Blog Update: Reconnecting with Myself
In this deeply personal update, I share how a haunting dream became the catalyst for breaking free from my coding obsession, leading me on an unexpected journey of self-discovery, healing, and reconnection with long-forgotten parts of myself. It's a story of finding balance in a world that often pushes us to extremes.
The Coding Obsession and Its Toll
As many of you know from my recent posts about mental health and personal struggles, I've been grappling with an increasingly concerning reality: my relationship with coding has evolved from passion into something more troubling—an obsession that's been slowly consuming every aspect of my life. The idea of taking a break seemed simple enough on paper—just step away from the computer, right? But when I actually tried, it felt like trying to breathe underwater, like fighting against a current that had become part of my very being.
My work—specifically coding—has become so deeply intertwined with my identity that I can't even sleep without it haunting my thoughts. The keyboard calls to me like an addiction; the syntax of programming languages flows through my mind more naturally than my native tongue. Without coding or engaging in any tech-related activities, I feel hollow, restless, almost like a phantom limb syndrome of the mind. It's honestly disturbing how much of a hold it has on me, and recognizing this dependence was the first painful step toward healing.
There was a night recently that perfectly encapsulates this struggle. I had made a conscious decision to take a break—turned off my computer, put my phone away, and settled into bed with a book instead of documentation. But at 2 AM, I jolted awake, my heart racing, my mind buzzing with solutions to a coding problem I'd been working on. Before I could even process what was happening, I found myself at my desk, fingers flying across the keyboard in an almost trance-like state. I coded until 6 AM—it was as if I couldn't walk away, no matter how hard I tried. The sun rose, and I watched it through bleary, strained eyes, feeling simultaneously accomplished and utterly defeated. What kind of freedom is it when you can't choose to rest?
Realizing the Workaholic Within
The truth hit me hard recently: I'm not just passionate about coding—I'm a workaholic, or perhaps I've been one all along and just never had the courage to admit it to myself. Coding for 16 hours a day isn't just a habit anymore; it's become a shield I hide behind, a way to avoid confronting the emptiness I sometimes feel when I'm alone with my thoughts. This relentless pace is taking its toll on both my mental and physical health in ways I can no longer ignore.
My shoulders constantly ache from hunching over a keyboard, a persistent reminder of my unhealthy habits. My eyes burn even when I close them, and I've started getting migraines that throb in time with my heartbeat. Some days, the pain is so intense that even the soft glow of my monitors feels like needles in my eyes. But these physical symptoms are just the surface manifestations of a deeper problem.
I can barely step outside without my mind fixating on programming challenges and basic coding problems. The trees in the park transform into data structures in my mind; conversations with friends become algorithms to be optimized. Even during the rare moments when I'm away from my desk—at dinner with family or trying to watch a movie—coding is never far from my thoughts. It's like having a persistent echo in your head that drowns out everything else, a constant background process that refuses to terminate.
For more insight into how these patterns affect my life, you might relate to my thoughts on Overthinking and Self-Consciousness, where I dive deeper into the mental loops we sometimes find ourselves trapped in.
The Dream That Changed Everything
In my previous post, The Dream That Won't Let Go, I shared a nightmare that truly shook me to my core. Unlike the peaceful dreams some might have, mine was dark and confrontational—featuring another version of myself who called me out for constantly running away from my problems. That other me, with his calm yet cutting words, forced me to face truths I'd been avoiding. His final words—"Do it right this time"—have been echoing in my mind ever since, becoming a catalyst for change I didn't know I needed.
That nightmare became a turning point. It pushed me to finally take my first real day off from coding—something I hadn't done in months, maybe even a year. I remember sitting on my bed that morning, staring at my desk across the room, feeling the magnetic pull of my computer. My palms actually itched to type, my fingers twitching with phantom keystrokes. But I resisted. Instead, I made myself breakfast—really made it, not just grabbing something I could eat with one hand while typing with the other. I tasted my food for what felt like the first time in ages, actually noticing the flavors and textures instead of just fueling my body to continue coding.
For the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn't glued to my computer screen. I went for a walk without any destination in mind, just observing the world around me. The colors seemed more vivid somehow, as if I'd been viewing life through a dimmed screen all this time. I watched children playing in the park, elderly couples walking hand in hand, birds soaring overhead—all these simple moments of life that I'd been missing while buried in lines of code. The world felt both familiar and strange, like returning to a hometown you haven't visited in years.
