“Maxxing” is all over LinkedIn these days. 75 Hard. Cold plunges. Supplements. Sleep scores. Net worth trackers. The fantasy is simple: optimize everything and then life will feel meaningful.

It won’t.

Lifemaxxing is just productivity culture wearing spiritual clothes.

It promises control. It delivers anxiety.

Because meaning doesn’t come from winning at life.

It comes from choosing a life.

Lifemaxxing can’t answer the most fundamental question:

Why?

A meaningful life isn’t optimized. It’s committed.

• Committed to people who can disappoint you.
• Committed to work that might not work.
• Committed to saying what you actually think, not what performs well.
• Committed to paths you can’t spreadsheet your way through.

Optimization asks:

“How do I get the most upside with the least risk?”

Meaning asks:

“What am I willing to stand for even if it costs me?”

That’s why meaning feels scary. There’s no dashboard. No scorecard. No guarantee.

And that’s the point.

If you want a meaningful life, stop trying to max everything.

Pick something. Care deeply. Risk being wrong.

Let the friction teach you.

You don’t need a better system.

You need a clearer yes.

It was managing everyone else around the business.

“How’s it going?”

“What do you think this month will look like?”

“That must be really scary. I could never do that.”

Family. Clients. Trusted friends.

All framed as concern. But really? They wanted me to manage their nervous systems. And it was exhausting.

I only realized recently that I don’t have to do that.

I grew up thinking it was my job to keep everyone calm. To be the steady one. The reasonable one. The one who had it handled.

I got very good at it. So good that people commented on how calm I was.

I wasn’t. (Performative calm is absolutely a thing.)

During the day, I was mostly fine. At night, I woke up in a sweat. About the business. And about what I would say about the business.

How honest I could be.

Who I could actually help. Who I couldn’t. How many clients I needed. How close the math really was. What would happen if the math didn’t work out.

Same thoughts. Over and over and over.

Some of this is our human psychology. At night, fear runs the prison with no guards.

But a lot of it?

Optional.

When we are both present, I know I can help you. You know it too.

What you’re feeling isn’t confusion.

It’s just fear.

And the places you’re afraid to look?

That’s exactly where the work starts.

Neo isn’t hiding who he is.

He’s already looking.

By day, Thomas Anderson does what’s required.

Keeps the job. Stays inside the lines. Functions.

By night, he searches.

Follows a signal he can’t name. A person he barely knows. A quiet hope that there’s a truth that can save him.

The Matrix Isn’t What You Think

The Matrix doesn’t trap you with comfort.

It traps you with good enough.

Bills paid. Respect earned. People depending on you.

Just enough to postpone the real questions. Just enough to avoid the real risk.

Don Draper builds a mask to survive the past.

Neo is willing to leave because his future won’t leave him alone.

The exhaustion doesn’t come from effort. It comes from running two operating systems at once.

One self that keeps everything working. Another that knows working isn’t the same as living.

Morpheus Doesn’t Have Answers

He offers only the truth: that “Thomas Anderson” is a simulation of a life.

Morpheus doesn’t wake Neo up. He finds him already awake, and tired of pretending.

Neo is willing to leave numb safety for dangerous truth.

Not because he’s certain. But because his responsible self and his searching self can’t stay separate anymore.

Because good enough never actually was.

Nothing Is Wrong With You

If this is landing, nothing is wrong with you.

You’re not failing. You’re already halfway out.

Most people don’t talk about this until it starts costing them sleep. I didn’t.

The only question is which direction you head next.

At first, the mask is useful.

It keeps you safe.

You learn who you need to be. What works. What gets approval, momentum, authority.

You get good at it. Even with time, excellent.

That’s Who Don Draper Is

Not a fraud. Not an imposter. A survivor.

Underneath his suit is Dick Whitman—the poor kid, the unwanted kid, the one who learned early that being himself wasn’t safe.

The world rewards your Don Draper.

Success doesn’t just validate the mask. It makes it permanent.

Every win reinforces the same rule:

I can never be Dick Whitman again.

This is where many high performers end up.

They perform flawlessly while something underneath goes numb.

Late in Mad Men, Don takes his kids to the house where Dick Whitman grew up.

Dirt, poverty, and (finally) the truth.

He doesn’t explain himself. He lets himself be seen.

Most founders don’t burn out from effort. They burn out from living on top of the part of themselves they’ve disowned.

Performance takes energy.

Exile takes even more.

Who Are You (Really)?

If this is landing uncomfortably close, nothing has gone wrong.

You’re standing in the place where the mask still works.

But you’re the only one who knows what it’s costing you.