I was young. I was newly married. And I had worked like a dog. I

Sarah Michelle Gellar speaks with the voice of one pausing in the midst of life’s storm, reflecting upon what she has endured and what she longed for: “I was young. I was newly married. And I had worked like a dog. I just wanted to live and travel.” In these words we find the cry of the human spirit, weary of endless toil, yearning not for wealth or fame, but for breath, for joy, for the wide freedom of the road. This is not the rejection of duty, but the acknowledgment that life is more than labor, that the soul must have its share of light and flight.

She names herself as young, a season when life often rushes forward without pause. Youth is filled with striving, with ambition, with the fire to prove oneself in the eyes of the world. Yet even in youth, or perhaps especially in youth, there comes a moment when the heart cries out for more than work. She was also newly married, at the threshold of building a life with another, the moment when companionship becomes sacred and shared dreams take shape. It was not merely her own longing, but the beginning of a shared desire: to live fully together.

The image of having “worked like a dog” is both humble and vivid. In every age, the dog has been a creature of loyalty, burden, and service, often laboring for the sake of others. To work like a dog is to give all strength, to wear oneself thin in duty. But even loyalty has limits, and even the most faithful servant must rest. Gellar’s words remind us that relentless striving, without renewal, leaves the spirit dry and the body weary. The body can endure labor, but the soul must also be nourished.

Her longing was simple: to live and travel. Not to accumulate more treasures, not to ascend more ladders, but to breathe deeply of life’s richness, to step beyond the boundaries of work into the wider expanses of the world. This is the ancient human desire—to walk new lands, to see new horizons, to share time with those we love without the weight of ceaseless obligation. The philosopher Seneca once wrote that it is not that life is short, but that we waste much of it. Gellar’s words echo this: she wished to reclaim her days, to live them rather than let them slip away in endless labor.

History offers us the story of Emperor Hadrian, ruler of Rome, who though burdened with the administration of a vast empire, longed to see it with his own eyes. He traveled its provinces not only as a ruler but as a seeker—walking its roads, visiting its temples, learning its cultures. His journeys were not only for governance but for living, for tasting the fullness of the world he ruled. Like Gellar, he understood that to confine life to duty alone is to miss its sweetness, its color, its freedom.

Thus the meaning of her confession is this: life must be balanced. Work has its honor, but it is not the whole of existence. Marriage, companionship, travel, the act of simply living—these are not luxuries, but necessities for the human spirit. To deny them is to deny part of our humanity. Her words stand as a reminder that even in the busiest seasons, we must not forget the purpose of labor: to create space and time to truly live.

The lesson is clear: do not wait until the years are gone to seek joy. Do not let the weight of toil crush the flame of youth, nor let ambition rob you of the days that can never return. Make time to travel, to rest, to love, to simply exist beyond work. For the wealth of life is not measured in hours of labor, but in moments of freedom, of discovery, of presence with those who matter.

Practical counsel follows: work with diligence, but guard your time with equal care. Set aside days for renewal. Take journeys, whether across oceans or simply to places near your home, that remind you of the vastness and beauty of existence. Live so that when you look back, you can say not only, “I worked,” but also, “I truly lived.” In this balance lies wisdom, and in this wisdom lies joy.