Why Do I Hurt Myself?

A journal entry about ambition, burnout, and the dumbass urge to earn rest.

I don’t know who needs to hear this—but apparently I do.

I only ever take a break when my body files a formal complaint. Like a true workaholic, I wait for the jury of my joints, spine, and stress hormones to deliberate before I allow myself to lay down. It’s not enough to feel tired. I have to be injured, sick, or semi-conscious before I decide I’ve “earned” rest.

It’s some deep, probably American sickness. A belief that burnout is a badge of honor and that leisure is a luxury reserved for after the collapse.

And I know better. I know better.

But still, every time I get a few days to breathe—every time I finally listen to my body and pull back—it’s only because I’ve pushed until something breaks.

Last night, it was my shoulder.

Popped it out during a pre-shift gym session, trying to squeeze in a little “self-care” before evening service. You know—treat myself to a punishing workout before treating myself to ten hours on my feet. I felt that familiar slip and click of the joint, that low-simmering pain that says you’re done—but instead of heading home, I shrugged it off, and went in to work like I always do.

Because, of course, I was fine.

Tried to half-ass mop the floor with my good arm in pre-service. Told myself I could rest later. So there I was, one arm dangling like a sad marionette, still calling tickets and trying to run chicken parm like everything was fine. I remember lifting a heavy plate and feeling that dull, nauseating ache crawl from my neck to my fingertips. Still—I pressed on.

It wasn’t until the final hour of service—when I dropped a to-go box of food, winced loud enough for someone to notice, and nearly teared up in the back—that I admitted to myself that I’d pushed it too far.

So why is it so hard to pause before the pain?

Maybe it’s the momentum. When you’re running a business—or in my case, a restaurant and a coffee shop and a few stubborn, half-buried creative dreams—it’s easy to confuse movement with progress. You wake up tired, go to bed tired, and in between you respond to the million invisible fires that make up your day. Somewhere in that fog, you forget that stillness is allowed.

And here’s the cruel twist: on the rare occasion that I do stop before I’m fully broken—when I decide, for once, to be proactive and rest—everything in my body suddenly starts to hurt. It’s like my nervous system was waiting for the moment I sat down to start filing the backlog of complaints. My knees ache. My shoulder pulses. My back locks up like it’s been saving the drama for this very moment. Apparently the warranty expires the second I stop.

And when things are going well? It feels even harder to stop. When we’re packed on a Wednesday night, when a regular brings in their parents and introduces us like family, when someone takes a sip of coffee and smiles like they’re in a movie—I feel that high. That jolt of meaning. Like, this is it. This is why I do it.

But then there’s the crash. The invisible invoice that always comes due.

Dakota eventually looked at me—saw me wincing while mopping— and said, “You’re being ridiculous, ask someone for help.”

She was right.

So when I arrived home, I laid down. I stopped moving. And in that silence, the guilt crept in.

Not the guilt of not working—but the guilt of only resting once I had no choice.

I want to be the kind of person who listens before the alarm. Who recognizes effort and honors it without needing collapse as proof. Who can say, “Hey, I’ve been doing a lot. I think I’ll slow down for a minute,” and not feel like I’m cheating at life.

Maybe that’s part of growing up. Or maybe it’s just another lesson I’ll keep relearning until I finally get it.

For now, I’m writing this as a reminder—one I’ll probably ignore the next time I lace up my sneakers with a sore shoulder, or convince myself that running a mop with one arm is “fine.”

But maybe next time, I’ll catch it earlier.

Maybe I’ll rest just because I need to—not because I’m broken.

Love,

Nick