This Isn’t a Side Project. This Is Your Life
Dharma, Doubt, and the Risk of Doing What You’re Meant to Do
Several people messaged me to thank me and offer support for the LinkedIn posts I’ve shared this week about my experience with burnout: “You’re so brave to share your story so honestly,” one said.
I appreciated it. And, I also panicked.
Little did they know about the doubt that followed after I wrote each one—the urge to curl up in a fetal position under the covers and hit delete. The emotional vulnerability hangover is real.
Maybe you’re reading this while toggling between Zoom calls, half-drafting emails, and wondering what emotional labor counts toward your OKRs. Perhaps you’re feeling, not burned out, but…crispy. Slightly singed around the edges. Or maybe you’re fine. You’ve got this. (You always do.) Until you don’t.
I know that place. I lived there for a considerable amount of time.
And here’s what I want to say, now that I’ve stepped out of it: Telling the truth is one thing. Living the truth—daily, quietly, and without applause—is something else entirely.
If I’d been raised in a world where “being aligned” was enough, I might have chosen a different path from the start. A path more true to who I was: a writer, a psychologist, a professor—these were at the top of my list.
But like many of us, I was taught to “aim higher.” To pursue roles that, while they may have purpose, also come with clout. So I delivered. I excelled. I climbed. Until one day, the success I’d built no longer felt quite like me. Or, perhaps I didn’t feel quite like it anymore.
What came next wasn’t reinvention. It was disassembly, until only the essential bits of me remained. And beneath the ambition, achievement, and always-on-ness, I found a single, steady question:
How can ambitious people live meaningful, fulfilling lives—lives of lasting success—without losing themselves, what matters most, or burning out?
It was one of many questions that surfaced during my recovery, and it still calls to me today.
I didn’t grow up thinking about dharma. It still sounds like a word you might encounter on a silent retreat in Bali, not something for a woman juggling two iPhones, three nearly grown children across the ocean, and an inbox that might qualify as a federal emergency zone.
But after the unraveling. After the burnout, the grief, and the slow shedding of performance as identity, what surfaced wasn’t a concept; it was a direction—a pull toward work that didn’t feel lofty, but true.
Strangely, it’s also fun. Not carefree, but in a kind of electric I-don’t-know-where-this-leads-but-I’m-curious way. I’m someone who loves a plan. But this journey? This has been better than any spreadsheet, because it’s alive.
In The Great Work of Your Life, Stephen Cope writes about people who wrestled with this same inner tug: Jane Goodall, who defied social expectations to study the world as she saw it, and Harriet Tubman, who moved with sacred intuition and unstoppable courage.
Their paths weren’t simple, but they were singular, and defined more by their conviction than their contribution, though the latter was immense.
These days, I feel calm. Upright. Directed—not by urgency, but by something quieter. That doesn’t mean things are easy or that I glide through life like some serene dispenser of wisdom. I just finished writing a book, and I’m still learning how to talk about it.
On a podcast interview earlier this week, I stumbled over the very message I’ve spent years refining in my book. Even as someone who knows the book intimately, I tripped over my words.
It was humbling and a strangely honest reflection of where I am right now: I’m fluent in the road behind me. But the next part? I’m still learning the language.
Perhaps that’s the truest sign that I’m on the right path.
Yes, there are days when this life, the one I’ve chosen, feels disorienting. There’s no corporate ladder. No titles, performance reviews, or promotions. No external benchmarks.
People try to put me in a box. “So you’re a coach, now?” They forget the two decades of global leadership that shaped this work. They don’t understand that this isn’t a pivot; it’s a deepening. But they’re not supposed to understand.
As Dorie Clark writes in The Long Game:
“Long-term thinking, and the actions that enable your eventual success, require sacrifice—including, at times, the sacrifice of our dignity and pride. If you're willing to endure the discomfort and humiliation, the rewards can be powerful. But most people aren't.” (The Long Game, Chapter 10)
This is the long game. Not a phase. Not a lifestyle. A life. My life. Your life.
What I’ve Learned (So Far) About Following a Path That Doesn’t Come with a Map:
Your real work may not come with a job description. It appears as a pull or a pattern—a knowing that won’t leave you alone.
You don’t have to blow up your life (or collapse like I did) to begin again. Please don’t. Start by getting still enough to hear what’s been calling.
Stillness helps. Mine includes lavender fields and my life in Provence, yes—but also tea, breathwork, yoga, journaling, and long moments where I sit in silence (I can do that now). This isn’t about attaining enlightenment, but rather learning to be and to listen within.
You won’t always be understood. And you won’t always understand. When you step away from conventional success, some people won’t get it—and that can be lonely. But what’s harder sometimes is that you won’t always get it either.
Dharma doesn’t offer instruction manuals. It moves through intuition. You don’t always know why you’re doing what you’re doing, only that you must. It pulls you even when you're tired. It flows from you even when you think you’re done. At first, it feels disorienting. Then, it becomes more like an act of devotion.
If you’re under pressure, carrying too much, or performing because it’s expected, consider this your gentle invitation to listen.
You don’t need to know exactly where that path leads. Dharma doesn’t send calendar invites. But if something’s tugging at you—a question, a creative urge, a quiet dissatisfaction—follow it. You can trust the path even if you can’t yet name the destination.
And yes, it’s scary. But it’s also kind of thrilling. Like a mystery you get to live into, one brave step at a time.
So if you’ve been wondering whether your success should feel better than it does, this might be your moment.
Because this? This isn’t a side project. This is your life. And maybe—just maybe—it’s time to live it like it matters.
Until next time, be well!
P.S. If this piece stirred something for you, I’d love to hear what you’re being pulled toward. We're all learning the language together.
I’m Janine Mathó. Five years ago, after burning out and losing my mother suddenly, I stepped away from a global career in the learning sector. Since then, I’ve devoted my work to helping ambitious humans—founders, leaders, creatives—reclaim their energy, realign with what matters, and redefine success from the inside out.
This newsletter is how I reach others who are ready for their own reset. If something here resonates, I hope you’ll pass it on to someone else who might need it, too.
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