Hardship
At the same time, I found myself buried in a mountain of responsibilities. The nature of my job left no room for a self-contained life—no private cocoon where I could pause, reflect, or simply breathe. Each morning began with the relentless ring of the alarm clock, pushing me into a rhythm that felt less like living and more like functioning.
I’d rise, often half-asleep, and step into the same routine: get ready, grab a quick bite—if time allowed—and plunge headfirst into a demanding world. The workplace was a whirlwind of ongoing projects and constant deadlines. I was surrounded by hundreds of people—some kind, some indifferent, others driven by motives I couldn’t always decipher. I had to engage, respond, adapt, and perform. There was no escape, no reset button.
Sometimes, I would wake up in the middle of the night, my mind restless before my body even moved. As I walked to the bathroom in the still darkness, the silence around me offered no peace. Instead, thoughts of the project continued to swirl in my head—deadlines, unfinished tasks, conversations from the day. It was as if my brain refused to shut down, replaying every detail like a film stuck on loop. Even in those quiet, solitary moments, I couldn’t escape the weight of work. The pressure lingered like a shadow, reminding me that rest was a luxury I hadn’t truly experienced in a long time.
In the midst of it all, I tried to understand people—their moods, their expectations, their disappointments. I tried to navigate the politics, the praise, the criticism. Some days were rewarding; others drained every ounce of energy I had. And yet, there was no pause. The clock kept ticking.
By the time night fell, I was often left lying in bed with a mind still buzzing. So many unanswered questions swirled in my thoughts—decisions I doubted, conversations I replayed, emotions I didn’t fully understand. Sleep came late and left early. Life, in those days, felt mechanical. It was a cycle of motion without meaning, of doing without truly being.
I spend every day as if I were flying through a mountain—pushing forward with urgency, navigating tight spaces, and bracing for the unknown at every turn. There’s no smooth path, no open sky—just sharp edges, hidden dangers, and the constant need to stay focused or risk crashing. Each moment demands strength, precision, and endurance. It’s a relentless journey, and though I move fast, the weight of the mountain is always there—surrounding me, challenging me, daring me to keep going.
I wasn’t living—I was merely operating. Like a machine.
