I grew up in Southern California on a Dutch dairy farm. Yes, cows, milk, and plenty of poo poo.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was deeply formative. Watching my grandparents work sunup to sundown on on any given day was absolutely awe-inspiring. Work, work, work: steady, relentless, uncomplaining work. The kind of work that builds not just businesses, but character. 

My grandmother from the other side, Frieda, still stands out in my memory too. She was from a poor family in the Midwest: in her prime, she worked in a school kitchen and as a house cleaner. When she was in her 70s and 80s, I’d come home from college and sit with her at the kitchen table, sipping coffee, enjoying her impossibly good homemade chocolate chip cookies and traditional Dutch banket. I'd ask how she was doing, and she’d always reply with the same word:

“BUSY!”

At the time, I didn’t question it. Being busy meant being productive. Being busy meant being useful. Being busy meant… worth.

So, into my 20s and 30s, I wore that same badge. Busy became part of my identity. I assumed that if I wasn't grinding, I was failing. That if I wasn’t filling every moment with something, I wasn’t enough.

And I paid for it.

Burnout. Disconnection. A collapsing marriage. I became addicted to grit. Obsessed with output. Hustle was my drug, and exhaustion was my reward.

But now, I’m asking different questions.

Why do so many of us respond with “busy” when someone asks how we’re doing? Why is that our default?

Is it a badge of honor… or a warning sign?

What if we redefined the measure of our days?

What if instead of busy, we said:

• “I’m full—and leaving a tremendous impact.”

• “I’m grateful.”

• “I’m joyful.”

Busy is not the same as purposeful.

And hustle isn’t the same as meaning.

So I’ll ask you the same thing I’ve had to ask myself:

Are you addicted to being busy?

Or are you open to being whole?

Let’s stop worshiping busy—and start pursuing what really matters.