You come home.
You've done everything right. Hit the numbers, closed the deal, held it together for ten hours straight.
And your wife says "you're not listening to me."
And something in your chest tightens.
Not because she's wrong. Because she's right. And you don't know how to fix it.
Your son asks you to play. You say "in a minute" for the fourth time. You watch him walk away. You feel like a stranger in your own home.
You snap at someone over nothing. Then spend the next hour replaying it. Wondering what's wrong with you.
You lie awake at 2am with your heart racing and no idea why.
You've got the house. The car. The career. The life you said you wanted.
And you feel completely lost inside it.
Here's what nobody told you: you were trained to perform, not to feel. To push through, not to be present. So now you're a man who can build anything except a moment of stillness.
But this isn't who you have to be.