I once mediated a high-stakes labor dispute while ignoring a fever of . I sat in a glass-walled room for . I thought my sacrifice was a tool for peace. My head throbbed. My vision blurred. I believed this pain was the price of being indispensable.
I was wrong. I was actually irritable. I missed the subtle cues of the room. I failed to hear the tremor in the lead union rep’s voice. My fatigue was a weapon, not a bridge. I chose to be seen working rather than to be effective. It was a mistake of vanity. I have spent years undoing that instinct.
The Man in the Mirror
This morning, I caught myself talking to my reflection. I told the man in the mirror that we were too busy for a proper breakfast. I argued that the emails were more urgent than the toast. My reflection looked skeptical. It noticed the dark circles under my eyes.
I am a professional mediator. My job is to resolve conflicts. Yet, I am often at war with my own rhythm. I am part of a culture that treats strain as evidence of worth.
We have turned exhaustion into a social currency. When someone