Hooked

As I shifted in bed, a sharp pain shot through my knees. Lately, stress hadn’t just been in my head—my body had found new ways to remind me it was there in case I'd somehow missed the memo. I reached for my phone, thinking a quick scroll might settle the static in my buzzing brain. But tonight, not even the aimless, mind-numbing scroll of other people’s highlights could drown the void: something in my life was seriously off. My thoughts raced aimlessly, “What’s going on with me?” But deep down, I knew the answer—This hamster-wheel lifestyle of mine was starting to buckle like a cheap IKEA shelf under too much weight. You see, burnout doesn’t ring doorbells. No, it creeps in like a gas leak—odorless until you’re fading. It’s those moments when your colleague rambles about his granny’s hip replacement, and you’d rather nod and listen than face yet another ”as per my last message” email. Or when someone announces an upcoming “strategic growth alignment session,” and your left eye starts twitching like it’s sending Morse code. The truth is, by the time you Google “Is burnout real?” you’re already suffocating in it. I’d spent far too many years in the corporate grind, chasing that mythical ladder everyone talks about. As it turns out, it’s less a climb to the top and more a treadmill stuck on repeat—no “off” button, just my own tail to chase. The days blurred into a haze of meetings, targets, and boring office talk with coworkers I never liked. If you looked from a distance, it seemed decent enough; but up close, it felt like a prison with decorative curtains. For four years, I’d been working my ass off at one of those Silicon Valley tech giants. You know the stereotype: hoodies, “culture” buzzwords, perks, a company's credit card, and drawers of snacks. It was the kind of place where hundreds of CVs flood every opening, people clawing to get in like it’s a golden ticket to paradise. So I kept grinding, chasing the prize. Fast forward, my hard work and steady results there paid off, and I was living the “corporate dream”—or so the pamphlet claimed. In reality, it felt more like a nightmare with better perks. My days were a blur of identical airport lounges, pointless client meetings, and small talk—while scarfing down food over my laptop like some hunched-over troll. Every ‘milestone’ achieved or deal closed just yanked me further into a game where the rules changed daily, and the grand prize was more work. The praise from people I’d cross the street to avoid proved that I’d gotten excellent at a game I never really wanted to play. Watching my bank account grow while my soul shrank wasn’t exactly a recipe for fulfillment. Every new achievement only confirmed I was getting better at getting worse. What once felt like the thrilling quirks of business life on the road had morphed into a soulless grind. Airports? They became the backdrop for the same shitty coffee, sleepless nights, and the nagging anxiety of losing my laptop before jumping on another flight. My apartment? It stopped being a home and had turned into a pit stop—just a place to hold my mail, stash my dirty laundry, and pack clean clothes between business trips. I was so good at living nowhere that my own apartment felt like I was just visiting. Coming back wasn’t a homecoming; it was more like stumbling into a life I’d abandoned halfway through and didn’t even recognize anymore. The truth is, I never fit the classic sales mold. While my colleagues obsessed over the fancy cars they’d buy, the overpriced watches they’d show off, and the premium football seats they’d boast about on Mondays, I was lost in a memory from my backpacking days—sitting on a rickety plastic stool by a Hanoi highway, devouring the best crab I’d ever tasted, sweat trickling down my neck, shirt clinging to my skin, yet feeling more alive than any boardroom could ever make me. So, the idea of nights out with those same colleagues, packed into some overpriced bar, nursing pints while they rambled on about work and office gossip? Hard pass. Don't get me wrong —I was pretty good at my job, there's no doubt about that. After all, the sales career paid the bills and kept the lights on, but it never defined me. Unlike most of my colleagues, for whom the chase was their lifeblood, in my case? It was just a job, not my identity. Yet one question kept clawing at my mind, impossible to ignore: Where’s this all even going? But even after all these years, that backpacker spark in me never really flickered out. It all started at age 22—just a week after wrapping up my military service in Israel, I was done with structure—done with orders, done with routine. So I did the only logical thing and grabbed a one-way ticket to Asia with a half-baked plan to taste freedom and break free. It was like drinking out of the firehose as Asia crashed over me like a wave I hadn’t seen coming. For the following