I like my work and I like working. Would I say I love my work? I’m not sure. Maybe? I don’t know what it means to love something that’s not alive. In any case, the distinction is not important.

As far back as I can remember, I’ve enjoyed working and looked forward to my workdays. I count myself lucky in that sense. I’ve somehow stumbled into work that I find meaningful.

To me, writing code or fiction or essays does not feel significantly different from playing a video game or watching a TV show. It’s all play and it’s all work and it’s all really the same to me.

Of course, there are always some parts of any kind of work that are frustrating. I lose motivation when I’m forced to work on something I believe has no value. Work that’s not challenging enough can be fun in small doses, but starts to feel depressing after a while. Work with unreasonable deadlines or constantly changing requirements is usually a recipe for burnout (though even this nightmare scenario can sometimes present a satisfying exercise in creative problem solving under extreme constraints). And self-directed work, such as this blog post, always feels more meaningful compared to work I do for other people in exchange for money.

The idea of separating my work from the rest of my life—the idea of leaving my work at work—makes no sense to me. My work and life have always been deeply intertwined. I’ve met some of my closest friends through work. Work gave me the financial freedom to move out of my parents’ house and start a new life here in Bangalore, where I met many of the people I love most dearly today. Traveling for work allowed me to experience new places, new cultures, new ways of being.

How do I pull out the one strand marked “work” from the rich braid of my life and cast it aside, even temporarily? It’s impossible. Work, life, play, love—they’re all the same thing.

Lately work has been a source of comfort. My life has been tumultuous this year, but the pleasures of work have remained constant. With all the emotional ups and downs, there has always been blog posts to write, software to build, plot outlines to wrangle, and poetry to scribble in the back of notebooks.

It’s a powerful feeling. Come heartbreak or contentment or grief or celebration, I have always been able to come back to the work. The notebook and pen, terminal and editor, have always been ready for me, waiting for me to put my mark on their canvas. They have been my constants, my anchors in a turbulent sea. They have been my lighthouses, always guiding me back to myself.

I like my work. You might go as far as to say that I love my work. But most importantly, I’m grateful that it exists, that it is never-ending, that it waits for me every morning. I’m grateful that I can lose myself in it whenever I want and, eventually, hopefully, if I do it right, find myself.