She Left When I Stopped Being Useful. She Was Right About One Thing.
I've been running my entire life. My body broke before I did.
Dear fellow travellers,
Last week I wrote about discovering I’m greedy for proof of worth—that I’m running from the belief that I’m worthless, desperately trying to prove I was worth keeping.
This week, I need to tell you what running has actually cost me.
And why the answer isn’t working at a temple, or achieving more, or proving anything.
The answer might be learning to pause. Completely. For the first time in my life.
The Hamster Wheel
Before I got sick, I was teaching.
Every day felt like running on a hamster wheel—faster and faster, higher and higher speed, but staying in exactly the same spot.
I kept running. Kept trying. Kept pushing.
Because stopping felt impossible. Stopping felt like failure. Stopping felt like proof that I was worthless.
I had responsibilities; students depending on me, bills to pay, a relationship to maintain, and an identity as “someone who has it together” to protect.
If I stopped, what would I be?
Nothing. Just the worthless person I was terrified of becoming.
So I didn’t stop.
Even when my body started sending signals. Even when exhaustion became my baseline. Even when I couldn’t remember the last time I’d rested without guilt screaming at me.
I kept running because I thought running was living.
The Badge I Wore
Here’s what made stopping even harder:
I believed burning myself out was a badge of honour.
My parents lived like that. My grandparents lived like that. Everyone I respected, everyone I wanted approval from—they all ran themselves into the ground and called it virtue.
Self-sacrifice. Hard work. Never complaining. Never stopping. Pushing through pain.
That’s what good people did. That’s what worthy people did.
So I thought I had to live like that too.
Stopping felt like betraying everyone who came before me.
Like saying: “Your sacrifice was pointless. Your suffering was unnecessary.”
How could I rest when they never did? How could I pause when they worked until they broke?
Running myself into the ground wasn’t just about proving worth to my ex or to the world.
It was about proving I was worthy of the people who burned themselves out raising me.
When Your Body Makes the Decision For You
Eventually, I didn’t have a choice.
My body was on the verge of breaking down completely. Not burnout—actual physical collapse. The kind where your body says: “I’m done. You didn’t stop, so I’m stopping for you.”
I had to stop teaching.
I had to stop everything.
And the terror I’d been running from my whole life finally caught up: What happens when you stop?
The Promise That Broke
My ex supported me when I first got sick.
She told me she would never leave. That she’d be there. That I could rest, recover, and take some time.
For a while, she was there.
But 24/7 physical and emotional support—watching someone unable to function, unable to work, unable to be the person they were before—that’s heavy.
It broke her.
And she left.
Not because she was cruel. Not because she stopped loving me. But because it was too much. Because she couldn’t carry both of us. Because watching me collapse was collapsing her too.
I don’t blame her for that.
But it confirmed the belief I’d been running from my whole life: When you stop being useful, people leave.
The Temple Was Still Running
After she left, I needed somewhere to go. Somewhere safe. Somewhere with structure.
I came to a temple.
But here’s what I didn’t realise: Working at a temple is still working.
Coordinating temple stays, managing bookings, leading programs, maintaining appearances—that’s still the hamster wheel.
It’s just a hamster wheel with prayer beads.
I thought I was healing. I thought I’d stopped.
But I was just running in a different location.
Still proving my worth through productivity.
Still terrified that rest equals worthlessness.
Still unable to... pause.
What I Actually Need
A Buddhist nun asked me why I’m in such a hurry.
A monk told me to do 100 days of prayer in one place.
And I kept thinking: They don’t understand. I need to work. I need structure. I need to be useful.
But what I actually need—what I’ve needed this whole time—is a pause.
Not a new job. Not a better temple. Not more achievements to prove my worth.
A real pause.
Doing nothing.
Thinking nothing.
Just living in the present moment.
Not because I’m working toward something.
Not because I’m proving something.
Not because I’m running from something.
Just being. Without justification.
Why Pausing Feels Impossible
The thought of actually pausing—not working, not achieving, not running—terrifies me.
Because without the running, what’s left?
