“To be honest, I take pleasure in working, achieving, and being so busy that everything else in life seems less urgent. After all, work sustains everything else.”
This is how I imagine my father would have answered if I had asked him, “Why do you work so hard?”
We weren’t rich. We were middle class at best. But his work was important, constant, and never-ending.
Life later brought me into contact with many men and women who, just like my dad, worked relentlessly. Their circumstances were different, and so were their reasons. Some had very little choice. Others seemed to find something in work that was difficult to find elsewhere.
I cannot claim to know what drove my father, or any of them. But I wonder what we might hear if people answered honestly, or had enough time and space to uncover why they work so much.
Perhaps some of the answers would sound like this.
1. It is the only way I know how to feel useful and needed.
People depend on what I do. I solve problems, provide, deliver, and keep things moving. There is reassurance in being needed. But underneath it all lies a question I would rather not ask: if I work less, will I matter less?
2. Work gives me a sense of control.
There are tasks, plans, deadlines, and outcomes I can measure. Hard work does not guarantee success, but it usually gives me something tangible to show for my effort. So much of the rest of life is less predictable. I can put everything I have into a relationship and still not know where I stand. At work, at least, I can see what I have completed.
3. Work provides me with a powerful excuse to avoid difficult conversations.
There are confrontations I would rather not have, especially with the people who matter most to me. There are things I hesitate to say because I do not want to disturb the balance we have learned to live with. “I have work” is an explanation that rarely requires much explaining.
4. Work can disguise the ways I unconsciously punish myself.
For things I have done, things I have not done, or expectations I feel I have failed to meet. I sleep less, eat whatever is easiest, and drift away from people who bring me joy. I can neglect myself and call it dedication. Sometimes, I wonder whether being exhausted feels easier to accept than allowing myself to feel good; as though some part of me believes I have not earned that.
5. Work earns approval.
Being a hard worker is a badge of honor. We wear it proudly, and we give it to others generously. We admire the person who never stops, who is always available, who somehow manages everything. We may not ask very much about what it costs them. Sometimes, neither do they.
Personally, I think working too much may be one of our most socially accepted coping mechanisms. It can provide an income, a sense of purpose, achievement, and recognition, while also helping us avoid parts of our lives that need our attention.
You can argue it both ways. There is real pleasure in work. I know that pleasure. I also wonder how easily it can become the place where we put everything we do not know what else to do with.
Did I become a workaholic too? And if I slowed down enough to answer honestly, what would I have to admit?