I feel depressed every morning before work.

Let’s talk about this:

Every day, especially in the mornings before going to work, I’m overwhelmed by negative thoughts — stress, sadness, anxiety, and the constant feeling that I want to quit.

I recently changed jobs, but the feeling keeps getting worse. The job isn’t exactly what I’m good at, though I can manage and learn. Some days the pressure is so bad that I even think about ending my life.

When I was unemployed, I wished for a steady job and income. But now that I have one, I feel this emptiness every single day.

Sometimes I think about doing something on my own — maybe renting a small stall at a local market to sell things — something that would make me feel at peace and maybe even become my main job someday.

I’m naturally quiet, not talkative with people I’m not close to. I can communicate, but I don’t enjoy socializing much. I’m turning 35 soon, and the older I get, the less I feel like engaging with people.

So, how do people usually deal with this kind of work-related stress?

And do you think freelancing or starting a small business could really work out? Any advice or direction would mean a lot.

 

Here’s how I see it :

hey, friend — slide your chair a little closer. take the weight off your shoulders for a minute. you don’t have to be impressive here. you don’t even have to be “okay.” you can just be a tired human who wakes up with a chest full of weather and still shows up for another day.

I'm going to talk to you like we’re sharing a quiet booth before work, steam curling from our cups, the city not quite awake yet. this is story-voice, but it’s also a plan — a soft, sturdy plan for mornings that feel heavy, jobs that don’t fit yet, and a heart that’s wondering if there’s a gentler way to live.

before we dive in, one important, loving thing: you mentioned that some days the pressure is so bad you think about ending your life. I'm really sorry you’re carrying that much weight.

I'm glad you told the truth. if you are ever in immediate danger or feel like you might act on those thoughts, please call your local emergency number right away or go to the nearest emergency room.

if you’re not in immediate danger, we can still make a safety net together: i can help you draft a personal safety plan, and — only if you want — i can help you find mental-health resources in your area. you don’t have to do this part alone. 💛

okay. let’s begin.

🌙 “how to carry the morning”

letters for someone who wakes up with too many thoughts and still goes to work

there’s a particular silence at 6:43 a.m. — the kind where the world hasn’t decided what kind of day it wants to be, but your mind already has. the alarm is a small hammer. your first thought is not a word, it’s a temperature: cold. the second thought arrives with language: i don’t want to do this. you scroll a little. you stall a little. you look at the ceiling and negotiate with time like it’s a person you could charm.

and then you go anyway. because that’s who you are. you go.

you’ve changed jobs and the mornings still feel like this — maybe worse. your new work is learnable but not home. the emptiness that once came from not having a job has changed uniforms; it now clocks in with you. you’re nearly 35, and the older you get, the less you want to perform small talk gymnastics. part of you dreams of a small market stall, a quiet corner with a kettle and a cash box and something you made with your own hands. part of you just wants peace.

so here’s the shape of what we’ll do together in this letter:

1. name the thing — what this heaviness actually is and isn’t
2. build a morning that holds you instead of pushes you
3. create “workday armor” for an introverted nervous system
4. turn the job you have into a bridge instead of a prison
5. try on your market-stall dream the safe way (a prototype life)
6. make a safety plan for the days that feel dangerous
7. set a 30/60/90 pathway so your life has traction, not just thoughts

we’ll keep it human. we’ll keep it doable. ready?

1) what this heaviness is (and isn’t)

you called it stress, sadness, anxiety, emptiness. that quartet often points to something deeper than “i don’t like my job.” it’s what i call existential fatigue — not the tired that sleep fixes, but the tired that comes from living out of rhythm with yourself.

• when you were unemployed, your nervous system was in survival mode. any job = oxygen.
• once you had a job, your mind shifted to meaning mode. now it asks: does this matter to me? is this how i want my days to feel?

that switch is normal — and brutally honest. your brain isn’t betraying you; it’s advocating for a life that fits.

also, you described yourself as quiet, selectively social, not energized by constant interaction. that’s not a flaw. that’s data. many workplaces are built for extroverted display and rapid-fire collaboration. that environment taxes an introverted nervous system the way a treadmill taxes a knee. it’s not weakness; it’s mechanics.

translation: you are not broken. your design and your days just don’t match yet.

