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Image via iStock.
One year ago today, I was tired.
I had spent the last two years working 60-70 hours a week. I was often up at 5 a.m. with my cup of coffee in hand, answering emails, solving problems and getting stuff done before showering, taking the kids to school and heading into the office.
After work, I would pick up the kids (barely before the extended care deadline), rush home to make dinner and then be on the computer again until 10 p.m.
I would often skip my evening Pilates class, which previously got me in the best shape of my life, because I “needed” to work. A glass or two of wine would get me through the night without being angry or frustrated that my life was my work. My husband warned me that I couldn’t keep this up, and I refused to listen, because I was on a high.
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