Balancing Building and Being
“I’m always telling myself that things will be easier ‘once I get through this next phase’—but that phase never ends.”
When I ask you, “How are you doing?” I don’t mean as a founder. I mean as a person. Often, those two selves give very different answers.
The entrepreneur might say they’re making major decisions, hiring, pivoting, scaling.
The person might say they’re exhausted. That they feel like they should be happier by now. Despite all their progress, they still feel behind.
The person might say they’re exhausted. That they feel like they should be happier by now. Despite all their progress, they still feel behind.
You know that feeling. The work that used to light you up has started to feel dry, mechanical. The spark has dimmed. It’s not burnout, not exactly—but it’s something close. You’ve become efficient at producing outcomes, but in the process, you’ve started losing yourself.
I don’t want to just write you to get this done. I want to write because I mean it.
Because when I’m fully present in this process—when I actually connect to what I’m saying—it feels different. And that difference comes through.
What if work wasn’t just a means to an end? What if the goal wasn’t just an outcome, but the experience itself?
We tell ourselves we’re building a future where we’ll finally feel free, confident, at peace. But what if you could feel those things now? What if waiting wasn’t necessary?
Some things keep you from feeling that way:
- The editor in your head. The constant critique while you’re creating. If someone interrupted you every two minutes to point out mistakes, you’d never finish anything. Yet, you do it to yourself all day.
- The belief that somehow the future you has the answer. The idea that life will begin once you’ve made enough, built enough, proven enough, and then you will make a change.
- Self-sacrifice. The belief that your worth is measured by how much you give up. That working harder, longer, and carrying more weight than anyone else somehow makes you deserving of success. But when your entire identity is built around pushing through, what happens when you finally stop? Who are you outside of the struggle?
But time doesn’t wait. You don’t get it back. If you skip the moments that matter—if you trade them for the promise of later—there’s no refund. You can’t buy back your child’s first years. You can’t relive the friendships you let drift. You can’t rewind the nights you spent working instead of really living.
I’m not saying don’t invest in your future. I’m saying don’t abandon yourself in the process.
Because if you do, what parts of you will be left to enjoy it?