The Hats We Wear

A while back, I worked for a company that prided itself on “hustle culture.” You know the type — the ones who brag about being a “family,” but schedule meetings at 7 p.m. on Fridays and expect you to answer emails faster than a toddler can destroy a clean living room.

I wore so many hats I could’ve opened my own hat shop: project manager hat, therapist hat, janitor hat, mind reader hat. And let’s not forget the “firefighter” hat for those “urgent” crises that somehow always popped up at 11 p.m.

I missed dinners. Missed birthdays. Missed quiet moments at home when my kid just wanted me to watch her twirl in the living room or tell me a story that didn’t have a deadline. But I told myself it was worth it — they promised me growth, opportunity, a shiny new title. A headline for LinkedIn that sounded impressive, even if my paycheck never got the memo.

I remember getting promoted to “Senior Something-or-Other,” and the excitement lasted about three hours before reality hit: same pay, more stress, and even fewer boundaries. I started noticing I was always tired. Not just sleepy-tired — soul-tired. That heavy exhaustion that doesn’t go away with a nap or a weekend off.

One day, I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize the person staring back. The spark was gone, replaced by someone permanently on edge, bracing for another late-night Slack ping or weekend “fire drill.”

I used to laugh loudly, dream big, and say “yes” to life. But somewhere along the way, I became someone who measured their worth by unread emails and after-hours calls. Someone who apologized for missing family events — instead of apologizing to myself for letting work swallow my life.

That mirror moment was my wake-up call. I realized no job — no matter how glamorous the title or how shiny the office perks — is worth losing yourself over. My value isn’t defined by how many plates I can spin or how many hats I can wear at once.

Titles fade. Deadlines pass. But the people we love? The moments we miss? Those are what matter when the laptop finally closes and the pings fade away.

So I started putting down the hats, one by one. I started saying “no” more. I reclaimed dinners, sunsets, bedtime stories, and that sacred first sip of morning coffee without checking notifications. I started rebuilding the person in the mirror, piece by piece.

If you’re reading this and you’re wearing too many hats, if your phone lights up at midnight and your stomach drops, if you can’t remember the last time you felt fully present — this is your sign. You are allowed to choose yourself. You are allowed to be more than someone else’s emergency contact at all hours.

Don’t wait until the mirror shows you a stranger. Start today. Reintroduce yourself to your life. You deserve it.