two and a half years, I lost myself in its chaos—the kind of wild, unscripted madness that grabs you by the hand and barely lets go. The colors hit first: neon markets blazing against muddy streets, the restless hum of crowds, the calm temples, sunsets bleeding orange over rice paddies. Then the flavors—spicy street food that burned my tongue and cheap fruit shakes that tasted like escape. The smells wove it all together: diesel fumes, incense, wet earth after a monsoon, sinking into me until I couldn’t tell where I ended and it began. It was raw, unfiltered, messy—a life that demanded I feel it, and I couldn’t get enough of that electric sting. At that time, wanderlust didn’t just grab me—it rewired me like a compass that only points one way. Every mile walked there made the life left behind look like a script I didn’t write. The trouble is, you can’t run on fumes and freedom indefinitely. Cash dries up, life calls; eventually, you’ve got to pick a lane. For nearly two decades after, that backpacker stared back whenever I looked hard enough in the mirror, even when buttoned up in a suit, living a regular city life miles away from any adventure. To me, backpacking wasn’t just a phase or a hobby—it was who I believed I was, woven into every fiber of my being and shaping my entire identity. So many decisions, jobs, and even relationships were shaped by the fact that, at any moment, I could drop everything, pack up, and leave. I had mastered the art of living light, of slipping in and out of countries, of feeling at home everywhere and nowhere all at once. Until, one day, that reflection began to fade. Not all at once—more like a slow leak I didn’t notice until the tank was empty. I traded the road for routine, told myself it was just a pit stop before the next escape. But pit stops aren’t meant to last years. One job bled into the next, each one more forgettable than the last, until one day I looked up and realized: I hadn’t been a traveler in a long time. I was just another guy in a software job, measuring time in quarters and chasing quotas I didn’t care about. It snuck up on me. At that time I worked at another software tech job, grinding through another quarter to hit quota and listening for one-too-many pipeline reviews. I told myself it was temporary, just a stopgap until the next adventure. But the next adventure never came. The years piled up, and suddenly, I wasn’t a traveler anymore—I was just another guy with a laptop and a LinkedIn profile drowning in sales calls and tech jargon. Week after week, the same meaningless cycle repeated itself—endless Zoom calls forced enthusiasm and pointless discussions about ‘value propositions’ that held no real value. The thought of enduring even a few more months of those pointless client meetings about “digital transformation” nonsense was enough to push me to the edge or consider pulling a ‘Van Gogh.’ So when HQ announced a massive re-org, it felt like a jolt to a system I didn’t even realize had gone numb. Overnight, everything flipped. Flights stopped, my sales territory was cut by 70%, not to mention that my new colleagues kinda sucked and had less charisma than a worn-out wallpaper at a bowling alley. To say I was jaded would be an understatement—I was mentally clocked out and just waiting for my body to catch up. There’s only so much a person can take before something inside them breaks. One night, after another soul-sucking day, I stayed up late scrolling through YouTube, trying to drown out the noise in my head. I needed a way out, something—anything—to snap me out of this rut. A little holiday? Nah, that’d be like slapping a bandage on a bullet wound. Something bigger? Sure, but what would that even look like, and where would I go? Chasing escapism, I landed on a few Camino de Santiago videos. But that didn’t cut it. Don’t get me wrong, Spain’s alright—sun, wine, decent food. But hiking with a crowd of retirees, pushing five-mile days from one little village to the next, and crashing at cushy B&Bs? That’s not a challenge; it’s a warm-up for bingo night. Besides, as I lived in London, Spain was a hop away, practically next door. Flying two hours to stroll through vineyards and old churches for weeks felt as exciting as a stroll to the Homestore to pick up ceramic tiles for a house—safe, boring, and predictable. I needed something raw that’d kick my pulse into gear, not a practice run for retirement. Then, like the algorithm knew I was about to flatline, a video popped up—as if the universe had decided to throw me a rope. Some peppy blonde with a Southern twang was raving about this obscure trek called the Pacific Crest Trail that she just started. I clicked play, half out of boredom, half out of curiosity—just looking for noise to fill the void. But something in her voice, in the rawness of the trail behind her, cut through the numbness like a blade. It