The Myth of Earning Love Through Work

There’s a common lie whispered into our ears from childhood: if you work hard enough, achieve enough, earn enough, then you’ll be loved enough.

It sounds almost noble - a life of tireless effort, of pushing beyond your limits, of giving your best for family, community, and career. But behind that story lurks something darker: a belief that we are not inherently worthy of love, that affection and belonging must be earned through sacrifice, hours at the desk, and relentless striving.

I’ve seen this in myself, in colleagues, in friends: the endless twelve-hour workdays, the Sunday night inbox refreshes, the hollow satisfaction of hitting a target only to replace it with another, higher, more impossible one. What’s left at the end of that climb? Often, not love or joy - but emptiness, and relationships neglected along the way.

Conditional Love, Early Lessons

Psychologists have long known that the seeds of workaholism are often sown early. Many of us grew up with what researchers call conditional positive regard: parents or teachers who showed us the most warmth and attention when we excelled. Good grades brought praise. Winning a race brought hugs. A scholarship or a first job was met with beaming pride.

None of this was malicious - our parents wanted the best for us. But the child inside learns a subtle message: I am lovable when I succeed. I am invisible when I don’t.

Fast forward twenty years, and that child is now an adult who only feels safe when working, producing, or achieving. Time off feels wrong. A weekend without a laptop feels risky. The mind whispers: if you stop, you’ll lose their love.

The Two Currencies of Life

Social scientists often talk about the difference between intrinsic and extrinsic rewards. Extrinsic rewards are the things we can measure: salaries, titles, possessions. Intrinsic rewards are the things we feel: love, joy, peace, belonging.

Study after study shows that once our basic needs are met, intrinsic rewards matter far more to long-term wellbeing. And yet, many of us behave as if the reverse were true: sacrificing dinners with loved ones for overtime, or trading intimacy for another zero on the paycheck.

Benjamin Franklin once wrote: “If you would be loved, love, and be loveable.” It’s a reminder that affection cannot be bought or earned like a pay rise. It must be given, freely, in the currency of presence, kindness, and attention.

The View From the End of Life

No one understood this better than Jonathan Clements, the former Wall Street Journal personal finance writer who died of cancer in 2024. Clements had spent his life encouraging people to save, invest, and plan for retirement. He practiced what he preached - building a seven-figure portfolio, planning for decades of comfort.

But when his diagnosis came, everything shifted.

“What if you were told you had a year to live?” he wrote in one of his final columns. “Life coaches sometimes pose questions like this to help folks figure out what’s truly important to them.”

For Clements, the answer wasn’t yachts or bucket-list extravagance. It was the small things: coffee with his wife, writing at his desk, lunch with friends. He did indulge occasionally - upgrading one flight, taking a few trips - but even in his last year, thrift and simplicity guided him. His joy was found not in spending down his savings, but in squeezing every drop of presence out of ordinary days.

His lesson was clear: you cannot buy meaning at the end of life. You can only live it, moment by moment.

Why We Keep Falling Into the Trap

So why, knowing all this, do so many of us keep grinding ourselves down?

Partly it’s culture. We live in a society that idolises busyness, that equates “overworked” with “important.” We glorify the entrepreneur who never sleeps, the lawyer who bills 100-hour weeks, the medic who hasn’t seen their family in days.

Partly it’s fear. The fear that if we step away, the love will vanish. That we will no longer be special, or worthy, or enough.

And partly, it’s habit. Years of reward loops - praise for performance, raises for output - have rewired our brains. Workaholism, like any addiction, runs on dopamine: temporary hits of worthiness followed by the crash of “not enough” that sends us back to our desks.

Choosing Differently

Breaking the cycle starts with honesty. Ask yourself: Am I working for love? Am I sacrificing connection for the hope of earning affection?

If the answer is yes, it’s not cause for shame. It’s cause for reflection. As Franklin said: give what you most want to receive. That might mean giving your undivided attention to your partner instead of another late night at the office. It might mean giving yourself the grace of rest, proving to your own nervous system that you are worthy even when not producing.

It also means reclaiming the intrinsic: time with friends, play, community, joy. The simple things Clements held onto - morning coffee, daily walks, conversation - are not small at all. They are the marrow of life.

Closing Thought

The tragedy of workaholism is not just exhaustion - it’s the illusion that toil will buy us the love we crave. But love was never for sale.

The cure is not working harder, but daring to show up as we are: imperfect, present, human.

In the end, the Ferrari and the corner office won’t hold our hand. The people we’ve shared our time with will. And the gift they wanted all along was the simplest one: us.