The Past
I was Liora, and in my late twenties, I truly believed I was invincible. I ran a small but rapidly growing design studio in a sprawling urban center, a place of constant motion and endless opportunity. My days blurred into weeks, then months, fueled by strong coffee and an unshakeable belief that success was just around the corner – if only I pushed harder, worked longer, slept less. I was always on. Always connected. Always striving for the next big client, the next award, the next surge in revenue. My internal monologue was a relentless to-do list, a constant tally of tasks, deadlines, and projections. I reveled in the frenetic energy, mistaking exhaustion for dedication, and stress for ambition.
My partner, Kael, would often find me hunched over my desk long after midnight, the city lights reflecting off my screen. He’d bring me warm mugs of herbal tea, his quiet presence a stark contrast to my buzzing mind. “Liora,” he’d murmur, “the studio won’t crumble if you rest.” I’d offer a tight smile, a vague promise I rarely kept. My best friend, Brenn, a free spirit who lived in a quiet coastal village, would call, her voice full of warmth and invitations to simply `be`. A hike, a sunset, a quiet meal. I’d always decline, citing `critical deadlines` or `unmissable opportunities`. I genuinely believed they understood. I thought they knew my love, my appreciation, my dreams for a future where I’d finally have `time` for them.
My definition of important was skewed. I measured my worth by my output, my productivity, the numbers on a spreadsheet. Small moments? Laughing over a silly meme with Kael, a long, meandering phone call with Brenn, watching the sky paint itself in fiery hues from our apartment window – these were pleasant distractions, fleeting respites from the `real work`. I held onto the idea of `making it` with a grip so tight my knuckles ached, convinced that once I reached that elusive pinnacle, everything else would magically fall into place. I ran from vulnerability, from the quiet fears that sometimes surfaced in the dead of night. I ignored the subtle aches in my body, the persistent exhaustion that no amount of sleep seemed to fix. What did I hold too tightly? Control. What did I let slip away? Almost everything that truly mattered.
The Turning Point
The collapse wasn't sudden. It was a slow, creeping invasion, culminating in a swift, brutal takeover. It started with inexplicable fatigue, then dizzy spells, and finally, a terrifying episode where my body simply… shut down. I was in a client meeting, presenting a major pitch, when the room started to spin. My voice faltered. My legs gave out. I remember Kael’s face, etched with fear, as he rushed to my side. He’d warned me. Brenn had warned me. Even Theron, my seasoned mentor, had gently suggested I pace myself. I had brushed them all aside, convinced I knew best. I was rushed to a medical facility on the outskirts of the city, diagnosed with severe burnout, coupled with the early stages of a stress-induced cardiac condition. It wasn’t a death sentence, but it was a very loud, very clear warning. A screeching halt.
The doctors prescribed bed rest, complete disconnection, and a radical lifestyle change. My studio, my `baby`, had to be handed over to my incredibly capable but underappreciated team for an indefinite period. The world, which I thought revolved around my efforts, continued spinning without me. It was humbling. It was terrifying. It was a forced silence I hadn’t realized I desperately needed. For weeks, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the relentless hum of my internal taskmaster slowly fading. There was no client to impress, no deadline to meet, no project to perfect. Just me, and the echoing void of my own making. This wasn't the `success` I had envisioned. This was rock bottom. And the silence, once a feared enemy, slowly began to reveal truths I had buried under layers of ambition and pretense.
Looking Back Now
That forced pause, that period of intense vulnerability, became the crucible in which I forged a new understanding of myself. When the noise quieted, what emerged wasn’t the impressive portfolio or the growing bank balance. It was the memory of Kael’s hand in mine, Brenn’s infectious laughter during a beach walk I almost missed, the warmth of a simple cup of tea on a cold evening, the genuine smile of a junior designer I’d taken the time to praise. These `small moments`, once dismissed as inconsequential, now shimmered with an unbearable brightness. They were the true treasures, the real currency of a life well-lived. I started to see how much I had waited. Waiting for the `right time` to relax, to travel, to tell Kael how deeply I cherished him, to truly listen to Brenn without mentally drafting my next email. Life, I now understood, doesn’t wait. It moves, relentlessly, and if you pause for too long, clutching onto some future ideal, you miss the vibrant, messy, beautiful now.
My definition of strength shattered. I used to think it meant enduring, pushing through, never showing weakness. I’d prided myself on not crying, on never asking for help, on being `unshakeable`. But lying there, weak and scared, I learned the opposite. True strength was Kael sitting silently by my bed, just holding my hand. It was Brenn flying in from her quiet coastal village, not to `fix` me, but simply to `be` with me. Real strength was admitting my fear, allowing myself to cry, to lean on others, to say, `I need help`. It was feeling everything – the regret, the fear, the frustration – without shame, and realizing that vulnerability was not a weakness, but a profound form of courage. I wished I had taken more risks in expressing my feelings, in being less guarded, in prioritizing connection over conquest. I wished I hadn't waited for a health crisis to say the things that needed to be said.
I’ve spent the last few years rebuilding, not just my health, but my entire approach to life. My studio still runs, but with clear boundaries. My focus has shifted from `more` to `meaning`. I tell Kael `I love you` every day, not just in passing, but with intention. I make time for Brenn, for long conversations and spontaneous trips. I thank people, truly thank them, for their kindness, for their presence. And I’ve learned to sit with my regrets, not to let them bury me, but to let them guide me. They are signposts, showing me what I valued, what I let slip away, and what I must protect fiercely now. They remind me that I cared, that I had dreams, and that I am, profoundly, human. They taught me that life isn't about avoiding mistakes, but about learning from them and choosing a different path forward.
The Lesson
This experience, this deep dive into what I thought I wanted versus what truly nourished me, taught me a fundamental truth: life is measured in moments, not milestones. It’s in the quiet connections, the shared laughter, the small acts of kindness, and the courage to be authentically yourself, flaws and all. Don't wait for a crisis to force you into introspection. Don't postpone joy, connection, or honest expression. Your `right time` is now. Your `courage` is already within you. Use it.
Don’t let the pursuit of external validation blind you to the richness of your present. Don't be strong in the wrong ways. Show up for your life, for your people, and for yourself, with open hands and an open heart. Live in a way that truly feels like *your* life, not a performance for others. Because in the end, it’s not the accolades you’ll remember, but the warmth of a shared moment, the depth of a true connection, and the peace of knowing you lived fully, honestly, and bravely.
Stop waiting for permission to live the life you crave. Start now. Tell someone what they mean to you. Take that risk. Embrace the quiet moments. Your future self will thank you for being brave enough to choose joy today. See ya ❤❤!!!