As I write this, I’m embarking on 10 weeks of paternity leave.
The thought of 10 workless weeks in a row is both thrilling and worrying—thrilling because who doesn’t want a break from the grind and worrying because work has slinkily become a sizable chunk of my identity these past few years.
That last bit is a byproduct of two things: hybrid work and having young kids.
Stuck at home so much of the day has led to the curtailing of hobbies and habits—no more long hikes or leisurely happy hours.
We had to make room, obviously—kids take up a lot of time and headspace. But work didn’t go away—work actually seemed to thrive in this new split dynamic.
Life was a pendulum swinging between poles of childcare and work. When the kids were sick or work was busy, I felt my mind split, my ability to think sucked out between the fracture.
Held in opposition to children, work felt important. There are wonderful things that work can do—build relationships, develop skills, provide moments of flow, provide a sense of mission, help others—but it’s not everything.
Does work mean too much to me?
Taylor Coe 