The rhythm of worry starting 24 hours too early.

The sun was shining, he was reading a good book, and his partner was laughing in the kitchen. Logically, he was happy. But deep beneath the surface, the subtle, cold knot of Sunday night dread had already tightened in his stomach. The thought of Monday, the meetings, the demands, the volume, had preemptively stolen the peace of the present moment. His personal energy wasn't low, but it was being siphoned off by future anxieties. He closed the book, annoyed at the thief in his stomach. He realised preventative care meant defending his weekends, not just surviving his weekdays.

A heartbeat thought by Christian van Gils

The exhaustion that settles in the throat.

She had been talking all day: meetings, calls, conflict resolution, motivating, persuading. By 4:30 PM, her throat felt dry and raw, but the exhaustion was deeper. The mental energy required to constantly articulate, negotiate, and perform had simply run out. She sat in silence, physically unable to form another coherent sentence. It wasn't a lack of ideas; it was a physical depletion of her voice. She cancelled her last meeting, knowing that the most valuable thing she could offer anyone at that point was absolute, restorative silence.

A heartbeat thought by Christian van Gils

Setting a boundary you must physically cross.

For months, he had worked from the kitchen table, blurring the line between work and home. He was always 'on.' Today, he made a rule: work stops at 5:30 PM, and he had to leave the apartment for 15 minutes. At 5:30 PM, he locked his desk and walked out. He didn't check his phone; he simply walked around the block. When he returned, the space felt completely different. He hadn't changed the kitchen table, but he had successfully created an invisible fence between his professional self and his human self. Crossing that physical boundary was the only way to validate the emotional one.

A heartbeat thought by Christian van Gils

When the need isn't for food, but for self-care.

She rushed through the door at night, immediately feeling a panicked, demanding hunger. She opened the fridge, ready to devour the first thing she saw. She was stressed, tired, and her brain interpreted the emotional deficit as a calorie deficit. But as she reached for the snack, she paused. The hunger wasn't coming from her stomach; it was coming from her spirit. It wasn't food she needed, but a simple act of restorative care. She closed the fridge, walked to the bathroom, and ran a very hot bath. The true energy crisis wasn't about sugar; it was about self-kindness.

A heartbeat thought by Christian van Gils

The nervous tic that confirms you're never truly offline.

He was sitting at dinner, laughing at a joke, when he felt the familiar, subtle buzz of his phone in his pocket. A crucial email. A late-night request. He excused himself immediately, reaching for the device. The screen was black. There was no notification, no text, no email. The vibration had been entirely phantom, a neurological tremor, a sign that his nervous system was so perpetually conditioned to work demands that it was creating its own alerts. He stared at the blank screen, realising the real problem wasn't the email volume, but the internal cage he had built.

A heartbeat thought by Christian van Gils

The metric that measures your worth, not your output.

She received her quarterly performance review: "Exceeded Expectations." The email was glowing, full of praise and numbers. But before she could celebrate, her brain had already calculated her internal score. She had skipped three nights of sleep, canceled four friends' dinners, and cried once in the supply closet. The external score was 10/10. Her internal score was 4/10. The contradiction was staggering. She understood then that the real damage wasn't visible on the company's ledger; it was recorded entirely on her own forgotten human metrics.
We made it possible, how ool is that!

A heartbeat thought by Christian van Gils

When your presence is loud but your contribution is quiet.

He attended the mandatory team-building event. He laughed at the right jokes, complimented the catering, and performed the required enthusiasm. He was physically present, a warm body in the room, but his mind felt miles away, watching the scene detachedly. He hadn't contributed a single original idea all afternoon, yet he felt profoundly exhausted by the constant social maintenance. He realized he was mastering a new form of presenteeism: not working while sick, but performing happiness while depleted.

for neither home nor work, just depleted from the effort of crossing the mental bridge.

The gradual, grinding friction of decompression.

The drive home was always the same: an hour of traffic lights and engine noise. But the commute was less about mileage and more about mental distance. He used the hour to physically shake off the meeting tension, to mentally file away the day's grudges, and to force his face into an expression suitable for family life. The friction was loud a low, grinding sound of forced transition. By the time he pulled into the driveway, he was ready for neither home nor work, just depleted from the effort of crossing the mental bridge.

A heartbeat thought by Christian van Gils

The power felt in the unclicked 'send' button.

She spent four hours crafting the perfect resignation letter: professional, decisive, and final. She detailed the workload imbalance, the toxic culture, and the absolute collapse of her personal life. She proofread it three times, savoring the clean, sharp relief of the decision. She clicked 'Save As' and filed the document in a hidden folder labeled "Emergency Exit." She didn't send it. But knowing that the emergency exit was ready, filed, and perfect, gave her enough immediate power and control to survive one more week. The true function of the resignation wasn't to leave, but to stay on her own terms.
"Manic Monday" by The Bangles: A quintessential song about rushing to work on a Monday morning.

A heartbeat thought by Christian van Gils

The exhaustion of performing recovery.
The Weekend by Michael Gray: A disco-house hit that's specifically about "living for the weekend."

