say, as if that magically cancels out the bone-crushing, soul-eroding performance art that is everyday life in a job you have outgrown.
Let’s talk about that “blessing,” shall we?
That point in Corporate America where all of your hours have been sucked into some type of work drama about the actual work you perform. Where your entire life is drained away by a role you choose to play. For money. But still—what is money actually worth?
I wake up too early—not to meditate or stretch like some productivity blog suggests—but to rehearse. Rehearse the tone of voice. The facial expressions. The posture of a person who is “grateful” for back-to-back status meetings. Then it’s on: up to 10 meetings a day, thirty-minute chunks of relentless smiling, camera-facing, head-nodding hell. So much context switching I forget the day of the week.
On office days, I even stuff my resentful “happy to be here” feet into shoes for the full day (except for the part where I cry in my car). Like? Why?
The kicker? I recently did the math. After factoring in emotional labor, post-work dread, weekend worrying, and the sheer psychic toll of being perceived Monday through Friday… I’m making around $37 an hour. And that’s being generous. I’m not just selling time. I’m selling presence, identity, and peace of mind.
At this rate, I might as well hop on Rover, walk some dogs, and reclaim my soul.
The Myth of Doing It All
Somewhere along the way, “doing your best” quietly shapeshifted into “doing everything, all the time, with a smile and a mental curtsy.” We’ve been sold this myth that if we just optimize hard enough, wake up early enough, color-code our calendars enough—we can out-hustle the crushing demands of modern life.
But here’s the truth no one puts on LinkedIn: You are not a machine. You are a human being. Heavy on the BEING. You have a nervous system, a messy emotional landscape, and maybe a strong dislike for office politics. Endless productivity isn’t noble. It’s a trap. And believing you can do it all is a one-way ticket to burnout, resentment, and random Thursday crying jags in the parking lot of a CVS. (Hey, at least you can run in and grab mascara to fix your face—because you’re being SEEN. Corporate 1984 vibes, but with ID badges.)
Honestly? Work starts to feel like little league outfield duty. You’re out there, trying to look alive because your boss is yelling it from the dugout—but everyone knows the ball isn’t coming your way. And that if it did come to you, you were likely not going to catch it.
And you? You’d rather be behind the plate, calling pitches and staying in the game. But that’s not your role right now. So you stand in the grass, pretending you care. Pretending you’re present. Because back then, it meant getting to play. And now, it means getting to stay employed.
But let’s be real—for $37 an hour, the least you should get is the freedom to admit you’re over it.
Survival is Sacred. Rest is Rebellion.
The human body isn’t built for this. Physically or Mentally.
Not the grind. Not the pretending. Not the constant mental gymnastics of being on 24/7 while smiling at spreadsheets and pretending Slack messages are urgent. You weren’t designed to be available at all hours, running on caffeine and dread. And you sure as hell weren’t meant to prove your worth through a calendar full of meetings about meetings.
Survival isn’t just acceptable—it’s sacred. If you woke up, got through the day without screaming, and remembered to feed yourself? That’s a win. That’s not slacking. That’s surviving late-stage capitalism with your humanity intact.
And rest? Rest is rebellion.
Not the cute, aesthetic kind. Some of that, if you want. But for our soul survival purpose here…the kind of rest that says: I will not trade my sanity for productivity today. The kind that says: I see what this system is doing, and I’m not playing all of it anymore.
But the rebellion is complicated. We’re trained to compete—even if we hate the game. You can despise your job and still want to be good at it. You can loathe the meetings and still lie awake at night wondering if your “visibility” is low. The judgment seeps in, even on your off-hours. And when your “capacity” is measured in salaried hours and imaginary widgets, it’s no wonder your brain melts under pressure.
For me, true rest isn’t a nap or a bath (though I highly respect both). It’s words.
It’s writing. It’s crosswords. It’s playing Wordscapes at 11 p.m. when the work noise finally stops. It’s reading Wikipedia for no good reason. It’s letting my mind wander back into itself, back into curiosity. Because if I’m thinking, I’m still here.
It’s a little like Descartes said: “I think, therefore I am.”
If I’m intellectually engaged, I feel present.
But if I’m stuck performing a part I’ve long since outgrown?
That’s not living. That’s death.
That’s despair.
That’s existential rot in business casual.
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