It was a while before I regained consciousness. When I finally woke, the sun had long vanished below the horizon, and the inky darkness outside hinted at the approaching midnight hour. Slowly, I pried my eyes open, stealing a furtive glance out the window to gauge how much time had passed. This can’t be right. I haven’t felt this type of bone-deep fatigue since the day I died of overwork.
Back then, I had been the definition of a workaholic. All of my self-worth had been dependent on my performance at work, and I had become obsessed with going above and beyond in fulfilling every task my company had assigned to me. However, the cruel truth of corporate life soon became evident. The better you are at your job, the more work they assign you without recognition or reward.
Even on the day that I collapsed, I had been pulling an all-nighter on the weekend. Despite working overtime the previous Friday, I was still drowning in unfinished tasks when my body finally gave out.
