I told myself that if I just worked harder, achieved more, kept pushing forward, I’d feel better. So I became a workaholic. I buried myself in deadlines and to-do lists, addicted to the high of achievement, the validation, the illusion of control. But no matter how full my calendar was or how many accomplishments I stacked up, the emptiness didn’t go away. In fact, the busier I got, the more disconnected I felt from myself. Work became a distraction — a way to avoid the quiet, to outrun the pain.