Let me be clear:
This isn’t a dramatic resignation letter.
This isn’t a sudden breakdown.
This is something quieter. Slower. The emotional equivalent of erosion.

I didn’t wake up one morning and hate my job.
I didn’t flip a switch and go from motivated to miserable.
I just... started shrinking.

This isn’t burnout. Or maybe it is. But it’s also just the cost of functioning inside a system that rewards quiet compliance and punishes anyone who dares to care too loudly.

One overloaded calendar day at a time.
One more pointless meeting at a time.
Another performance of “sure, I can take that on” when I couldn’t even remember the last time I felt up to taking anything else on.

It’s not because I can’t do the work. It’s not because I can’t function and be successful at my job.
It's not even that I don't want to work anymore.
I just don’t want to do this anymore. I just don’t care anymore.

I’ve written about the system before. More than once.
About how it fails us.
How it controls us.
How it punishes creativity and rewards compliance and performance.
How it chews through human potential with a smile and a dashboard report.

But here’s the part I haven’t said until now:

Even when you see the system clearly — even when you can name the patterns, predict the failures, trace the control mechanisms — you’re still not safe from it.
Because the system doesn’t need you to believe in it.
It just needs you to keep going through the motions.

And I’ve kept going.

Every day I show up on time. I attend endless hours of meetings where I have nothing to contribute and very little gets accomplished. I respond to Slack and Teams messages from people who always want answers I don’t have, but am expected to somehow pull out of my ass on demand.

I spend my days building PowerPoint decks that cater to big egos with bigger salaries who don’t really care what I have to say, but insist on the performance anyway.

In short?
I show up.
I do the work.
I answer the emails.
I write the Jira tickets.
I join the calls.
I plan the roadmap.

I crack the jokes.
I mute the despair.

And the system applauds.

It calls me high-performing.
Reliable.
Resilient.
“Strong change management skills.”
"Great attitude under pressure."

But what it really means is: I haven’t resisted loudly enough to get flagged.
I’m still functioning, which means the machine doesn’t care if I’m falling apart inside.
It doesn’t care if the joy is gone.
It doesn’t care if I fantasize about quitting every single day and then panic because I can’t afford to.

It just cares that I’m still here.

Still producing.
Still measurable.
Still pretending “fine” is a complete emotional experience.
That it doesn’t really mean: Fucked Up. Insecure. Neurotic. Emotional.

This isn’t burnout.
This is a slow agonizing spirit death by a thousand compliance cuts.

I don’t hate my coworkers. Most of them are just as trapped as I am.
Hell, a couple of them are people I genuinely care for.
I don’t even hate the work, not really.
What I hate is how the system turns meaning into metrics.
How it takes people who care and bleeds them dry with politeness and policy and KPIs and PowerPoints.

I can’t afford to quit right now.
I can’t afford to rest, either.

So I’m caught in the space between exhaustion and survival, where the only real act of rebellion is saying:

This is breaking me.
Every day it breaks me a little bit more.
And it’s not okay.
Even if it’s working as intended.

I said at the start this wasn’t a dramatic resignation letter.
It still isn’t.
This isn’t a sudden breakdown.

But it might be a cry for help.
A plea for understanding.
A scream of rebellion.
Maybe just a question?
How did we let it get this way?

Why did we let it get this way?

I guess this is what it looks like when something breaks... and keeps going anyway.