This reflection was written in the middle of a transition, after years of mistaking ambition for balance. When sport disappeared, I transferred that same drive into work. It made me productive, but not whole. What follows is not a lesson, but an ovbservation; how identity collapses when passion loses its outlet, and how rebuilding begins with reclaiming the self. 

For years I built my identity through work, production lines, maintenance strategies, performance dashboards. Everything I created became an extension of who I was. 
The structure gave me meaning. The pressure gave me purpose and along the way, I forgot that work is supposed to serve life, not replace it. 

In the beginning, it felt noble. Being the one who never breaks, the one who solves every crisis, who keeps the machine running while others sleep. There's pride in that. But pride is a poor companion. It whispers that your worth depends on your output. It convinces you that rest is weakness. It disguises exhaustion as excellence. 

Then comes the dissonance. 
You start waking up tired, not from work itself, but from the weight of carrying a role that never ends. You check emails at night, not because someone expects it, but because silence feels unfamilair. Every thought becomes a task, every day an agenda. 
Somewhere the crafstman became the product itself. 

So I started to notice the cracks, not in the system, but in myself. 
Most mornings I wake up tired, even after a full night's sleep. 
My body feels heavy, like it's been carrying a factory through the night. 
For years I told myself it was discipline, in truth it was depletion. 

I've been overweight for over five years, not due any form of ignorance or lack of effort, I know exactly what to do. The problem is not food, but stress. 
Endless motion, deadlines that never end which I force upon myself, they don't ever end because I keep creating new ones. Impossible tasks, born out of the same passion that once built everything I'm proud of. 

That's the paradox: the drive that made me effective now makes me exhausted. 

Before that, it was different. 
I used to channel that same drive into sport, competition, training and progress. 
It gave direction and release. But then came the injury.. The body stopped cooperating, but the mind refused to slow down. So I shifted the energy into work. 

The same hunger to improve, to win, to master. Only this time, the system wasn't built for it. 
Factories don't cheer, there are no finish lines, You just keep going. And over time, the discipline that once gave strength became the source of fatigue. The mind kept competing long after the body had surrendered. 

Here is the paradox, I can solve complex systems but fail to manage my own recovery. I know what balance looks like; I Just haven't learned to live it yet. 
Because habits built for survival don't disappear by decision. Even now, I wake up ready to perform before I even know why. I keep proving that I can handle everything, as if the world would collapse if I didn't. The structure I built for control has become a cage. The silence I once valued now feels like failure. Stopping feels like losing, even when it's the only way to recover. 

The consequence shows itself at home. 
After days of constant problem-solving, there's little energy left for ordinary life. Simple tasks; cleaning, cooking, fixing something around the house, feel heavier than complex decisions at work. 

My body moves, but the mind is elsewhere, still processing, still building. Even moments with my children often demand effort. Not because I don't want to be there, but because the pace is different. Slower, unpredictable, without measurable progress. I find myself restless while they play. My instinct searches for improvement, but fatherhood doesn't reward optimization. It rewards presence, and that's exactly what overperformance takes away. 

I'm trying to design a different rhythm, not yet livng it, but seeing it. 
Clear meals, fewer screens, reading without agenda. Small actions that return me to myself. Most days I fail, some days I don't. 

Rebuilding is not a single act, it's friction. Between the man I am and the man I claim to be. But friction creates heat, and heat forges shape. That's where I am: in between discipline and exhaustion, in between control and release. Somewhere on the line where identity meets integrity. 

Work still matters, it remains a form of creation, of order, of meaning. But it's not who I am, It's what I do. The craftsman must not become his tool. 

I neglected that truth for too long. Now, rebuilding is my quiet project. A transformation not driven by ambition, but by necessity. One that shifts the focus toward home, toward hobbies, toward intellectual growth. To strengthen the mind without breaking the body. To find stillness without surrender. To live with the same intention I once reserved for work. 

Perhaps that's where the real work is. 
Not to build more, but to build wisely. To find stillness inside motion, to stop mistaking endurance for strength. To remember that the highest level is not reached through endless work, but through the quiet mastery of knowing when to stop. 

Performance systems teach that everything can be improved. Fatherhood teaches the opposite, that some things lose meaning the moment you try to optimize them.