The Summer I Tried to Do Everything

That summer, I thought discipline could fix everything.

I woke before sunrise most days, when the sky was still that soft blue between night and day. I’d lace up my shoes and head out, chasing the rhythm of footsteps on empty streets. The runs were long, sometimes just to clear my head, other times to prove something to myself — though I was never sure what.

After breakfast, I’d switch gears completely. Code editor open, coffee beside me, the cursor blinking like a metronome. Hours disappeared into commits, documentation, and tiny UI details only I would ever notice. When I got stuck, I’d jump to another tab — photography forums, design mockups, training plans. I was juggling too many worlds, and each one demanded a different version of me.

On weekends, I’d swim at the beach. The water was where I felt most at peace, but even there, I couldn’t stop thinking about what was next. I’d surface, breathe, and already plan the rest of my day — editing photos, sorting gear, replying to messages, running again.

Everything looked like progress. I was fit, productive, busy. Friends said I was “on fire.” Inside, I was just tired — though I didn’t have the words for it yet.

The headaches started quietly, like background noise. At first, I blamed dehydration or screen time. I’d take a Panadol and keep going. A few hours later, another dose. My focus started to slip, but I refused to slow down. Stopping felt like losing momentum — and momentum was everything to me back then.

Looking back, that summer wasn’t about achievement. It was about avoidance. I filled every hour so I wouldn’t have to face the silence in between — the feeling that maybe I was running toward something that didn’t exist.

I don’t remember most of the code I wrote or the exact distances I ran. What I remember is the heaviness behind my eyes, the dull ache that followed me everywhere, and how the quiet moments — the ones I used to love — started feeling uncomfortable.

That summer taught me the hardest truth I’ve learned so far: You can’t outrun exhaustion.

You can’t hack rest.

Sometimes the real discipline is not about how much you can do — but how willing you are to stop.