Is it the work? Or what the work is trying to do for us?

Work can feel good. You know that feeling. Finishing a project, closing the loop, crossing a finish line, getting the room cleaned, pulling off an event—there is a deep satisfaction in effort that lands somewhere inside the body as relief and pride at the same time. That “good tired” carries a quiet dignity because it comes after something meaningful. The ache makes sense.

But something has shifted in the modern experience of work. Many of us still work hard, but the tiredness no longer feels clean. It feels sticky. The day ends, but the mind keeps running. The weekend arrives, but the heart stays braced. Even a vacation can turn into a slow detox from a pace that has been normal for too long.

That is why it is not surprising to see how widespread depletion has become. In my book, I point to a workforce stretched thin, with two-thirds of employees reporting they are overwhelmed, and many describing emotional drain, chronic stress, and an inability to truly shut off—even during downtime. The question is not whether we are tired. The question is why the tiredness feels so total.

I began asking this question not for us, but for me.  I fell in love with industry, efficiency and output, but the better I got, the better I did, the more tired I felt. 

Twenty years ago, a phrase in a sermon struck me at a level that I hadn’t had words for before.  This phrase stole from me the desire to see the problem on the surface; I learned that the issue is not only the work, but also the work underneath the work.

The Hidden Engine Behind Exhaustion

Two people can do the same job, with similar hours and similar pressure, yet end the day very differently. One finishes with a stable sense of self. The other ends the day feeling hollow, anxious, or strangely ashamed. That difference is rarely explained by workload alone.

In the book, I frame this difference as an inner drive beneath the visible tasks—what motivates the work and what the work is secretly trying to achieve. Abraham Kuyper helps name this “underneath” dynamic in human work, and Dr. Timothy Keller gives it language many people immediately recognize: the work underneath the work.

Once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

Under that layer, work is no longer just work.
Work becomes a strategy.

A strategy to earn approval.
A strategy to hold identity together.
A strategy to feel control.
A strategy to outrun insecurity.
A strategy to escape other realities.

When work becomes a strategy for the soul, it stops being a simple effort-and-rest rhythm. It becomes a constant negotiation with fear and desire. That is why productivity can feel exhausting even when life looks “successful.”

When Work Turns Into Identity

A quick cultural snapshot explains some of the pressure. In older societies, a person was known by place or family line. Today, introductions often move quickly toward a single question: “What do you do?” That question is not evil—but it does reveal something. It shows how the modern world sorts people. Titles and output become shorthand for belonging.

Over time, it becomes easy to feel that work is not simply what you do during the day, but what makes you count.

The problem with that arrangement is weight. Identity is heavy. Work cannot bear the freight of being asked to prove worth. Once work becomes the defining feature of the self, every email, metric, criticism, delay, rejection, or setback stops being a normal part of life and starts feeling like a verdict.

In the book, I use the example of lawn work as a kind of tangible proof—lines in the grass you can see—while much of human work is slow, relational, and hard to measure. Many of us live inside that ache: the desire to see evidence that we matter.

When identity sits underneath the work, productivity is never “just helpful.” It becomes personal. And that is why rest can start to feel undeserved, unsafe, or even lazy.

When Work Turns Into Control

The second layer underneath the work is control. I describe how weekend tasks can feel strangely attractive—not because they are urgent, but because they offer something concrete to manage.

For many people, work becomes the one reliable lever in life. Family, health, relationships, uncertainty, culture, and economics can feel ungovernable. Work feels like the place where effort produces predictable results—at least for a while.

That illusion matters.

Because when that one “controllable” area becomes shaky—when plans fail, outcomes stall, influence fades, or authority is questioned—the nervous system responds like a ship in a storm. The loss of control can be deeply disorienting. Chasing the illusion again becomes exhausting, elusive, and eventually contributes to burnout.

At that point, productivity is no longer about excellence.
It is about anxiety management.

The calendar fills because open space feels dangerous.
The mind keeps rehearsing because uncertainty feels threatening.
Rest becomes difficult—not because the body cannot stop, but because the heart believes it must not.

When Work Turns Into Insecurity

The third layer underneath the work is insecurity—the quiet fear that worth is fragile and must be defended. In the book, I describe a moment when a mentor offered a line that reordered my inner world:

“Christians always mix up their justification and their sanctification.”

The implication is both simple and sharp. When security comes from performance, the soul becomes needy. Progress becomes proof. Productivity becomes a way to stay safe.

That is why approval and achievement are so exhausting. They are never settled. They can lift you for a moment—then demand more the next day.

I push the logic further: when identity is tied to performance or approval, rest and peace become bound to the same things. Approval gets to decide whether rest is allowed. Performance gets to decide whether the mind can finally settle.

This is how people end up both overworking and under-resting, even when the schedule suggests “free time.” The body is present at dinner, but the mind is still trying to earn something. You are home—but the soul is still clocked in.

Why Blaming Ambition Misses the Point

A common reaction is to blame ambition. To assume the cure is to become less driven, less committed, less invested. But I resist that move. The deeper issue is not ambition itself—it is what is powering ambition, the story underneath the work.

The theology of the book insists that ambition and calling do not need to be erased in order to find rest. God’s work in the world is wide-reaching. The problem is not meaningful effort. The problem is when meaningful effort is driven by approval-hunger, identity panic, or control addiction instead of grace and grounded purpose.

That distinction matters. Because it means the goal is not to become passive.

The goal is to become free.

A Quick Diagnostic: What Is the Work Trying to Earn?

One simple way to apply this is to ask a single, honest question:

What is my work secretly trying to earn right now?

Approval from specific people?
A sense of identity that feels solid?
Control in a life that feels uncertain?
Escape from pain, loneliness, disappointment, or fear?

This question is not meant to shame you. It is meant to locate the engine.

Once the engine is exposed, the pressure becomes clear. Exhaustion stops feeling mysterious. The “always on” feeling becomes explainable. The cycle is no longer random—it has a logic.

This is what I have learned the hard way: work is good, but it makes a terrible god. When work becomes the place where salvation is attempted—where identity, security, and control are chased—it becomes heavier than it was ever designed to be.

A Simple Reset That Can Start Today

Healing takes time. But one small step can begin shifting the pattern: name the motive beneath the work before the day ends.

Take five minutes and write one sentence:

“The thing I have been trying to earn through work lately is ______.”

Then write a second sentence—without drama, without condemnation:

“Work cannot carry that weight.”

That is not the end of the journey. It is the beginning of clarity.
And clarity is one of the first forms of rest.

Once the work beneath the work is brought into the light, productivity stops being a life-or-death matter. Work can return to its proper place—meaningful, imperfect, human, and finally… something you can set down.

Would you like to reflect on this topic over time? I would love for you to pick up my book here or join me for a 21 Day Restoration Reset, a 21-day email campaign that gives you a daily reflection to help you establish sustainable rhythms of work and rest.