I Don’t Want to Work Anymore

Maybe I’m Just Remembering the Life I Haven’t Lived Yet

There’s a thought that keeps showing up in my mind lately, like a quiet whisper I can no longer ignore:

I don’t want to work anymore.

Not in the “I’m lazy” kind of way. Not even in the “I want to sit on a beach and do nothing forever” kind of way. What I’m feeling is deeper. More existential. Like my soul is tugging on my sleeve, asking if this is really what we were born to do. Grind ourselves to the bone in a system that doesn’t feed us.

Because somewhere along the way, survival got rebranded. It’s no longer about growing food, building shelter, raising children, or caring for our elders. It’s about inboxes. Metrics. Meetings. Side hustles. Selling pieces of ourselves for a paycheck that barely covers our rent. We call this normal, but I don’t think it is. I think our souls remember something different.

The Burden of Modern “Survival”

We tell ourselves that people have always had to work hard. And it’s true. Our ancestors toiled too. But their labor had a clarity to it. They milked cows so they could eat. They built homes to shield themselves from the cold. They traded bread or quilts, or hand-carved tools at local markets. It wasn’t easy, but it had purpose. Their hands worked in rhythm with the land, with seasons, with each other.

Now? We work to make other people richer. We exhaust ourselves so we can afford fast food, phone upgrades, and streaming subscriptions we barely use. We work so we can take two weeks off a year and call that freedom. We trade time we’ll never get back for things we’re told we need in order to belong.

And if we reject that system, we’re labeled lazy. Irresponsible. Idealistic. Ungrateful.

But what if we’re just… awake?

What If It Could Be Simpler?

Sometimes, I dream of another kind of life. A small cottage tucked into the trees. A garden I tend with my own two hands. A neighbor who drops off eggs from their hens. Days marked not by deadlines but by the rising and setting of the sun.

Maybe I’d make something with my hands, a lotion, a painting, a tea blend, and bring it to a market where others trade their offerings. Maybe we’d sit together afterward and share stories around a fire. Maybe it wouldn’t be easy, but it would be enough. It would mean something.

There’s a place like that in my heart. I don’t know if it’s memory or imagination, or a mix of both. Maybe it’s a whisper from a past life or a vision of what could be. But it feels more real than the endless scroll of modern life.

And I wonder: what would happen if we moved toward that vision?

What would happen if we chose slowness over status?

If we made things because they brought us joy, not because they were “monetizable”?

If we remembered that being alive was the miracle, not the reward?

The Myth of Progress

I know we can’t romanticize the past. It wasn’t perfect. There was pain and injustice then, too. Many of us wouldn’t have even survived those times due to gender, race, class, or illness. I’m not trying to go back. I’m just trying to go deeper.

Because despite all our “progress,” we’re lonelier than ever. Our nervous systems are fried. Our friendships feel fragile. We’re burning out, checking out, and medicating ourselves to tolerate lives we didn’t choose.

We’ve been told we’re evolving, but to what? To more screens? More productivity apps? More AI doing the things we once found meaning in?

I’m not against technology. I’m not against working. I’m against the soul-deep exhaustion that comes from living in a world that confuses worth with output.

You Are Allowed to Want Something Else

Here’s what I know to be true: you are allowed to want something slower. Something smaller. Something that feels like breathing instead of bracing.

You are allowed to not want to scale your business.
You are allowed to not want to hustle harder.
You are allowed to say this isn’t working—even if the world tells you it should.

You can choose meaning over money.
You can choose presence over prestige.
You can choose to care for your neighbors instead of climbing over them.

You can opt out. Or step back in with new boundaries. You can reimagine everything.

Because the system we live in is not sacred. It was made up. And anything made up can be remade.

Returning to What Matters

I know we can’t all disappear into a forest and live off the land. But we can make small, radical shifts. We can reclaim our attention, our creativity, our relationships. We can plant a garden. Turn off the noise. Light a candle. Make a meal from scratch. Barter with a friend. Create art that isn’t for sale. Rest without guilt.

We can return, little by little, to a life that feels like ours.

Maybe you feel this ache too. Maybe your soul is whispering like mine is. Maybe you’re exhausted not because you’re broken, but because this world is not built to nourish you.

And maybe… just maybe… we’re not here to grind.

Maybe we’re here to live.

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Until next time—

Love today,
Heather