I LEARNED THE HARD WAY that there is a thin line between being a hard worker and a workaholic—someone who buries herself in work and inadvertently avoids participating in her own life. In hindsight, it is clear that I have always possessed tendencies toward the latter. What began early on as a kid’s overcorrection to her parents’ struggles manifested into a fear of failure that drove me into a relentless, myopic race with myself, one that had no end in sight. I found myself in a pattern of perfectionism. Always striving, even for what would ultimately prove to be futile missions—relationships
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