Written in the silence of a room that used to be a home, now just a workspace.
Working from home sounded ideal at first. For someone just starting their career, it felt like a rare opportunity with its flexible hours, controlled environment and zero commute. But now, I’m starting to think it might’ve been a mistake.
Not because of the work itself, but because of what it’s doing to me.
I’m already someone who leans toward isolation. That’s my default. I feel like working from home has taken that tendency and amplified it to something unhealthy. I spend ten hours a day sitting at my desk, staring at a screen. Once the day ends, I have no energy left for anything else. All I want is to lie down and disappear into bed, as if that’s the only thing I’m capable of.
The next day, it starts again. Same screen, same chair, same cycle.
I can’t seem to gather the courage to go outside. Even the idea of sitting in a café feels impossible, like something people “with a different/comfortable kind of life” do. I’ve tried convincing myself to work from outside for a day, just to break the routine, but all I can think about is how I’d fall apart under the pressure of being perceived, heard and struggling. How I’d feel exposed. That alone is enough to keep me inside.
Working from home is turning me into some kind of cave creature. And I don’t say that lightly. My world is shrinking. The only real comfort I allow myself is taking a long, hot shower. That’s it. That’s my one act of self-kindness. Everything else feels too heavy.
This isn’t how I imagined “adulthood” would look. And maybe that’s part of why it hurts so much. It feels like I’m watching my world close in on itself, and I don’t know how to stop it.
You might also like my blabber on Did You Hear That? I Didn’t.
