Now that you know where I came from — the basement, the little girl, the ballerina dream traded for a boardroom — let me tell you what I built on top of all of it.

For 30 years I believed I was hardworking, dedicated, ambitious.

Turns out I was just high.

High on applause.

High on performance reviews.

High on “Great job, Stefanie.”

High on being needed.

You want to know what withdrawal looks like?

It looks like crying at 10:30 a.m. on a Tuesday because no one emailed you to solve a crisis.

It looks like feeling useless.

Yesterday I was “indispensable.”

Today I’m… available.

I built my identity through work.

So when work disappeared, so did the proof that I mattered.

And here’s the scariest part:

Realizing that if validation only comes from productivity, you start sounding slightly unhinged.

Like a neurotic lab rat waiting for the next pellet of praise.

It makes you feel stupid for not having hobbies.

For not having built anything outside of performance.

But you can’t exactly scream that from the rooftops.

Work gave me purpose.

It gave me satisfaction.

It gave me all the dopamine I needed to feel alive.

But was I actually living?

It’s very validating being “loved” at work.

Wait. Loved?

Let’s pause there.

Love is a big word. We throw it around like confetti in corporate emails.

“Thanks for this, love ya.”

“God, I love you for turning that around so fast.”

Love ya.

I heard it so many times after diffusing metaphorical bombs that I became love-drunk.

Work didn’t love me.

It loved that I solved its problems efficiently, expeditiously, and without bodies falling dead in the hallway.

That’s not love.

That’s utility with emojis.

And I knew that.

Don’t judge me.

Actually, fine. Judge me.

Because I also knew they’d “love me” again in a few hours when another bomb needed diffusing.

And I’d show up.

Morally superior. Productive. Slightly manic.

Next-level crazy looked like:

Working at 3 a.m.

Working on weekends.

Answering emails while the rest of Earth was unconscious.

Fully aware no one would respond until morning.

But still.

God forbid I took vacation.

What would they do without me for three whole days?

Unthinkable.

Did I neglect my family for work? Yes.

Did I neglect myself? Absolutely.

Do I regret it? Of course.

Can I reverse time? No.

And here’s the uncomfortable part:

I was fully aware.

I knew I was high on productivity.

I knew I liked the applause.

I knew I liked being the strong one.

And I kept going.

Because maybe I wasn’t addicted to achievement.

Maybe I was terrified of irrelevance.

Maybe I confused being busy with being valuable.

Maybe I didn’t love success.

Maybe I loved being seen.

All that leisure.

No validation.

No applause.

Silence.

Rest felt threatening.

I wasn’t afraid of boredom.

I was afraid of disappearing.

I wasn’t afraid of losing dopamine.

I was afraid of losing the version of myself that existed under fluorescent office lights.

The uncomfortable truth?

I was never addicted to work.

I was addicted to proof that I mattered.

Work handed me evidence daily.

Retirement handed me a mirror.

And in that mirror, I was just a person.

Not indispensable.

Not heroic.

Not superior.

Just… human.

And strangely enough, that hurt.

Until it didn’t.

Because retirement, as brutal as it was, gave me something no merit increase ever could:

My voice.

No bonus attached.

No applause required.

So now?

I applaud myself.

And this time when I say “love ya” —

I actually mean it.