Before I started my company, I saw vacations as bright spots on the map of life—pit stops of freedom in a year of obligations. Like most employees, I looked forward to the relief of stepping away from a job where someone else told me where to be and when to be there. It wasn’t that I hated working. But vacations felt like personal revolts—small, sanctioned rebellions against structure.
All of that changed when I became the structure.
At 18, I found myself at a crossroads—thrust into a world of chaos, change, and uncertainty. Instead of climbing someone else’s ladder, I decided to build my own. I founded All Nation Restoration of Austin, specializing in water, fire, and mold cleanup. In the beginning, it was sheer survival. Proving myself wasn’t optional. There were no paid time off forms, no weekend getaways. Just the next job, the next invoice, the next chance to say, “You can do this, Ben.”
For five years, I didn’t take a vacation.
Not because I couldn’t afford it financially—though money was tight.
But because stepping away felt like turning my back on the mission
In those early years, the idea of taking time off seemed counterintuitive to everything I was building. A vacation didn’t just mean rest—it meant distraction. It meant vulnerability. It meant trusting someone else with the dream I had just barely gotten off the ground.
Hyper-focus wasn’t a strategy—it was a necessity. And it worked. I believe one of the biggest reasons why most businesses fail is because their founders don’t want to self-manage with intensity. I chose intensity. I chose to tune out the world and tune into the thing I was building, and it’s a big part of why All Nation survived and grew.
That discipline became normal. Friends, employees, even family didn’t question it. I didn’t question it. The absence of vacations wasn’t something I mourned—it was just part of the operating system I’d written for myself. But as my life evolved, the rules began to clash.
The biggest change?
I started a family.
Suddenly, vacation wasn’t about me anymore. It became a symbol—of connection, of presence, of balance. A time when I was expected, rightfully, to shut down the machine and just be. The problem is, the machine didn’t shut down with me.
I wish I could say I rediscovered the magic of white sand beaches and early morning airport excitement. But if I’m honest, vacations now come with a low hum of anxiety. There’s a part of me—trained and conditioned—that sees time away as a risk. It’s not that I don’t want to be with my family. I do. Desperately.
But when your identity is so deeply tied to building and protecting, unplugging feels unsafe.
Worse—it feels irresponsible.
To those on the outside, the answer seems simple: Just relax. It’s good for you.
But when you’ve built your entire adult life around relentless forward motion, slowing down feels like jumping off a moving train.
It’s led to arguments. To feeling misunderstood. To questions like:
“Do you even want to spend time with us?”
The answer is yes—always yes.
But my yes is tangled in a lifetime of internal programming.
If you’re waiting for a neat bow to tie up this tension, I’m sorry—this isn’t that article. I don’t have a polished resolution or a five-step hack to
make vacation feel normal again. This is an ongoing mental battle. One that’s unfair from both sides of the room.
I still believe that stepping away will eventually feel safe again.
I still believe I’ll reach a level of success that allows me to breathe without guilt.
But today, I don’t know what that level is.
Or if it’s even real—or just a psychological mirage I keep chasing.
If You’re Like Me…
If you’re reading this and you feel that same tug—the need to hold it all together while everyone else urges you to let go—you’re not alone. This isn’t about selfishness or dysfunction. It’s about discipline that went too deep, about a dreamer who became a guardian of his own momentum.
So no, I don’t hate vacations.
I just haven’t figured out how to make peace with them yet.
Stay Strong. Stay Focused. Stay in Business.
