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I was addicted to the grind.

Morning to night. Seven days a week. Deals. Calls. Meetings. Side hustles. If I wasn't making money, I felt useless. If I wasn't tired, I felt lazy. Rest wasn't rest to me-it was wasted time.

My phone never left my hand. Even at the dinner table. Even during conversations. Even when my people were right in front of me, I was somewhere else mentally, chasing the next coin.

I told myself I was doing it for them. For my family. For the future.

But the truth? I was doing it for me. Because when I was hustling, I didn't have to feel. Didn't have to sit with my thoughts. Didn't have to face the fact that I didn't really know who I was without the busyness.

My wake-up call? My son's fourth birthday. I was in the corner taking a "quick call" that lasted an hour. When I came back, cake was done. Gifts opened. He looked at me and said, "Daddy, you always leave."

That cut deep.

I'm learning now that presence is greater than provision. That the people who love me would rather have less money and more of me. That rest isn't weakness-it's medicine.

Still a work in progress. Still learning to put the phone down. Still learning that I am enough without the next deal.

Anyone else addicted to working? When did you realize busyness was a mask for something deeper? How do you learn to just... be still?

An interesting though controversial perspective Mattjagang. I have a different perspective, the type of the company matters.

Hey Nameless,

Thanks for sharing more. It sounds very lonely and frustrating to feel like you're walking on eggshells in your own home, especially on a day like Valentine's. I can hear how exhausted and 'done' you are.

Okelele's point about postpartum really stands out to me, even more so after reading your last message. Spending all day in the bedroom with the baby, the withdrawal, the sudden accusations-these can be classic signs of postpartum depression or anxiety. It doesn't excuse locking you out, but it might explain the 'why' behind her behavior. She might be struggling just as much as you are, but in a different, invisible way.

I know you said therapy is expensive and feels uncomfortable, but maybe there's a middle ground. Could you start by talking to our trusted counsellors here on DigiBonga or a religious leader together? Sometimes framing it as 'I'm worried about us and I'm worried about you' can open a door that anger can't.

Moving out might feel like the only answer right now, but leaving a wife who might be suffering from a serious medical condition like PPD could have heavy consequences for her and your daughter. Please, before you make a decision, try to get to the bottom of what's really going on with her. You both deserve that.

Also, I want to offer a little perspective from experience: year 3 is notoriously hard for many marriages, and it’s even tougher with a firstborn. That’s when the reality of responsibility sets in, childhood fades away, and the seriousness of life hits. I struggled in year 3 myself after we had our firstborn. It doesn’t make the pain any less real, but I hope it helps to know your situation isn’t unique- and it is possible to come through it.

This hit me hard, especially the parts about growing up in the village and the feeling of wanting to belong. It’s so easy to see how that search for connection, which is so normal and human, can lead us down paths we never intended. The contrast between your professional success and personal unraveling is stark—a first-class degree and a CEO title couldn't fill that void. The line that stuck with me most is: 'recovery wasn’t about fixing my circumstances, but about changing myself.' That is such a profound and hard-won insight. Thank you for your vulnerability in sharing the ugliest parts, not just the triumphant ending. It makes your healing now feel so much more real and earned. I'm cheering for you and your continued journey, one day at a time.

For almost a year, I lived in a strange in-between space.

The conversations had happened. The numbers had been reviewed. The approvals came in stages—each one giving me permission to hope a little more. I didn’t celebrate loudly, but in my head, life had already started rearranging itself.

That Maldives for my LANDO & LION.
A car upgrade I had planned carefully, responsibly.
My own elegant and spacious house facing the beach under 30.
A small business for my elder sister who in pursuit of love had to drop out of school years ago—something dignified, something hers.
Support for children who needed just a little push.
Even a version of myself I was quietly becoming—healthier, more confident, finally breathing.

None of it felt reckless. It felt earned.

Then, in less than a month, it all collapsed.

No long explanation. No room for discussion. Just a sudden reversal that made the last year feel like a mirage I had imagined. The plans disappeared one by one, like dominos falling in silence.

The hardest part wasn’t losing things.
It was losing momentum.

All the great changes I had designed for implementation gone. Deadlines don’t scare me anymore. I sit in meetings now—listening, nodding, taking notes—while something inside me stays detached. I watch decisions being made by people old enough to be my grandparents, people whose single benefit could cover what I earn in years. People who will never feel this kind of loss because their safety nets are permanent.

I try not to call it bitterness. But it’s hard not to notice how ego and quiet jealousy can weigh more than performance, consistency, or effort.

What surprised me most is how the disappointment didn’t explode. It just settled. Heavy. Still. Like a room where the air no longer moves.

I didn’t spiral. I didn’t quit.
I just… paused.

If you’re in that place where your future was clear yesterday and blurry today, I see you. When something you’ve already emotionally lived through is taken away, the grief is real—even if no one else understands it.

I’m still here. Still showing up. Still doing the work.

But I’m learning that sometimes the deepest burnout doesn’t come from exhaustion.
It comes from hope that had already started unpacking its bags.

I've a bad flue today