Why I Don’t Want to Do Anything Unless It’s My Job

Lately, I’ve noticed something about myself—when I’m not working, I just don’t feel like doing anything. Sure, I could relax, work on a hobby, or even try something new, but my motivation evaporates the second I’m off the clock. The thought of spending time doing something that isn’t related to my job feels... pointless. I’ve asked myself why, and here are some of the thoughts I’ve come up with.

### Burnout: Am I Running on Empty?

I’ve felt burned out before, and I think that might be a big part of the problem. My job demands so much of me—mentally, emotionally, and sometimes physically—that by the time I finish, I don’t have the energy to care about anything else. Work consumes me, and there’s just nothing left for other parts of my life. I often hear people talk about “work-life balance,” but that seems like a foreign concept to me. How can I balance anything when my work takes everything?

When the weekend comes, or when I’m on break, I feel drained. The idea of starting a project, even one I might enjoy, feels overwhelming. It’s like my job is a sponge, soaking up all my energy, leaving nothing behind.

### The Purpose in Work vs. the Pointlessness of Everything Else

Work gives me a sense of structure and purpose. It’s where I’m needed, where I contribute, where my efforts have visible results. Outside of that, things feel less meaningful. Maybe it’s because work provides a clear goal: there’s a task, I complete it, and I get immediate feedback. But in my personal life, that clear sense of accomplishment is often missing. Hobbies are more open-ended, and while they’re supposed to be fun, sometimes they feel like more effort than they’re worth.

Without the concrete purpose that work gives me, I struggle to find the motivation to do things that are just for me. It feels like I’m floating through time when I’m not at work, unsure of what to do with myself.

### Perfectionism: Pressure to Perform

At work, I’m expected to be on my game. I’m good at what I do, and I take pride in that. But with that comes a lot of pressure. If I don’t perform, it feels like I’m failing not only myself but also my team and the people who rely on me. This perfectionism carries over into other areas of my life. If I start something outside of work, I want to be just as good at it—and that’s exhausting.

It’s easier to stick to what I know, to work, because there, I know what’s expected of me. At home, in my personal life, those expectations are different, often self-imposed, and they feel harder to meet.

### Escaping from My Own Thoughts

I’ve also realized that work can be a great escape. When I’m focused on my job, I don’t have time to think about everything else. The uncertainty, the self-doubt, the feelings I try to avoid—work keeps them at bay. When I’m not working, all those thoughts come rushing back. So I keep myself busy with my job because it gives me a break from dealing with the parts of life that feel overwhelming or uncomfortable.

### Breaking the Cycle

Acknowledging that my job is taking over my life is the first step, but breaking the cycle is another challenge entirely. I know I need to create space for things outside of work, to invest time in myself and activities that bring joy. But it’s easier said than done. Small steps feel like the way forward—maybe picking one thing I used to enjoy and starting with that. It doesn’t have to be perfect; I just need to give it a try.

Perhaps the key is learning to let go of the pressure I put on myself to be productive or perfect all the time. If I can find a way to embrace moments of rest or fun without feeling guilty, maybe I’ll rediscover the parts of myself that aren’t tied to my job. Until then, I’m trying to be patient with myself, recognizing that feeling this way is part of a journey that’s worth exploring.

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If you’ve ever felt the same way—stuck in a cycle of only feeling productive when you’re working—know that you’re not alone. It’s okay to feel this way, but it’s also okay to take a step back and ask yourself if your job should really take up so much of your energy. Balance is possible, even if it’s hard to see from here.

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Licking Love Off a Knife

My Journey Through Unconditional Love, Self-Worth, and Healing

Love. It’s a word that we hear every day, in stories, in songs, and sometimes even in passing conversation. But what happens when love is not the gentle, nourishing thing it’s supposed to be? What if love, for you, feels like it’s coming from the wrong places or at the wrong time? When it doesn't feel like the tender "silver spoon" but more like something sharp you have to carefully navigate? The metaphor, “When you are not fed love on a silver spoon, you learn to lick it off a knife,” has felt eerily close to my reality at times, encapsulating many of the emotional experiences I’ve had.