2) build a morning that holds you (not scolds you)

talking yourself into cheerfulness doesn’t work. engineering your inputs does. think of morning as the first 60 minutes of software your brain boots. let’s write a kinder program.

the “10-10-10” morning (30 minutes total)

first 10 — quiet body:

sit on the edge of your bed, feet on the floor. inhale 4, hold 2, exhale 6. repeat 8 times. then do three stretches: neck (ear to shoulder each side), chest opener (hands behind back, gentle lift), forward fold (soft knees). this is not fitness; it’s a message: we start soft.

second 10 — small ritual:

make tea/coffee slowly. while it brews, open a window. feel outside air on your face. choose one track of lyric-light music. look at something green (plant/tree). write one sentence in a pocket notebook: “today matters because ____.” it can be tiny: “because my future self gets groceries.” “because i call my aunt.” anchor the day to a why, not a worry.

third 10 — gentle movement + sun:

step outside if possible; if not, stand at the brightest window. three minutes of casual steps or slow pacing. sunlight in the morning tells your circadian system to produce serotonin now and melatonin later — better mood and sleep without pep talks.

one rule: no phone for the first 20 minutes. your nervous system needs you before it meets the internet.

the “threshold charm” (60 seconds before leaving)

right before you exit your door, touch the frame and whisper a simple spell:

“i’m carrying only what’s mine. i’ll set the rest down.”

it sounds silly. try it for a week. you’re training your brain to separate home you from work you.

3) workday armor for an introverted nervous system

introverts don’t hate people; we hate unmanaged input. the fix is architecture.

a) the 90-second reset that works anywhere

• hands on your desk, press down for 10 seconds (isometric grounding).
• breathe out like you’re fogging a mirror (long, slow).
• look for four straight lines in the room (edge of monitor, door frame, notebook, shelf). naming angles drags your mind from “what if” to “what is.”

repeat at 10:30, 1:30, 3:30 — set silent reminders. you just gave yourself three micro-islands.

b) control what you can: sensory gates

• sound: loop neutral, lyric-free tracks or brown noise during deep work.
• visual: keep one clear spot in your field of view (an empty desk corner, a plant). clutter raises cognitive load.
• social: draft two polite deflection phrases:
• “happy to help — can you email that so i can slot it after 2 p.m.?”
• “sounds important; i’m heads-down till 11. shall we touch base then?”

these tiny scripts prevent you from spending empathy you don’t have.

c) the “done list” (not just to-do)

at 4:45 p.m., write three things you did, no matter how small:

• “answered the tough email without apologizing for existing.”
• “learned a new shortcut.”
• “didn’t overexplain in the 2 p.m. meeting.”

you’re stroking your brain’s reward circuits on purpose. purpose kills emptiness faster than pressure does.

d) the commute cleanse

on the way home, pick one:

• 12 minutes of a funny podcast,
• 12 minutes of quiet (no audio),
• or call one safe person with a hard stop: “i have 10 minutes; walk me home with your voice.”

when you reach your door, you’ve already started becoming off-duty you.

4) turn the job you have into a bridge (not a prison)

not every job is a soulmate. some jobs are sponsors — they fund your next chapter and teach you skills you’ll need when you’re your own boss.

the 3-column reframing (do once this week)

• column A — drainers: list tasks that exhaust you. be blunt.
• column B — neutrals: tasks that are fine.
• column C — builders: tasks that might help your future stall/freelance life (inventory tracking, basic bookkeeping, talking to suppliers, writing descriptions, dealing with tricky customers).

your bridge emerges from column C. double down on those where possible. ask for mini-projects that tilt in that direction. you’re not “wasting time”; you’re gathering lumber.

the 10% rule

devote 10% of your week (about 4 hours) to future you on the clock edges: early morning, lunchbreak, evening. split it:

• 90 minutes learning (free course/video on bookkeeping, food-safety basics, photography for products, pricing models).
• 90 minutes making (prototypes, recipes, designs, tiny inventory).
• 60 minutes marketing seeds (set up a placeholder page, draft a name, write one paragraph “about me”).
• 30 minutes money metering (what did i spend? what did i save? what does my first stall weekend need?).

