03/16/2026
He said it like he was reporting the weather.
“I feel like a mouse on a wheel. I would like to stop and smell the roses. I can’t.” No frustration in it.
Just a fact he’d already made peace with.
That’s the part that didn’t leave me.
Not the words. The tone.
Like the wheel had become so familiar it stopped feeling like a problem and started feeling like him.
Three weeks earlier he’d taken a holiday.
Seven days. Good hotel. Family there.
By day two something in him was already pulling toward his phone. By day four he was back on email.
By day six he was relieved to be going home.
He thought it meant he loved the work.
It didn’t mean that.
At some point, early, long before the company existed, you learned that stillness wasn’t safe.
That stopping meant something was wrong.
That the only version of you that was acceptable was the version in motion.
Then he built a life that confirmed it.
The wheel isn’t the problem.
The wheel is the solution his nervous system found and never updated.
That pull toward the phone on day two of the holiday.
That’s not workaholism.
That’s a very old decision running a very expensive operation.
The roses were always there.
He just built a nervous system that can’t afford to stop and smell them.