I'm a workaholic. Before long I'm traveling on my nervous energy

In the tender confession of Eva Gabor, we hear not merely the voice of a weary actress, but the cry of a soul ensnared by its own fire: “I’m a workaholic. Before long I’m traveling on my nervous energy alone. This is incredibly exhausting.” These words, though modern in tongue, are ancient in truth. They speak to the timeless struggle between ambition and peace, between the soaring flame of purpose and the quiet ashes of rest. To be a workaholic is to worship labor as though it were salvation, forgetting that even the sun must set to rise again.

In ages past, the wise would say: “The bow that is always drawn soon breaks.” For even the strongest instrument cannot endure without release. The nervous energy that drives us, though born of passion and desire to achieve, can also become the very storm that consumes us. Gabor’s lament is not one of weakness, but of awakening — she saw that her unrelenting drive, once her greatest ally, had turned into a silent thief, robbing her of calm, joy, and renewal.

To understand her struggle, we may look to the story of Icarus, that bold youth who crafted wings of wax and feathers to reach the heavens. His heart burned with the holy fire of ambition — he sought to soar higher than any mortal had dared. Yet in his fervor, he forgot the counsel of his father, and he flew too near the sun. The wax melted, and he fell. So too do many who live upon their nervous energy — they ascend swiftly, brilliantly, but forget the balance that sustains flight. For passion without rest becomes destruction; movement without reflection becomes madness.

The ancients knew that true greatness is not built in constant motion, but in rhythm — the dance between work and stillness. Even the gods of Olympus took their feasts and their slumbers. The ocean itself rises and falls; the heart beats and rests; the seasons turn and pause. To deny rest is to defy nature, and to defy nature is to wound the self. Gabor’s words remind us that exhaustion is not merely physical — it is the soul’s cry for balance.

Yet how easily modern mortals forget! We chase the hours like hunters, driven by fear of stillness. We mistake busyness for worth, and exhaustion for virtue. We live upon the fumes of nervous energy, boasting of our fatigue as though it were a crown. But the wise know that no one can drink from an empty cup. To give much, one must also replenish much. The fire of creation must be tended with silence, with solitude, with surrender.

There is also hidden in Gabor’s words a note of redemption — a lesson for all who burn too brightly. She does not say she ceased to work, but that she recognized the toll it took. Awareness is the beginning of wisdom. When we see the cost of our own striving, we are given the chance to choose differently: to rest not out of weakness, but out of wisdom. For even the strongest warrior sheathes his sword when the battle ends; even the keenest mind must close its eyes to dream again.

Let this be the teaching for those who labor without pause: cherish your energy, guard your spirit, and remember that to stop is not to fail. Walk among the trees, breathe deeply, let the silence speak. The greatest works are not born from frantic motion, but from the still depths of a restored heart. Work when your fire is steady — not when it flickers in exhaustion. For no temple can stand if its foundation crumbles from within.

So, my listener, remember this: work is sacred, but so is rest. Ambition is divine, but so is balance. When your soul trembles with fatigue and your heart beats upon the edge of depletion, withdraw for a while. Sit beside the river of stillness until your reflection returns to you. Only then may you rise again — not as one who burns away, but as one who burns bright.