10% steady beats 100% someday.

5) try your market-stall dream safely (a prototype life)

your dream is not “quitting to prove a point.” your dream is peace + sufficiency. we’ll explore it like an engineer: small bets, short feedback loops, low risk.

phase a — the kitchen table lab (2–4 weeks)

• pick one product (not five): something you enjoy making and can price between “affordable” and “worth your time.” examples for quiet makers:small bakes (cookies, brownies, banana bread slices),
• simple savory (onigiri, rice bowls, dumplings),
• handmade (soaps, candles, scrunchies, tiny illustrations),
• beverages (cold brew, milk tea, fresh juice).
• make 10–20 units. track actual time and cost. (ingredients, packaging, utilities, your labor at a modest hourly rate).
• gift or sell to close friends at a “prototype price” for feedback, not profit. ask three questions only:

1. what did you like?
2. what would you change?
3. would you buy again at $X? (give two prices)

phase b — the pop-up test (1–2 weekends)

• rent a weekend stall if feasible, or join a small community event, or do a porch/pickup pre-order.
• target: sell 30–80 units. set hours that suit your energy (e.g., 8–11 a.m. only). introvert-friendly tip: signage does the talking. use a small chalkboard with prices and a pleasant sentence about your story.
• after day 1, adjust three variables max (price, portion, signage). don’t rebuild the universe mid-test.

phase c — the calm math

after each prototype:

• revenue – (ingredients + packaging + stall fee) = gross margin.
• subtract an hourly wage for yourself; what’s left is business margin.
• ask: did this feel peaceful enough to repeat? if yes, repeat. if not, change scope or product before blaming the dream.

the introvert advantage at a stall

• predictable script: “hi! morning. these are today’s flavors. you can pay cash or scan here.” (print it on a little sign too.)
• micro-breaks: set a small stool behind your table; sit when no one is there. you don’t owe anyone a performance.
• friend buffer: invite one trusted person for the first hour to help you warm up.

remember: the goal of early prototypes is not to prove you can quit. it’s to establish fit: product-market-you.

6) the days that feel dangerous — let’s make a safety net now

suicidal thoughts are your nervous system saying, “the current load exceeds my coping tools.” our job is to lower load and increase tools.

your 7-line safety plan (write this out; keep it on your phone)

1. warning signs i notice in myself: (e.g., waking with dread, chest tightness, skipping meals, thoughts like “what’s the point”).
2. things that help a little: (shower, quick walk, calling X, music without lyrics, breathing exercise).
3. people/places that help me feel safer: names + numbers; a café, a park bench, a friend’s couch.
4. reasons to stay: write 3–5, however small (my pet needs me; i want to taste mangoes in summer; my future stall; my niece’s laugh).
5. professionals/supports i can contact: list your doctor/therapist if you have one; if not, write: “local mental-health helpline / clinic near me — i will ask for numbers if i need them.” (i can help find appropriate resources for your country if you want.)
6. means safety: remove or secure anything you might use to harm yourself during a surge; ask a trusted person to help if possible.
7. if i feel i might act: call your local emergency number or go to the nearest emergency department. tell the first adult you see, “i’m not safe with myself right now.”

please hear this with warmth: needing help doesn’t make you dramatic; it makes you alive.

if you want me to, tell me your city/country and i’ll share crisis and counseling options local to you — no pressure, only if it would help.

