I hate work.
The piercing sound of my alarm shatters the stillness of my room at the ungodly hour of 5 AM, and I reluctantly drag myself out of bed. It’s the same daily grind, a routine I’ve been stuck in for years, first as a sound engineer, then as a tech exec, and now as an indie tech writer. I’m caught in this relentless cycle of early risings and late nights, all in the name of work.
Sitting at my desk, surrounded by those peppy motivational quotes and never-ending to-do lists, I feel exhausted. It’s more than just tiredness; it’s a profound disconnect from what matters to me — spending quality time with my loved ones and looking after my mental and physical health. The relentless drive to be productive, to chase some nebulous idea of success, leaves me wondering where the f**k the joy in life has gone.
This isn’t just burnout. It’s deeper than that. This statement may seem blasphemous in a society obsessed with hustle culture and endless motivation, but let me be honest — I loathe the act of working. I hate it. It doesn’t fulfil my purpose or ignite any passion within me.
If given the choice, I would gladly banish it forever. Given the choice, I’d spend hours leisurely lounging by the pool, engrossed in Agatha Christie novels, sipping on ice-cold Diet Coke until noon.
Our obsession with hustle culture, this idea that our self-worth is tied to how much…
