I started out believing that if I hustled, it would pay off.
That if I kept going, kept pushing, kept stacking one thing on top of another, eventually I would arrive somewhere that felt like enough. Hustle was never something I questioned. It was just what you did if you wanted more. If you wanted stability. If you wanted to prove you were capable.
I remember my birthday celebration right before the pandemic. A lot of people came out. It was one of those moments where you look around the room and realize how full your life feels.
As people stood up to speak, several of them said the same thing, all well-meaning and kind.
“You’re such a hustler.”
I smiled. I accepted it. I wore it like a badge of honor.
Being a hustler meant you were driven.
It meant you were a boss.
It meant you were in charge, leading, building, doing something with your life.
And then one of my friends stood up and said something that, at the time, I didn’t fully understand.
“I know everyone keeps calling you a hustler,” he said, “but I think you’re more than that.”
That was it. No big speech. No explanation.
Just that.
It stayed with me longer than he probably ever realized.
At the time, I didn’t really know who I was yet. Hustler felt like the safest label to wear. It explained my long hours, my ambition, my constant movement. It gave meaning to my exhaustion.
I wasn’t just tired. I was building something.
I grew up watching motivational speakers praise grind culture. You can rest when you’re dead. You can slow down when you’re old. Successful people only need four hours of sleep.
And I believed them.
I believed rest was optional.
That slowing down was lazy.
That exhaustion was just part of the process.
So when I started feeling tired in a way sleep didn’t fix, I didn’t know how to say it out loud. Exhaustion felt too close to failure. And I didn’t believe I was failing.
I just knew something felt off.
It showed up quietly. My body felt heavy. My mind felt crowded. Everything required effort, even things I used to enjoy. I kept going anyway because stopping didn’t feel like an option.
The moment that really forced me to pay attention came through my health.
I had to examine something, and the number one recommendation was rest.
Not a cute phrase.
Not a spiritual aesthetic.
But a command that heals.
After years of listening to gurus say sleep was negotiable, my body was saying otherwise. I could still pull all-nighters. I could still push through. But I started to realize that just because I could didn’t mean I should.
As I slowed down, something else happened.
Stillness forced me to notice what hustle had helped me avoid. How much of my drive was rooted in fear. How often my productivity was really a form of proving. How rarely I felt present while I was living my life.
That’s when I unsubscribed.
Not by quitting everything overnight, but by making a decision inside myself. I accepted that hustle was not my identity. If it was something I needed to do in a season, then fine. But I did not have to be defined by it anymore. I did not have to wear exhaustion like a badge. I did not have to live as though my worth depended on staying on.
Around the same time, the pandemic happened.
And whether we wanted to or not, we all had to stop long enough to look at ourselves.
Constantly moving from one job to another isn’t living.
Running yourself into the ground in the name of ambition isn’t living.
Managing countless responsibilities at once and calling it purpose isn’t living.
I had to discover that for myself.
I began to realize something simple.
Being busy is not the same as being faithful.
Being productive is not the same as being purposeful.
Being exhausted is not a sign of obedience.
There is a pace that impresses people, and there is a pace that honors God.
Unsubscribing from hustle culture has looked less like quitting everything and more like unlearning. Unlearning the need to fill every quiet moment. Unlearning guilt when I rest. Unlearning the belief that I have to earn peace.
It has looked like choosing one thing and doing it fully. Sitting without reaching for my phone. Letting silence be silence. Trusting that God is present even when nothing seems to be happening.
Because He does not require me to be impressive.
He requires me to be surrendered.
And you can choose this too.
You can decide that striving is not your personality. That being needed is not your identity. That you can work hard without living pressured. That you can be responsible without being restless. That you can show up for what matters without letting productivity define you.
I used to think I needed momentum to be okay.
Now I am learning to be present anyway.
To live slowly on purpose.
To move with intention.
To stop confusing urgency with importance.
This is not about becoming lazy.
It is about becoming rooted.
And if you are reading this and feeling that quiet pull toward rest, toward something slower and more honest, let that be okay too.
Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is admit you’re tired and allow that truth to lead you somewhere gentler.