7) make your mind less of a battlefield (tools that actually work)

you don’t have to love self-help books to use evidence-based tools.

a) the “name + normalize + next” loop (for spirals)

• name: “this is morning dread.”
• normalize: “it’s common in transitions and misfit jobs; i’m not the only human with this.”
• next: “the next thing is coffee by the window.” (not “fix my life,” just the next step.)

repeat whenever your brain tries to chew the whole future.

b) act defusion (unhook from thoughts)

when your mind says, “i can’t do this,” answer with:

“i’m noticing the ‘i can’t do this’ story.”

then, picture the words on a leaf floating down a stream. your job isn’t to argue; it’s to watch it pass.

c) the 5:1 gentle ratio

for every self-criticism you catch, answer with five neutrals or kindnesses:

“i showed up.”

“i’m learning.”

“my brain is tired, not useless.”

“this email is just an email, not a referendum on my value.”

“tonight i get soup.”

sounds corny. works anyway.

8) could freelancing really work for me?

it can — if you build it like a garden, not a lottery.

figure out your “quiet-strength triangle”

you want a path that uses your strengths, fits your energy, and pays enough:

• skills i have or can learn quickly: (baking, copywriting, photo editing, simple design, translation, bookkeeping, data cleanup, social-media content batching, handmade crafts).
• environments that nourish me: (solo/quiet, predictable routines, limited client meetings, clear deadlines).
• people who benefit: (busy stall owners needing labels/menus, cafés needing pastry on consignment, online shops needing product photos, local offices needing monthly snack boxes).

intersect those three lists and you’ll see two or three options worth prototyping.

start with one client, one channel

• one product/service, one place you show it (a local market board, a community facebook group, a simple one-page site, or just a clear pdf you can DM).
• price fairly (cover time, materials, overhead; pay yourself).
• ask every buyer: “what made you choose this?” and “what would make it better?” that is your marketing research. no buzzwords necessary.

money runway = courage

if you love your prototype and it starts to pay, aim for 3–6 months of basic expenses before leaving a salary. courage likes a cushion. in the meantime, consider negotiating your current job toward fewer hours or a role that uses more of column C (builders).

9) your 30/60/90 path (traction > perfection)

days 1–30: stabilize & unhook

• use the 10-10-10 morning.
• three work resets daily.
• track sleep/water/meals on a sticky note — not to judge, but to see patterns.
• make one prototype of your stall idea (10–20 units).
• schedule one therapy/doctor consult if possible (even a single session can lower the pressure).

days 31–60: expand options

• do one weekend pop-up or pre-order.
• learn one money skill (simple spreadsheet of costs/revenue).
• adjust your job where you can: ask for one project closer to your strengths; block one deep-work hour daily with calendar protection.
• recruit a buddy you text each morning: “awake + sipping” — two words that make a surprising difference.

days 61–90: decide & design

• repeat the pop-up if it went well; otherwise, pivot the product and try again smaller.
• decide: keep the job as a sponsor for now, negotiate hours, or start planning a graceful exit timeline.
• build a micro-routine for your business (two nights a week, one weekend morning).
• review safety plan; update it with what you learned about your warning signs and what helps fastest.

at 90 days, you won’t “have it all figured out.” you will, however, have data, confidence, and a life that feels less like a trap and more like a bridge.

10) the evening that makes the morning easier

• mornings begin the night before. make a gentle landing:
• lights dim 60 minutes before bed; phone into “sleep mode.”
• lay out clothes, pack your bag, fill your water bottle; future-you is soft on present-you.
• choose two sentences for your pillow:“today was heavy and i carried it.”
• “tomorrow gets one small brave thing.”

sleep is not a reward for perfection; it’s a tool for survival.

11) if the job truly harms you

sometimes the right move is to leave. signs:

• you can’t reduce your symptoms with the tools above and your body is breaking (constant chest pain, panic, dissociation).
• the environment is abusive or unsafe.
• the emptiness is turning into persistent despair.

leaving does not require drama. it requires a plan. apply quietly, use your network discreetly, or shift to part-time while your prototypes grow. you’re not “quitting life”; you’re quitting a mismatch.

