Cult of productivity

Quitting my job didn't fix everything.

A True Life Built is a living photo essay on starting over and building a truer life. It’s for anyone, at any age, who is finding the courage to begin again. Subscribe for free posts.

I boarded a plane after a marathon week of work meetings, headed home. I was looking forward to switching off on the flight, but I checked my work email one last time out of habit. A client had sent me a simple ask that left plenty of room to say no.

But I didn’t say no. Instead, I opened my computer with a sigh and told my client that I could do the work on the flight. She responded instantly with a heart emoji. Ah yes, I thought, that’s my hook. Feeling needed at work feels a lot like love.

I’ve been thinking about that moment a lot recently because I recognize that woman on the plane. That’s Executive Liz, always on call, firing off responses. Yet I’m no longer managing crises that demand that type of vigilance. I’m a freelancer, for goodness sake, and the ask was to edit a blog post. No one is going to die from a misplaced modifier, yet my instinctive response is still the same. The work has changed, but my behavior hasn’t.

I went freelance in January of 2023 to reset my relationship with work. I stepped away from a senior communications role in a high-octane organization, trading meetings and management for writing and editing. I celebrated my freedom and declared that my work would no longer be my worth.

A year into freelance life, I still spend my days spinning ideas into sentences, working on projects that make me think with smart people who make me laugh. So far, so good. The work itself is everything that I wanted.

The problem is—and here I feel the need to drop my voice to a whisper—is that there is too much of it. Projects expand, new ones pop up, clients ask if I can squeeze one more thing in. Yes, I say, I can make that work. I can do that on the plane. I can find extra hours that would have gone to writing or reading or cooking dinner but that’s ok because I can do those things tomorrow.

When planning my grand escape from corporate life, I didn’t count on the fact that project-based work makes every “no” feel higher stakes. I recoil at the thought of declining an opportunity that might not come around again. My urge to feel needed, already my Achilles heel, has only grown bigger. If I always say “yes” then I’m more likely to get hired again.

But with every small yes, my boundaries erode. The shift is subtle. I start taking calls on Friday, which was supposed to be my day for personal writing. I allow work chat notifications on my phone and never turn them off. I glance at my email on the weekend—just in case. I’m a little more distracted in the evenings, a little less present with my partner, a little too drained to make dinner.

Gradually, the energy that would have gone to writing or cooking or friends is diverted into paid projects, like meandering streams diverted to a dam. One day, someone asks me casually how my week was and I freeze because I realize I have nothing to talk about besides work. It’s been a month since I published a blog post, two months since I picked up my camera. I feel thinner, more worn, less interesting.

I realize that I have yessed myself back into a flat, paper-doll version of my life—the very one I quit my job to escape. It’s less severe but still familiar. This time, there is no job to quit, no grand rebalancing of my professional obligations. Nobody is making me work like this but me. I have unhooked from a high-powered job, but I’m still caught in the cult of productivity.

In U.S. society, work is so intrinsically linked to goodness that I find it hard to even write about having too much of it. I worry that I will come off as whiny or entitled or ungrateful. My mental productivity chorus chatters: Being fully booked with worthy work is a freelance dream! There are busy periods in every job, suck it up! This may not last, so cash the checks while you can!

This is all true, and I am grateful. But here’s what’s also true: Earning a living is not why we live. At the end of their life, nobody wishes they spent more time at work. They regret the time they didn’t spend with friends, the risk they didn’t take, the book they didn’t write. They regret missing things that mattered because they were busy answering emails.

There’s a fine line between enough work and too much and somewhere in the last six months I tipped over that edge. Overwork has crept up on me because society sends heart emojis for taking on one extra project. Nobody sends you hearts for doing your morning pages or making lasagna or checking on a friend. You have to do that for yourself.

Saying no to new work still feels perilous, and I will have to strengthen that muscle with practice. In the meantime, I’m working on simply pausing before I commit. Rather than defaulting to an immediate yes for work, I stop and think about what I want to say yes to in my life instead.

In the past few weeks, I intentionally said yes to whimsical and joyful things. I joined an improv dance class with 20-year-olds and a 90s R&B dance party with 50-year-olds. I planted 200 daffodil and tulip bulbs for spring. I picked up my camera and photographed small moments—a rainbow, a falling leaf, a last wildflower—purely for the sake of noticing. With every yes to creativity and community, I returned a little water to the parched places in my life.

Finally, I am finding my way back to the page. It’s hard to write from the thin place and each sentence is a struggle. But I am saying yes to my blog again, not because anyone is going to reward me for writing, but because I need to do it for myself.

---

One of the unexpected joys of starting over has been hearing from others on similar journeys. If something resonates with you, I’d love for you to leave a comment, drop me an email or share a post with a friend!

Liz is a writer and photographer based in Brooklyn.