For me, love has been something complex, painful even. It wasn’t handed to me freely or gently in many moments when I needed it the most. I grew up learning to seek it in places that weren’t always the safest for my heart, navigating the sharp edges of people’s inconsistencies and my own expectations, hoping to find something to hold onto.

I’ve felt this most clearly in my friendships and relationships, especially with Leon. For years, I held onto hope, even when the boundaries between friendship and something more were defined. Mixed signals, harsh words, and moments of rejection became a knife I kept licking, hoping for a taste of the love I craved. Deep down, I knew that the love I was after was unlikely to come in the form I wanted, but something in me clung to the sharp edge, unwilling to let go. In those moments, the pain didn’t seem to matter as much as the possibility of something more.

There’s another kind of knife I’ve licked in my life—my own internal struggle with self-worth. I’ve often felt trapped between two extremes: the self-loathing that pushes me away from others and my deep desire for companionship and connection. I’ve often felt like I’m constantly at war with myself, forcing myself to be okay with less because I believed I didn’t deserve more. The “knife” in this case wasn’t just the love I sought from others but the love I struggled to give myself. The blade cut deeper because I didn’t know how to see my worth without depending on someone else’s validation.

In friendships, too, the sharpness of love has been evident. I think back to the hurt I’ve carried from my falling out with a friend over our music studio project and the song "Inferno." This wasn’t just the usual strain of friendship but a reflection of how easily things could turn from warm to cold. I had wanted more from the project, from our connection, from our shared dreams. But I ended up feeling like I was never needed in the first place. The love I thought we shared—whether it was our creative bond or our friendship—felt like a knife by the end, something I was still trying to find nourishment from even after it left me wounded.

So why do we keep licking the knife? Why do we seek love from places that hurt? I think part of it comes from the belief that this is all we deserve or that if we try hard enough, the pain will transform into something soft and comforting. It’s a dangerous hope, one I’ve held onto for too long, but one that I am now learning to let go of.

I’m trying to change how I seek love. I’ve started focusing on healing, on quieting those inner demons that tell me I’m not enough. Sitting with my emotions—letting myself feel without judgment—has been a start. I’ve also begun to share my journey more openly, like on TikTok, where I post about my healing process. It’s not always easy to be vulnerable, but it’s a way to rewrite my relationship with love—both for others and for myself.

Part of that healing has also been recognizing when the love I crave from others isn’t what I truly need. I’ve had to accept that Leon and I may never have the romantic connection I once hoped for, but that doesn’t diminish the value of our friendship. Likewise, I’ve realized that sometimes, my feelings of isolation and rejection come from within—from the way I perceive myself, from the way I’ve been conditioned to seek love in unhealthy forms.

There’s something profound in recognizing that love can come in many forms—not just the sharp-edged kind I’ve known but also the softer, more nurturing kind I’m beginning to seek. Whether it’s through therapy, through my creative outlets, or through learning to care for my mental health in more compassionate ways, I am slowly learning that I deserve love that doesn’t hurt. I deserve love on a silver spoon.

To anyone who feels like they’ve been licking love off a knife, I hope you know this too: you are worthy of something better. It’s not easy to stop seeking the sharp edges, but when you do, you might find that the love you deserve has been waiting for you all along, gently, on a silver spoon.

This journey is ongoing, and I don’t have all the answers yet. But I’m learning to love myself in ways I haven’t before. And maybe, just maybe, one day I’ll leave the knife behind for good.

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Unpacking dreams

Last night, I had a series of dreams that shook me to my core. Upon waking, I was overwhelmed with sadness, confusion, and eventually, a hollow emptiness. Now, I’m trying to process what they could mean, not just as random images, but as reflections of what might be going on within me.

The first dream plunged me into a chaotic, tragic world. I found myself unconscious among Palestinians whose legs had been severed by soldiers. Once I regained consciousness, I was forced to blend in and do the work they had been commanded to do. It was gruesome, vivid, and deeply disturbing. I woke up feeling helpless and disconnected, almost like I was complicit in something I didn’t understand. 

