So, here’s the headline:
I’m dying.
No need for violins or those melodramatic Instagram posts with sepia-toned filters.
I’m not here to tug at your heartstrings. I’m here to give you the unvarnished truth about what it’s like to have your body turn against you in slow motion, like some twisted episode of Black Mirror. The culprit? Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. Ever heard of it? Yeah, neither had I until it decided to make my life its personal demolition project.
Let’s back up for a second. For most of my life, I’ve been playing a game I didn’t even know I was in—one where my body was the underdog, and the odds were stacked against me from the start. I chalked up the constant aches, the creaky joints, and the general sense of my body being an unreliable piece of machinery to the hustle. Because, you know, that’s what we’re all supposed to do, right? Work until we break. Turns out, I was doing just that—literally.
I finally got the diagnosis: Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. A genetic condition that, in layman’s terms, means my collagen—the stuff that’s supposed to keep your body in one piece—decided to take a permanent vacation. So here I am, falling apart at the seams, and no amount of positive thinking or green juice is going to fix it. I’ve had to make peace with this reality, though, let me tell you, it’s a peace that’s often punctuated with a lot of swearing and a fair amount of bourbon.
But here’s the real gut punch: I spent most of my life chasing the wrong damn thing. While my body was busy crumbling, I was too busy grinding to notice. I wasn’t there for my kids, not really. Sure, I made the money. Paid for the Ivy League education. Harvard Med School, anyone? But my daughter and I? We’re practically strangers. I can count the meaningful conversations we’ve had on one hand—and I’d still have fingers left over.
So why did I do it? Why did I sell my soul to the devil of hustle culture, buying into that overpriced BS like it was the last avocado toast at a Silicon Valley brunch? Why did I believe that the only currency that mattered was how hard you could grind, how many sleepless nights you could endure, how many bodies you could step over on your way to the mythical “top”? Because, my friends, that’s the Kool-Aid we’ve all been guzzling for years. It’s not just about the paycheck—oh no, that would be too simple. It’s about the scoreboard, the twisted satisfaction of knowing you’re “winning,” even if it means playing dirtier than a politician in an election year.
And what are we winning, exactly? Bragging rights at the next soulless networking event where everyone’s faking smiles and checking their phones? A few extra zeros in a bank account you’re too stressed to enjoy? Hustle culture tells you that success is just one more all-nighter away, one more client crushed, one more deal closed, and if you’re not ready to sacrifice everything—family, health, sanity—then clearly, you don’t want it badly enough.
Hustle culture is the snake oil of the modern era, peddling this shiny, seductive lie that if you just work hard enough, you’ll unlock the secret to happiness, fulfillment, and everything else you ever wanted. But here’s the dirty little secret they don’t slap on the label: the grind doesn’t care about you. The grind is a merciless machine, and you’re just another cog it’s more than happy to wear down until you’re no longer useful. Then, it’ll spit you out, broken, burned out, and wondering why you ever thought that shiny lie was worth the price of your soul.
Let’s be real for a second. Do you want your legacy to be a list of jobs where you “exceeded expectations” and “increased revenue by X percent”? Is that what they’re going to carve on your tombstone? Spoiler alert: no one’s reading that crap at your funeral, because no one cares. The LinkedIn accolades you slaved over aren’t going to mean squat when you’re six feet under.
And the stats? Oh, they’re a gut punch. Seventy percent of C-level execs—the same people who preach the gospel of hustle—are secretly fantasizing about quitting for a job that doesn’t make them want to drive off a cliff every Monday morning. Forty percent of employees are so close to the edge, they’re basically living in a constant state of near-breakdown. And let’s talk about the loneliness epidemic at the top. The higher you climb on that rickety ladder of success, the more people you leave behind, until one day you look around and realize the only company you’ve got is your own exhaustion and a stack of unread emails.
That’s the prize at the end of the hustle culture rainbow: isolation, burnout, and the creeping realization that you’ve been chasing a mirage. The grind sold you a dream, and in return, it took everything that mattered. So here I am, battered, bruised, and a little bit wiser, telling you that the hustle isn’t worth the hype. Trust me, there are better ways to spend your time—ways that won’t leave you wondering, “What the hell was I thinking?” when it’s all said and done.
