I don't know if this even counts as a confession, not really, but it's something I think about every single day, every day. I was... well, I was a social worker for many years. A long, long time ago. Before the internet, before cell phones even. And I always felt this pull, this *need* to help, I truly did. I wanted to make a difference, you see. I wanted to be seen as someone who contributed, someone who really mattered. And there was this promotion, once. A big one, for me. It meant a bit more money, which was always tight, being an artist on the side, you know, trying to make things work. It meant a bit more respect, too, I think maybe. So I took on everything. Three extra committees, volunteer work, things that weren't really part of my job description but were good for optics, I suppose. Good for being seen as dedicated. I was so tired, you see. Every night, every single night, I would come home just utterly depleted. My brain felt like a sieve, leaking out all the important bits. And the thing is, the *real* work, the important work, the primary case reports... they started to slip. I was too exhausted to focus, too drained to really delve into the details that mattered most. I think... I think I just kept falling asleep at my desk, sometimes. Just for a few minutes, but still. The details would blur, the narratives would run together. It felt like I was sabotaging myself, in a way, but I couldn't stop. I just couldn't. I was so hungry for that promotion, for that feeling of being recognized, that I let the very thing I was supposed to be good at... well, I let it suffer. I think, maybe, it was a form of self-handicapping. I don't know if that's the right term. But it was like I was setting myself up to fail, even while striving for something so hard. And now, looking back, decades later, I still wonder. Did I really want that promotion? Or did I want the idea of it? Did I lose sight of what actually mattered, what was actually important for the people I was supposed to be helping? I don't know. I just don't know. It’s a quiet regret, a persistent whisper.