The Gilded Gate

And breaking out.

People call me a workaholic, and they’re right.

I’ve been working my whole life. My father came here with little money in the late 90s so working was how we survived. Vacations weren’t in our vocabulary. Working was our guiding light to escape poverty and help others. I was born with the needle of workaholism injected in my veins.

In my mind, workaholism was a coach giving me the opportunity to help others.

As an engineering student, I was juggling homework, working part-time as a filmmaker, running a club helping amputees, volunteering as a tutor at the local library, and writing fiction. Many friends were concerned with how much work I took on.

My reply was the most famous lie in human history: “I’m fine.”

I worked 70–90 hours a week–including the summertime– and like a seasoned addict tracked my time and ran productivity experiments to see how much more work I could squeeze out. I would barely eat which would lead to brain splitting hypoglycemic headaches causing me to stumble and almost faint again.

But it was all for a good cause, right? I worked to help others.

In 2019, one Saturday morning, I was working on a project which was due on Tuesday. Most of it was complete but I still had multiple parts left. But a family friend’s baby shower was today. It was her first child, and the trip would take the whole day. And I stayed home to work. I thought I’d see her soon, but COVID hit, and I didn’t see her again until 4 years later when she had her second child. The worst part was I finished my project in a few hours.

Workaholism imprisoned me in a gilded cage without me realizing it.

With the slyness of a cult leader, workaholism coaxed me to work harder because my value as a person stemmed from the results I produced, rather than for who I am. Disguised as a ruse for me to help more people, workaholism convinced me to keep working because everyone else will benefit. But all the time spent working accumulated to a kingdom of ashes.

As my first real paycheck came in seducing me to continue working 80+ hrs a week, I knew something had to change or else I’d continue this insane dance.

Workaholism: A Symbiosis turned Parasitic.

Society promotes workaholism by focusing on results.

Grades, applications, job interviews, and performance reviews are based on what you do. Being a workaholic helped me dominate in those aspects. 100+ stories published, almost patenting a medical device as a 1st year student and landing a job at the world’s largest nonprofit R&D firm. I was convinced I needed it to survive in this world.

I was ahead professionally, but it was destroying me personally.

Everything was framed through the lens of pragmatism and utility. Celebrations meant nothing to me with a nagging voice urging me to work. I couldn’t go and hang out and do nothing. I was convinced friends were with me because I helped them with their problems, even if that wasn’t the reality.

Until one night, I got home from university after an exceptional day.

Exams went well, the prosthetics club was becoming a national nonprofit, and we won a few grants from the university, and had a few job interviews lined up after months of rejections. I was on top of the world when I got home and was met with a deafening silence. I was alone.

Each step was met with a hollow echo. I opened my laptop looking for another hit but there was nothing for me to do. The calm survival mode of workaholism now was a mass panic of banshees heralding my impending death if I didn’t find some work.

But one question escaped the insanity: What’s the use of surviving if you’re all alone?

Relationships are mirrors.

What saved me were my friends who reminded me to take care of myself, and for the first time, I saw the gilded prison I built.

Relationships give us feedback on who we are. Without it, we wouldn’t be aware of what we do. Similar to how our visions depend upon light reflecting off objects back into your eyes. If we remove all contact with the outside world, not the people, but the exchange of information- the conversations — you wouldn’t know what to do or where to go, you’re trapped in the dark. It’s why giving someone the permanent silent treatment is so destructive to their well being, and we collectively experienced a social vacuum when COVID forced us to separate.

My friends held up a mirror revealing the gilded prison surrounding me with self-doubt as my warden and my insecurities as guard dogs.

Self-doubt and insecurities collaborated to spin a tale convincing me I couldn’t survive without working. And they were right, I couldn’t, but I didn’t need it as much as I thought I did. Years of journaling and writing helped me internalize what friends were telling me all along. Before I filled my plate with work to the point it became a game to see how much I could handle before it collapsed. Now I’m more selective with what I do. Because if I’m not, I’d slip back into the prison and never escape.

I’ll always be a workaholic.

It’ll always be a part of me. Work is useful sometimes, but no amount of work is worth sacrificing personal relationships. My idea from work changed from long-hours to focused efforts.

Over time, the gilded prison became a bracelet. A sober reminder of my past.

A few months ago, my mom suddenly asked me to go with her to visit her friend who lived 3 hours away. The trip would take the whole day. My first instinct was heck no, I was balancing a ton of projects and going means I might not finish. But I stopped myself. I was repeating the same song I did 4 years ago. I got in the car and drove her for 3 hours.

The best thing about work, it’ll always be here tomorrow.

But your relationships may not be.