Maybe this dream represents the suffering that I see but feel powerless to change. Every day, we witness the world’s pain—on the news, online, in conversations—and sometimes, it’s hard to know how to react. There’s only so much a person can do in the face of such suffering. And blending in? Maybe that reflects how I sometimes feel like I’m going through the motions, even when things feel wrong around me.

In the second dream, my mother passed away. In it, I was flooded with regret—regret that I didn’t show her enough love or affection while she was alive. I felt this deep ache of not having done enough, not having said enough. This dream cut into a fear I think a lot of us carry—the fear that we won’t have said or done enough before it's too late. It reminds me of how easy it is to take people for granted, even those closest to us, and how loss has a way of making us reflect on all the moments we let slip by. 

The final dream was no less intense. A massive tsunami was headed toward the country, and I was riding at the top of the wave. Strangely, I wasn’t scared; I was holding on and even encouraging others to join me. In the chaos, I was leading them, trying to navigate this unstoppable force. A tsunami, as most would interpret, often represents overwhelming emotion or an uncontrollable life event. Maybe riding the wave was my subconscious telling me I’m trying to stay on top of these overwhelming feelings—keeping control in the middle of a crisis.

What do these dreams really mean? I’m not sure, but they’ve left me feeling hollow, like I’ve uncovered something deep that I can’t fully grasp yet. In the span of one night, I confronted helplessness, regret, and a strange need to lead others through chaos. I wonder if these are reflections of my fears or hidden desires to change something about the way I navigate life.

It’s funny how dreams work. They bring up what we often push down or ignore. Maybe I’ve been carrying these emotions for a while—fears about the world, about my relationships, about not being enough. Maybe my mind just chose last night to reveal it all in three waves of intense imagery.

What do I do with all of this? Right now, I don’t know. But I do know this: Dreams like these aren’t just meaningless flashes of the subconscious. They’re mirrors, reflecting what’s buried deep inside. 

And maybe, just maybe, they’re telling me it’s time to start paying attention to what I’ve been ignoring.

As I write this, I’m reminded of the fragility of life and the importance of connection—both to others and to ourselves. If these dreams taught me anything, it’s to be present in the moment. To show love while we still can. To try to navigate the overwhelming waves of life, even if we’re unsure of the path.

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Finding Strength Amidst Workplace Negativity

Navigating a toxic workplace environment is never easy. When people talk behind your back or spread negativity, it can take a toll on your well-being and self-confidence. The hardest part is often feeling like you're up against a large group, and when it's more than one person, it can make you question yourself.

Recently, I learned that a group of colleagues had been speaking badly about me. At first, it hit me hard. I found myself wondering what I had done to deserve it or if there was something wrong with me. That’s the tricky thing about workplace dynamics—it can sometimes feel like you're the problem, even when you aren't.

But then, something changed. A friend at work, who had only recently joined, assured me that I wasn’t at fault. She pointed out that the group of people who were talking behind my back had been saying similar negative things about others, too. “They’re toxic,” she told me. “Ignore them.”

Her words carried weight. For the first time, I realized that maybe I wasn’t the problem after all. Hearing her say it was like a breath of fresh air. It wasn’t just her advice to ignore them that resonated with me—it was the fact that she saw the truth of the situation so clearly. She had only been here for a short time but could see what I had struggled to pinpoint for so long.

What stood out the most was her assurance: *“You’re not the problem.”*

Sometimes, we get too close to a situation to see it for what it is. We get caught up in our own heads, questioning everything. But her fresh perspective made me realize that maybe the issue wasn't me at all. She helped me recognize that no matter how big the group of people against me might be, their words didn’t define me. The negativity they spread was a reflection of them—not me.

But, I’ll be honest. It’s tough to keep fighting for yourself when you feel outnumbered. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t get overwhelming at times. Without my friend’s support, I think I would have been crushed under the weight of it all. Her presence has been a lifeline, and for that, I’m deeply grateful.

