One thing I’ve finally learned, and it took me way longer than it should have, is this: make time for your damn self.

I’m Gen X. We were raised on “work hard,” “don’t complain,” and “walk it off.” We watched our parents give thirty or forty years to one company, only to get a handshake, a sheet cake from the grocery store, and a “good luck.” Then companies started laying people off like they were cleaning out the junk drawer. Loyalty became a one-way street, but somehow people still buy into it.

Don’t get me wrong. I believe in working your ass off. I do every day. Show up. Do the job right. Earn your paycheck. But when that whistle blows, I’m gone. My life doesn’t belong to my employer. If I quit tomorrow, they’ll replace me. If I die tomorrow, they’ll have an opening posted before my obituary hits Facebook. Cold? Maybe. True? Absolutely.

So I’m done pretending work is supposed to be my whole existence. If I want to spend an afternoon with the dogs, that’s what I’m doing. If I want to disappear into a movie, blast Pennywise in the truck, screw around with a website I’ll probably redesign again next month, or just sit in complete silence because people have officially exhausted my daily quota… that’s exactly what I’m doing. Life isn’t a dress rehearsal. There isn’t a bonus round where they hand you back all the weekends you gave away.

The biggest scam ever sold was convincing people their worth is measured by how busy they are. Screw that. My happiness isn’t tied to a time clock. My life isn’t measured in overtime hours. When I’m gone, nobody at work is going to stand around saying, “Man, I wish Eric had worked one more Saturday.” They’ll move on. So will the job. The only people who’ll remember how I spent my time are the ones I spent it with. That’s where I’m investing from now on. The company can keep the pizza party.