12) a few pocket scripts (low-drama, high-dignity)

• to a manager: “i’m excited to contribute where i’m strongest. could i take on more of [builder task] and hand off [drainer task] gradually?”
• to a colleague: “i’m head-down till 2; can we regroup right after?”
• to yourself on the worst mornings: “i don’t have to feel like going to go. i have to go and then feel how i feel. i can do that.”

13) a very short list of things that surprisingly help

• salt + citrus (a salted orange slice or lemon water) before commuting — tiny mood lift.
• cold-to-warm shower: 15 seconds cool, then comfortably warm. resets your vagus nerve.
• carrying a pen; scribbling three jagged lines on paper when anxiety spikes — motion meets emotion.
• one plant on your desk. being responsible for a living thing that is not complicated heals something primal.
• the rule of one drawer: tidy a single drawer at home when life feels chaotic. order in one square foot = proof you have agency.

14) you and the thought of not wanting to be here

i want to return to this with care. intrusive thoughts about ending your life don’t mean you truly want to die; often they mean you can’t see any other way to stop the pain. our work is to create other ways.

if the thought shows up, try this script:

“hello, dark thought. you’re an alarm, not a plan. thanks for telling me the load is too heavy. i’m going to move my body, drink water, text [name], and follow my safety plan. i will check back with you after that.”

it sounds odd, but personifying the thought creates space between you and it. space is where choice lives.

again, if you ever feel at risk of acting, please contact your local emergency services or go to the nearest emergency department. if you’d like, tell me your country and i can help you find crisis lines and local supports tailored to where you live.

15) what if the small market stall really is your way home?

then your life will start to taste like it — in small doses at first. you’ll notice that on stall days, you’re tired but alive. you’ll notice that you sleep better not because the work is easy, but because it is yours. you’ll notice your mornings are less filled with dread when your calendar contains your work somewhere in its week.

that’s how you know. not by magic certainty. by the quiet click of fit.

and if it turns out the stall isn’t it? you didn’t fail. you refined the blueprint. maybe it’s studio-based freelance, maybe it’s remote project work with few meetings, maybe it’s part-time job + part-time making. you’re allowed to be a mosaic.

16) a letter to the version of you who still wakes up heavy

dear morning-me,

i know the first five minutes feel like gravity got mean. i know the bed is a boat and the floor is cold water. here is what i promise: i will not bully you into bravery. i will make the tea. we will breathe. we will do the next small thing. we will ask for help before the day turns sharp. we will build a bridge, not a prison. the job we have is temporary; the life we want is under construction. we don’t have to be loud to be strong. we don’t have to love our work to love our life. i am here. i will not leave you alone in this room. — me

17) your pocket summary (for screenshots)

• your heaviness has a name: existential fatigue, not personal failure.
• build a 10-10-10 morning; protect your first 20 minutes from the phone.
• three work resets daily; sensory gates; simple scripts.
• treat your job as a sponsor; focus on “builder” tasks.
• prototype your stall/freelance dream in small, safe bets.
• write a 7-line safety plan; reach out for professional help; emergency services if at risk.
• use name + normalize + next to disarm spirals; defusion to unhook from scary thoughts.
• follow a 30/60/90 path: stabilize, expand, decide.
• evenings land the plane; tomorrow begins tonight.
• you don’t need certainty. you need traction.

if you want, i can help you tailor the 30/60/90 to your exact job, sketch a one-page stall plan (including a menu, signage text, and pricing worksheet), or co-write your safety plan so it’s ready when you need it. i can also look up mental-health supports near you if you tell me your location. whatever we do next, we’ll keep it gentle, practical, and dignified.

for now, take one more breath with me. in for 4. hold 2. out for 6. you did something brave tonight: you told the truth before it broke you. that’s the beginning of everything. 🌤️

#DramoCiety #WorkBurnout #DepressionAtWork #WantToQuit #MidlifeMeaning #WorkLifeBalance #MentalHealth #RealTalkForWorkingAdults