If she hadn’t been there, I might have fallen into depression. But having someone who sees you, who believes in you, makes all the difference. She’s made my workplace more bearable, and knowing that someone has your back can sometimes be the push you need to keep going.

So here’s what I’m learning: it’s okay to feel like you’re struggling, especially when you're dealing with negativity from others. But you are not alone. Sometimes, all it takes is one person to remind you of your worth. And if you're lucky enough to have that person, hold on to them. Because when it feels like the world is against you, that one person can make all the difference.

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2 Years

I'm grappling with the aftermath of a conversation that didn’t go the way I hoped. I had reached out to my friend, hoping to bridge the gap that has grown between us. I thought maybe, just maybe, this time, things would be different—that we could talk openly and find a way back to each other. But instead, the conversation left me feeling more lost than ever.

I tried to approach it with an open heart, ready to listen and to understand. I wanted to find common ground, something we could hold onto. But it felt like we were speaking two different languages, and no matter how hard I tried, my words just didn’t seem to reach them. There was a bluntness in their responses that stung, as if they were pushing me further away instead of meeting me halfway. It’s like they’re shutting me out, and I don’t know how to get through to them anymore.

I keep replaying the conversation in my head, wondering if I could have said something different or if there was a moment where I missed an opportunity to connect. But no matter how much I analyze it, I can’t escape the feeling that maybe this is just how things are meant to be—that no matter how much I care, sometimes, friendships just drift apart.

It hurts, though. I don’t know what to do with this pain, this sense of loss. It feels like grief, like I’m mourning something that’s still alive but out of reach. I’ve been trying to sit with these emotions, to let myself feel them fully, but it’s hard. The void left behind feels so jarring, like a part of me is missing.

I wanted so badly to make things right, to hold onto what we had. But maybe it’s time to accept that some things can’t be fixed, no matter how much we want them to be. I just wish it didn’t have to end like this, with so much left unsaid and unresolved.

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Roses are Red, My Blood is too

Roses are red, my blood is too,

Flowing with love, that’s deep and true.

In every pulse, a story’s told,

Of dreams I’ve held, and hearts I’ve consoled.

Roses are red, my heart beats strong,

For the love I’ve sought, all along.

But even alone, the petals bloom,

In the quiet corners of my room.

Roses are red, my spirit’s hue,

Bright as the dawn, in skies of blue.

I don’t need a hand to hold,

To feel the warmth, to be consoled.

Roses are red, my blood is too,

A symbol of strength, that I pursue.

For love begins, within my soul,

Where roses thrive, and make me whole.

- Syazana

Roses are so stunning. They're so deep red, the colour of blood that indicates a love so passionate and divine that you share with a person. Why am I even dreaming about roses when I don’t even have a person?

Maybe it’s because, deep down, the idea of love has always fascinated me—the kind of love that is fierce and unyielding, the kind that people write poems and songs about. Roses symbolize that kind of love, the kind that feels almost unattainable, yet so desirable. But what does it mean to want a bouquet of roses when there’s no one to give them to me?

Perhaps the roses aren’t about a person at all. Maybe they represent something I’m longing for within myself—something beautiful, something that signifies love, even if it’s self-love. The idea of receiving roses has always seemed like an external validation of being cherished, but why do I need someone else to give me that? Why can’t I give it to myself?

I think I want a bouquet of roses because I want to feel worthy of that kind of love, whether it’s from another person or from within. It’s not about having someone else to share it with; it’s about recognizing that I deserve to be loved, passionately and deeply, by myself. I don’t need to wait for someone to give me roses; I can pick them for myself.

So maybe I’m dreaming about roses because they remind me of the love I’m capable of, the love I deserve, even if it starts with me. I want a bouquet of roses not because I need someone to give it to me, but because I want to honour the love I can cultivate for myself—a love that’s as vibrant, deep, and enduring as those red petals.