Sunday evening. Her colleague messaged her: "Hope you had a relaxing weekend!" She replied instantly: "It was great, totally recharged!" The reality was she had spent the entire weekend staring at the ceiling, dreading Monday, and feeling profound guilt that she hadn't utilized the time for "self-improvement." The exhaustion from failing to recharge was heavier than the exhaustion from the previous workweek. She realized that the pressure to perform recovery was almost as taxing as the pressure to perform work.

The weight of absorbing a colleague's crisis.

Her desk mate confided in her about his imminent layoff. It was a brief, desperate conversation. She offered comfort and empathy, using the correct, professional phrases. But after he walked away, she felt a profound physical coldness. The news wasn't about her, yet the emotional data the fear, the instability, the injustice had been downloaded directly into her own nervous system. She spent the rest of the day carrying the weight of his unasked-for crisis, proving that emotional proximity in the office is the highest risk of all.

The ritual of self-protection before logging on.

Before opening her laptop, she performed a small ritual: two minutes of meditation, followed by drinking a full glass of water. It wasn't about mindfulness; it was about building an invisible shield. She knew that the moment she logged in, she was entering an arena of urgent demands and emotional turbulence. The small ritual was her only defense a mental barrier to prevent the chaos of the digital world from immediately contaminating her internal state. She needed to be grounded before she could face the onslaught.

A heartbeat thought by Christian van Gils

When adaptation costs more energy than execution.

The company announced its fifth major strategic pivot in eighteen months. The new mission statement was exciting, dynamic, and completely negated the last six months of her team's work. She realised that the constant need to adapt, re-learn, and discard old systems was costing more energy than actually doing the job itself. The exhaustion wasn't from working hard; it was from the perpetual, destabilising effort of turning the ship every quarter. She felt like a weather vane, not a ship captain.

A heartbeat thought by Christian van Gils

The moment you realize you're spending tomorrow's reserves.

It was 10:00 PM. She was still working, focused on finishing a project that could easily wait until morning. She felt a second wind, a manic clarity fuelled by necessity and caffeine. But deep down, she heard the quiet alarm: she wasn't running on reserves; she was spending tomorrow's entire energy budget today. She knew the invoice for this late night would arrive mid-morning tomorrow, payable in irritability and cognitive mistakes. She closed the laptop, recognizing the dangerous, false economy of borrowing sleep from the future.

A heartbeat thought by Christian van Gils

In business, we hate "unplanned downtime."
We invest in predictive maintenance for our machinery. But when it comes to our most important asset, our people, we rely on a reactive system.

We wait for the sick note. By then, the cost is already incurred.

The "Silent Crash" is the phase where employees are physically present but mentally disengaged due to a mismatch in energy and pressure. In HR-terms: Presenteeism.

Research shows that almost 90% of health-related costs come from this invisible drain.

The noise barrier separating purpose from panic.

His phone buzzed incessantly, notifications from four different platforms, each demanding urgent attention. He watched the screen light up, realising the true barrier to his productivity wasn't the difficulty of the task, but the sheer volume of the digital noise. Each buzz was a tiny, high-pitched demand on his emotional reserves. He flipped the phone face down, silencing the noise, and realised the notifications had become a constant wall, separating him from the quiet concentration needed for actual purpose. The silence was the first step toward reclaiming his focus.

A heartbeat thought by Christian van Gils

The quiet fear of being immediately replaceable.

She watched a new hire seamlessly integrate into her previous, long-vacant role. The newcomer was younger, faster, and used the new software effortlessly. The transition was so smooth, so efficient, that it instilled not relief, but a deep, cold fear. If the company could replace her critical function with such speed and grace, what did that say about her own unique value? The fear of being replaceable wasn't about her skills; it was about the profound isolation that came with realizing her human contribution was now just another input variable.

A heartbeat thought by Christian van Gils

When the only person you lie to is yourself.

The well-being survey landed in his inbox: "On a scale of 1 to 5, how often do you feel overwhelmed?" He quickly selected '2' (Rarely). But as he clicked the button, his internal voice screamed '5' (Constantly). The discrepancy was automatic, a reflex of professional self-preservation. He wasn't lying to HR; he was lying to the mirror. He closed the survey, realizing that the biggest barrier to his recovery wasn't the company's neglect, but his own desperate need to maintain the fa ade of control.

A heartbeat thought by Christian van Gils

The radical act of claiming digital darkness.

He told his team he was taking a "digital day off." No emails, no Slack, no calls. He fully expected the urgent texts, the passive-aggressive calls asking "if he saw the note." But nothing came. The silence was profound. He realised the ghosting wasn't a punishment for the company; it was a punishment for his own self-importance. The world hadn't ended without his input. That realisation, that he was both less essential and more free than he thought, was the most liberating and terrifying feeling he'd had all year.

A heartbeat thought by Christian van Gils

The single breath required to stop the slide.

She stood by the coffee machine, mindlessly stirring her drink. A voice inside asked: Stop. How are you, really? It took twenty seconds, no more, to scan her internal state. Not just 'busy,' but the real answer. That brief, mandatory pause was a new discipline, a small act of self-interrogation that cost nothing but prevented everything.

A heartbeat thought by Christian van Gils