Just me. With my thoughts. With the belief that I’m worthless. With no distraction, no achievement, no proof that I deserve to exist.
What if I pause and discover there’s nothing there?
What if the only thing that made me worth keeping was my usefulness, my productivity, my constant forward motion?
What if I stop and realise: I was right all along. I’m worthless without running.
That’s what I’m afraid of.
The Cost of Never Stopping
But here’s what I’m learning: I’ve never actually tested that belief.
I’ve never stopped long enough to find out if I’m still worth something when I’m not producing, achieving, or running.
I ran from that question my entire life.
And it broke my body. It cost me a relationship. It brought me to a temple where I’m still running, just in monk’s robes.
You can’t outrun worthlessness by proving you’re worthy.
You can only face it by stopping the running and seeing what’s actually there.
What Pause Actually Means
Not this:
“Productive rest” (still achieving)
“Self-care” (still optimising)
Working at a peaceful temple (still working)
Meditation with goals (still striving)
Actual pause:
Waking up with nowhere to be
No responsibilities to justify your existence
No achievements to prove you deserve space
Just... breathing. Existing. Being present.
Without the constant need to prove you’re not worthless.
For someone like me, that sounds like death.
Maybe it is. Maybe the death of the person who thought that worth had to be earned.
Why I Can’t Do It Yet
I don’t have money for a real pause. I can’t just stop working and exist without income.
So I’m still at the temple, still coordinating programs, still proving my worth through usefulness.
But at least now I know: This isn’t the answer.
The healing I’m seeking won’t come from temple work. Won’t come from Buddhist practice. Won’t come from achieving enough spiritual insight.
It will come from learning to stop. Completely.
And trusting that I’m still worth something—still worth space, still worth breathing, still worth being—even when I’m not running.
The Question I’m Sitting With
What would I discover if I paused for 100 days?
Not working. Not achieving. Not proving.
Just being present. Just existing. Just breathing without justification.
Would I discover I’m worthless? Or would I discover that worth was never about the running in the first place?
I’m terrified to find out.
But I’m also starting to realise: The running is killing me.
My body already broke once trying to sustain it. My relationship collapsed under the weight of it. My peace is impossible because I won’t stop long enough to find it.
For Anyone Else Still Running
If you’re on a hamster wheel—job, relationship, achievement, productivity, constant forward motion—ask yourself:
What are you running from?
What would happen if you stopped?
What are you afraid you’d discover about yourself if you weren’t constantly proving your worth?
For me, the fear is: I’d discover I’m worthless without the achievement.
But maybe—maybe—the truth is: I was never worthless. I just believed I was, and ran my whole life trying to disprove it.
And you can’t disprove worthlessness by achieving.
You can only disprove it by pausing. And realising you’re still here. Still breathing. Still taking up space.
Still worthy. Even without the running.
The Pause I Haven’t Taken Yet
I don’t know when I’ll be able to actually pause.
I don’t have the money for it. I don’t have the circumstances for it. I don’t have the courage for it yet.
But I know this: What I need isn’t another achievement. It’s the absence of achievement.
What I need isn’t better work. It’s no work at all.
What I need isn’t running faster. It’s finally stopping.
And trusting that when I stop—when I finally, actually stop—I won’t disappear.
I’ll still be here.
Still worthy of space, of breath, of existence.
Even without the running.
From a temple where I’m learning the difference between rest and pause
Emotionally yours (and trying to stop running),
Suinny
P.S. - The Hardest Question
If your worth isn’t in your productivity, your achievement, your usefulness—where is it?
I don’t know yet.
But I think the only way to find out is to stop running long enough to look.
I’m not there yet. But I’m getting closer.
Next week: Probably something about what happens when you’re too terrified to pause but too exhausted to keep running.
Resources:
On rest vs. productivity: Rest Is Resistance by Tricia Hersey
On pausing: Wherever You Go, There You Are by Jon Kabat-Zinn
On whether I’ll actually stop: Still figuring that out
Note: This isn’t about judging people who work hard or love their jobs. This is about recognising when work has become a way to run from the belief that you’re worthless without it—and whether that’s sustainable or slowly killing you.