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Obsessed Over Wrong Ideas

When you don’t have a strong inward inclination to your own personality or identity, you tend to mirror the thing or person closest to your dreams. Mine seems to be very far-fetched, and I’m starting to believe I’m absolutely nothing in this world. As in… I mean nothing. When I leave, no change will occur. It’s as if I’m just a shadow, fading as quickly as I appeared. I find myself obsessed with the idea of being someone else, someone who matters, someone who leaves a mark. But this obsession only deepens the emptiness I feel inside, pulling me further from who I really am, if I even know that anymore.

But maybe that’s the point I need to question. Am I truly nothing, or is this just a narrative I’ve told myself for too long? It’s easy to feel insignificant in a world that often measures worth by impact or recognition, but I’m starting to realize that I’ve been focusing too much on the wrong things. I’ve been chasing the idea of what I should be, rather than embracing who I already am.

What if my value doesn’t come from leaving a mark on the world, but from the small, seemingly insignificant ways I exist every day? The connections I make, the kindness I offer, the moments I share—they might not change the course of history, but they do matter. They matter to the people around me, and they should matter to me too. Maybe I’ve been obsessed with the wrong idea of importance, thinking it had to be grand and visible to everyone. But perhaps it’s the quiet, subtle impact that truly counts.

As I sit with these thoughts, I’m beginning to see that being obsessed with someone else’s dream or identity is only a distraction from discovering my own. I don’t have to mirror anyone else to be valuable. I just need to start looking inward, finding the parts of me that are uniquely mine, and nurturing them. It’s not about becoming someone who matters in the eyes of the world; it’s about mattering to myself, first and foremost.

So, maybe I’m not nothing after all. Maybe I’ve just been looking at myself through the wrong lens, one that’s too focused on comparison and not enough on self-compassion. I have the power to redefine what it means to be important, starting with the simple act of being present, of being me, without apology or imitation.

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Our Goals and What Matters

Do you know what's the most dangerous thought to harbor in this short, unpredictable life? It's the belief that time is our most valuable resource because it's limited. This mindset can prevent you from learning important lessons. We already know that life is short, and time can't be reversed or reclaimed. So why do we obsess over time itself and judge ourselves daily on how we spend it?

Now, think of time as money. Saving money is important, especially for rainy days. But because we don't know when or how those rainy days will come, some of us become overly thrifty, while others throw caution to the wind and spend however they want. Both approaches miss the point of valuing these resources. 

We could be mindful of how we spend our time. However, because we can't predict when or how these challenging times will occur, people often react in extreme ways. Some become overly cautious and hoard their resources, while others disregard the future and spend freely. The key idea here is that both extremes miss the true value of these resources—whether time or money. Instead of obsessively saving or carelessly spending, we should strive to find a balanced approach that allows us to prepare for the future while still enjoying and making the most of the present.

We all have a destination in mind—a vision of our future selves—and we take careful, calculated steps to reach that destination. But in doing so, the journey gets compromised. We curate our lives to fit how we think they'll lead us to that future, which adds unnecessary stress and keeps us focused on the future rather than fully living in the present.

Yes, having a goal makes the future less uncertain, but what happens to the journey? How can we embrace the "now" and give it a fair chance if we're always preoccupied with planning for the future? When you watch road trip movies, are you more interested in the characters' destination, or in how they navigate the hurdles along the way? Most of us enjoy watching how the characters face challenges and find contentment in the journey itself, with the people they're traveling with. And honestly, that's where I messed up in my teens and twenties. I spent too much time complaining, worrying, and moping instead of fighting, staying open-minded, and being content with the path I was on. A lot of my anxiety comes from past traumas, but those aren't excuses or barriers to progress.

My new focus is to be genuine and sincere in the journey I'm on, to give it a fair fight, and to keep learning. It's okay if the world looks down on you—just rise above it on your big white surfboard. Ride the waves. If they crash, get wet, get cool underwater. Whether it's a rainy day or a sunny one, keep your head above water and your surfboard with you, and just keep riding.

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