The worst part? Hustle culture turns you into a jerk. It’s not just about working hard—it’s about winning at all costs. I used to think nothing of putting other companies out of business, firing people without a second thought, all in the name of more money, more success, more, more, more. I was a one-man wrecking ball, and I didn’t care who got crushed as long as I was on top.
But now? Now I’m the one getting crushed, not by some competitor, but by the weight of all those years spent chasing the wrong things. I’ve tried to make amends. I’ve adopted kids from abusive families, supported a dozen more financially, tried to be the good guy for once.
But let’s be real—it’s too little, too late. You can’t buy back lost time, and you sure as hell can’t un-break the relationships you’ve shattered along the way.
So here I am, staring down the barrel of my own mortality like it’s some kind of cosmic practical joke, and all I can think is: what the actual hell was I doing?
Seriously, what was the point of all that relentless hustling, the late nights, the endless meetings, the deals that felt like life or death at the time but now seem as trivial as choosing a side salad over fries?
Was it worth it?
The money?
Sure, it paid the bills and bought some nice toys, but money isn’t much comfort when you’re lying in bed at 3 AM, wrestling with regrets.
The accolades? The pats on the back from people who wouldn’t bother to show up at your funeral? The victories that once felt so sweet but now taste like cardboard?
It’s all about as fulfilling as a politician’s promises during an election year—lots of noise, lots of fanfare, and then… nothing. The hard, bitter truth that I’ve had to choke down like a pill that just won’t go down easy is this: it wasn’t worth it. Not one bit. All that time I spent chasing what I thought was success, I was running in the wrong direction, away from the things that actually matter.
But here’s the thing about staring down death: it has a funny way of sharpening your focus, cutting through the BS, and making you realize what really counts. And maybe—just maybe—there’s still time to do something about it. Maybe I can squeeze out a little redemption, be more than just a cautionary tale that people share at networking events to scare the newbies straight. “Don’t end up like him,” they’ll say, and maybe they’ll be right. Or maybe not.
Because here’s the deal: I’m done with the hustle. That ship has sailed, crashed into an iceberg, and is currently resting at the bottom of the ocean with all the other broken dreams and abandoned ambitions. Hustle culture has taken enough from me—my time, my health, my relationships, my peace of mind. I’ve paid more than my share, and I’m not willing to hand over anything else.
Now, I’m focused on taking back what I can. It’s not going to be pretty, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be easy. It’s going to be painful, awkward, and full of missteps because let’s face it—I’m not exactly a poster child for work-life balance or emotional intelligence. But I’m learning, slowly, how to walk away from the grind, how to say no to the things that drain me, and yes to the things that might actually fill me up.
I’m taking it one step at a time—sometimes it’s a stumble, sometimes it’s a crawl, and sometimes I feel like I’m moving backward. But the point is, I’m moving, and that’s something. I’m trying to reconnect with the people I love, to rebuild relationships that I let crumble while I was busy chasing the next big deal. I’m trying to find some peace in the middle of the chaos, to figure out who I am without the constant need to prove myself.
And maybe, just maybe, I’ll figure out how to live in a way that feels true to who I really am—not the version of me that was sculpted by hustle culture, but the version of me that’s been buried under all that noise and pressure for far too long. Maybe I’ll find a way to make the time I’ve got left mean something more than just another bullet point on a resume. Or maybe I won’t. Maybe this is just another experiment, another shot in the dark.
But here’s the thing: at least I’m trying.
At least I’m not going to spend whatever time I have left on this earth doing the same damn thing that got me into this mess in the first place. At least I’m not going to die with my face pressed against the grindstone, too busy to notice that life was passing me by. I’m done with that.
I’m choosing something different now, something real, even if it’s messy, even if it’s hard. Because in the end, I want to be able to look back and say, “Yeah, I screwed up, but I didn’t let it define me. I didn’t let it be the end of my story.”