After reflecting on that experience, I decided it was time to revisit some of my old hobbies and passions—the parts of myself I'd abandoned in pursuit of technical perfection. It was time to remember who I was before coding became my entire identity.
Rediscovering Old Joys
The first step in my journey back to myself was reconnecting with music. I dug out my old headphones—not the ones I use for coding tutorials, but the good ones I used to save for just enjoying music. With trembling hands, I created a playlist of songs from my teenage years and pressed play. The familiar melodies hit me like a wave, bringing a flood of memories and emotions I hadn't allowed myself to feel in years. The music wrapped around me like an embrace from an old friend, reminding me of the person I was before coding took over my life—someone who felt things deeply, who dreamed beyond algorithms, who found joy in creation for its own sake, not just for the solution it provided.
A couple of days after that transformative dream, I dove deeper into the things I had been missing. I remembered how I used to love films—not just watching them passively, but really experiencing them, analyzing their storytelling, discussing them with friends. So I rewatched some of my favorite movies—films I hadn't seen in years because I "didn't have time" or couldn't justify the "unproductive hours."
It was surreal; I remembered the plots so vividly, yet experiencing them again felt entirely new. I noticed details I'd missed before, appreciated the craftsmanship with fresh eyes. During one particularly moving scene, I realized I was fully present—not thinking about work, not mentally debugging code, just completely immersed in the story unfolding before me. That moment of pure presence felt like coming up for air after being underwater for too long.
Today, I decided to rewatch one of my all-time favorite series, Naruto. I started watching it back in 2020, during those early pandemic days when the world felt uncertain and frightening. Back then, it had been a constant source of comfort and inspiration—the themes of perseverance, friendship, and finding your own path resonated deeply with me. This time, I'm watching it at a different pace—almost as if I'm catching up with an old friend. I'm seeing parallels between Naruto's journey and my own struggle to define myself beyond a single skill or talent.
There's a moment in the series where a character realizes they've been pushing themselves too hard, trying to prove their worth through constant training and self-sacrifice. Watching that scene now, I felt a jolt of recognition so strong it paused my breath. Sometimes we need to see ourselves reflected in stories to recognize the patterns we're trapped in.
If you're interested in more reflections on balancing passion and personal growth, you might appreciate my thoughts on The Paradox of Being 17, where I explore similar themes of identity and self-discovery.
The Ongoing Journey to Balance
This path to reconnection isn't linear, and I'm learning to be okay with that. There are still days when I slip back into old patterns—when I find myself coding for hours without a break, forgetting to eat, ignoring messages from friends. The difference now is that I recognize when it's happening. I've started setting gentle boundaries for myself: a timer that reminds me to stand up and stretch every hour, a commitment to eat meals away from my desk, a "no screens" policy for the last hour before bed.
I've also started journaling again—with pen and paper, not a keyboard. There's something about the physical act of writing that slows down my racing thoughts, forces me to process emotions rather than just pushing through them. Some entries are just a few scattered sentences; others flow for pages. But each one helps me reconnect with the person behind the programmer, the human being beneath the lines of code.
Final Thoughts
A couple of weeks have passed since that dream, and honestly, if it hadn't happened, I don't know where I'd be right now. I'd probably still be trapped in an endless cycle of nonstop coding and work, mistaking productivity for purpose, achievement for fulfillment. That dream stayed with me—I couldn't get it out of my mind—and it made me realize just how much I needed a break and a chance to reconnect with the things I truly enjoy.
I'm not "cured" of my workaholic tendencies. I still love coding, still find deep satisfaction in solving complex problems and creating useful applications. But I'm learning that I am more than what I produce. My worth isn't measured in commits or pull requests. There's room in my life for both passion and peace, for both achievement and appreciation.
This journey of reconnection has shown me that balance isn't something you achieve once and then have forever—it's a practice, a constant recalibration. Some days I'll get it right; other days I'll falter. But now I know what it feels like to be whole again, to breathe deeply, to exist beyond the boundaries of a screen. And that awareness itself is a kind of freedom.
Thank you for reading this update. I hope my journey resonates with you and perhaps inspires you to examine your own relationship with work and rest. Have you ever found yourself lost in work or a passion to the point of disconnection? How did you find your way back? Feel free to share your thoughts or experiences in the comments below—I'd love to hear from you and continue this conversation.