Working 24/7?

With love and respect for Dolly Parton and her costars in the film “9 to 5”

I am a recovering workaholic. I’ve said that often in the last decade, sometimes almost as a joke. Now I’m not joking.

Working hard is not a problem in itself, especially if that work aligns with my values and passions. For most of my adult life, I’ve had the good fortune, privilege, and discernment to do that kind of work. But when I systematically engage in work to avoid dealing with uncomfortable feelings and realities, or when working hard interferes with my relationships, joy, creativity, and responsibilities outside work, it tips over into workaholism.

Here’s an example: in the late 1980s and early 1990s, our sons went to an alternative public school that had a wonderful tradition: a week of camp, which involved outdoor education at a place outside the city. One year, camp was held at the Quilleute Oceanside Resort at La Push on the Olympic Peninsula, a spectacularly beautiful place. My task as a parent was to transport most of the food in our large green Ford station wagon. To get there on time, I had to drive onto an early afternoon ferry from downtown Seattle to Bainbridge Island and drive west across the north end of the Peninsula. I worked downtown, a short distance from the ferry.

That day, at work, I busied myself with various tasks, none of which was urgent. I didn’t stop in time to make the ferry, so I had to drive through Olympia and around the south end of the Peninsula. This took longer. I remember barreling north on Highway 101 towards Forks, all too aware that I would be late. (Remember, no cell phones then—no way to let the teachers and other parents know.) When I arrived, flustered and apologetic, they told me they had wondered where I was and had found a creative way to cook dinner without the food in my car. I was relieved but felt ashamed. Doing busywork at my desk had felt more important than taking care of my kids and their school community.

On April Fool’s Day, 2016, I retired from my job in health research. I spent the summer sleeping a lot, swimming in Lake Washington, and doing whatever I wanted. In the fall, I traveled to Ireland for three weeks to participate in a writing retreat, visit sacred sites, and research my ancestors in Northern Ireland. That trip grounded and inspired me. I planned to focus on writing in a way I hadn’t taken the time to do since the late 1970s, before our children were born. I felt my ancestors’ blessing.

Then on November 8, 2016, Donald Trump was elected President, shocking everyone, reportedly even him. That night, once the results became clear, I lay awake, terrified for myself, my family, queer people, people of color, the world. Soon after, I rededicated myself to political activism to fight racism and fascism and protect our endangered democracy. Within a few years, I began to focus on a health and environmental catastrophe unfolding close to home: the rapid loss of tree canopy in Seattle, the city I’ve lived in and loved for half a century. I still struggle to make time to write.

Workaholism is perhaps the most socially acceptable addiction. It’s actively encouraged—if not required—in corporate settings and nonprofit and activist organizations alike. Being a workaholic will not help a person move up the corporate ladder, save our tree canopy or our democracy, or make the revolution happen faster. I’ve tried all of the above and have watched comrades and colleagues crash and burn.

As I endeavor once again to recover from this insidious addiction, the feelings and traumas that I’ve used it to escape have surfaced. This process is hard and painful. And I’m also beginning to experience the expansiveness, peace, and clarity it can bring.

I’m writing this to encourage myself and anyone reading it to nourish ourselves, body, mind, and soul. To tend our relationships with loved ones, family, friends, community, and the natural world. To allow ourselves to rest. To discern between work we are drawn or called to do and work we are driven to do. Whatever path we are on, to live as if we’re in it for the long haul. So that we can be.