Someone asked me recently why I work.
And I took my time before answering.
Because I didn’t want to respond out of habit or politeness.
I wanted to be honest—with myself, and with the life I’m living right now.
And the truth is,
I don’t think I’m working.
At least not in the way people usually mean it.
Not the kind with fixed hours, performance goals, or career ladders to climb.
After my last wave of professional disappointments—failed applications, abandoned ventures, ideas that never took off—I made a quiet but radical decision:
From now on, everything I do must come from the heart.
Paid or not. Recognized or not. That part doesn’t matter anymore.
I let go of financial expectations.
And in doing so, I made room for something else: freedom.
So now, I only do what feels true.
I move more slowly, yes.
Because I don’t have big budgets or backers to fund my ideas.
But I move with clarity. With joy.
And that has made all the difference.
This pace I’ve chosen gives me time.
Time for my children, for their laughter and questions and growth.
Time for myself—to rest, to reflect, to rebuild.
I’ve stepped out of the race.
The one we call “success,” but that often feels like running from ourselves.
It doesn’t mean I don’t have goals.
It just means my metrics have changed.
My calendar follows a different rhythm now—my own.
So is this still “work”? I don’t know.
But I know it’s alive. I know it matters.
And that’s enough for me.