Some days, I realize I treat my job better than I treat myself.

I hit deadlines. I respond to messages quickly. I stay late when needed. I push through tiredness because something needs to be done. I show up. For the company. For the team. For the inbox.

But when it comes to me—my rest, my health, my quiet—I’m often absent.

It’s subtle, and that’s what makes it dangerous. I don’t collapse. I function. But little by little, the things I need shrink to make space for the things I think I should do. Meals get faster. Sleep gets shorter. Breaks disappear. And the strange part is, I barely notice. I just keep going.

I’ve built systems to keep my work on track—calendars, reminders, tools, metrics. But when it comes to me, there’s no structure. No recurring reminder to check how I feel. No tracker for joy, or depletion, or the quiet warning signs I’ve learned to override.

Sometimes I wonder what I’m proving, and to whom.

It’s not that work is bad. I care about what I do. But I’ve started to realize that somewhere along the way, I decided that work deserved more of me than I do. That its urgency mattered more than my own wellbeing. That I could always catch up on rest later. Later. Always later.

But "later" keeps moving.

I want to unlearn this. I want to practice showing up for myself with the same reliability I give to everything else. I want to treat my rest like it’s urgent. To defend my quiet like it’s part of the plan. To care for my mind not only when it breaks, but while it bends.

Because I am not just a resource. I am a person. And I deserve the same commitment I give away so easily.