101 Tiny, Ridiculous Ways To Heal From Hustle Culture
Warning: May cause unmonetizable pleasure, uncontrollable laughter, and spontaneous bursts of rewilding.
Somewhere along the way, joy has become a KPI.
Rest needs receipts.
Peace has to perform.
Happiness got swallowed by content pillars.
Now, we can’t nap without guilt… play without branding it… or breathe without optimizing it.
They turned feeling good into a funnel, and if it doesn’t convert, it doesn’t count.
Fuck that!
We’re not lazy; we’re recovering from a culture that taught us that rest is a sin… fun is frivolous…. and hobbies should have conversion rates.
We’ve sacrificed enough for success.
Today, we start stealing our humanity back, one tiny, weird act of joy at a time.
101 Tiny, Ridiculous Ways To Heal From Hustle Culture
Humanity, in its silliest + most healing form.
Because every time you make toast with real butter and no business plan…
Every time you send a nostril selfie instead of a pitch…
You reclaim a little piece of yourself.
Burnout is real… but so is pleasure.
Let’s go get that shit back.
Grow something from seed. Nurture the shit outta something that’ll drip on your shirt rather than drip in someone’s inbox.
Light a candle for no reason. Not because you’re manifesting, just because it smells like “fuck the grind” and that’s enough.
Break out in a dance party. Bonus points if you confuse your animals, kids, neighbor, or to-do list.
Make toast with real butter. Eat it hot + messy like you’re having an affair with joy.
Find the coolest stick you can + paint it. Name it something absurd like “Sepholina” and threaten to wave her around anytime someone suggests a new productivity hack.
Doodle in the bathroom for an hour. Tell your family you’ve got explosive diarrhea and go emotionally dump out your soul in Sharpie form.
Throw rocks into a body of water. Assign each one a grudge. Bonus points if you narrate it like a dramatic breakup montage.
Bake something you’ve never tried. Lick the spoon, taste your creation, and whisper “self-worth” like it’s a secret ingredient.
Make a scavenger hunt for your kid(s). Hide weird objects, make them solve riddles, and reclaim your role as the unhinged dictator of fun.
Start a new notebook + ruin the first page immediately. Freedom starts when you give up trying to make shit pretty and just scribble “fuck this” in bubble letters from the 80’s.
Watch birds act like freaks. Seriously. They play. They steal. One buried a cookie my kid dropped by one of our trees like it was a paranoid end-of-worlder.
Do an escape room with your friends. Even if you get tipsy first + spend the entire time yelling, “I FOUND A KEY!” while contributing absolutely nothing.
Go outside at night + howl a little. Just to remind the moon she’s not the only MFer out there.
Reorganize something weird. Like your junk drawer, spice rack, or emotional attachment to praise from strangers.
Sit in your car for 20 minutes doing absolutely nothing. No music. No phone. Just you, your steering wheel, and whatever the hell that smell is.
Walk in a forest, on a beach, or up a mountain. Let your thoughts wander while your legs remember they belong to something wild.
Send a spicy pic to your partner or situationship. Bonus points if it’s just a zoomed-in elbow with the caption “U up?”
Ask ChatGPT something absolutely stupid. Like, “Which Golden Girl would make the best business coach?” and pretend the answer matters.
Swing on a playground swing. Let your legs stretch toward the sky like you trust joy again.
Go to the library. Let your eyes choose instead of your algorithm.
Rewatch a comfort movie from your teen years. Cry when the soundtrack hits. Eat something nostalgic. Bonus points if you call your bestie from those days to reminisce.
Color in an adult coloring book. Make that mandala regret being born. Rebel with purple skies + orange trees. Nature’s on drugs now.
Make a sandwich. You know that sandwich you love but never have the time or ingredients to make? MAKE IT! Like it's a religious fucking experience. Then do it all again tomorrow.
Put googly eyes on random shit in your house. Congratulations, your blender is now emotionally available. Let it lift your spirits. I mean, who doesn't love some eye contact?
Sit in the sun and do absolutely nothing. Let the vitamin D slap you like a warm, consenting hand across the face.
Eat dessert first. Flip the script, the order, and the goddamn hierarchy of need.
Scream into a pillow like it just emptied your bank account. Let that polyester bastard absorb your full emotional tax return.
Eat something directly out of the jar. Fork optional. Shame not included.
Use a ridiculous voice at the drive-thru. Laughter + french fries = free therapy in a paper bag.
Wink at yourself in the mirror. Because eye contact with yourself is a tiny act of coming home.
Pour your drink in a fancy glass for no reason. This orange juice is now a $17 cocktail served by a hot, emotionally unavailable bartender named Blade.
Buy a weird snack from another country. Is it good? Who cares. It’s edible culture shock, and that’s healing.
Talk in an accent for a full hour. Even if it’s bad. Especially if it’s bad. You’re now French. Or maybe vaguely Victorian. Doesn’t matter.
Text a friend a voice memo of you singing your grocery list. Let your beans have vibrato + your lettuce hit the high notes.
Make pancakes on a random Tuesday. Eat ‘em like it’s Sunday, and you’ve got nowhere to be but full.
Go for a walk without your phone. Let your brain run naked through the woods of its own weird thoughts.
Write a list of things you actually like about yourself. Yes, you’re allowed to be hot, kind, funny, and good at charcuterie boards. Don’t let capitalism gaslight you.
Stretch like a sleepy lion for 5 minutes. Let your joints crackle + pop like you’re untangling your trauma one vertebra at a time.
Leave a generous tip for your next waiter/waitress. Don’t justify it. Just create good karma + get the hell outta there like a tip-dropping fairy.
Play your favorite album (front to back) with your eyes closed. Let it wash over you like a teenage heartbreak you’re finally ready to romanticize.
Put your feet in cold water. Preferably outside. Let the chill slap the burnout right out of your ankles.
Wear something that makes you feel like yourself. Not your “brand.” Not your job. Not your aesthetic. Just YOU, in cloth form.
Go down a slide. Yes, your butt might squeak. That’s happiness, not gas.
Wake up with zero plans and keep it that way. Exercise your right to exist undisturbed + without revenue guilt.
Eat breakfast for dinner. Let the pancakes heal what the system tried to kill.
Delete an app that drains you. Even if it’s temporary. Even if it’s just to see what your brain does without the scroll. DO IT!
Take an unexplored route home. Get lost on purpose. Rediscover the thrill of being a little aimless with nowhere urgent to be.
Wear lotion that smells like a vacation. Even if you're just walking to your mailbox, strut like you’re late for a massage in Bali.
Do an impromptu karaoke session for your laundry. No stage, no crowd… just you, the clothes, and Amy Winehouse’s ghost cheering you on.
Put your feet on the wall for five minutes. It’s yoga, it’s rebellion, it’s exploring the wall like a 6 yr. old who wonders how far they can walk up it.
Do a puzzle. Put the pieces together while your brain takes a break from falling apart.
Blow up a balloon and don’t tie it… just let it fly around the room like a toddler on Red Dye 40. The balloon is your inner peace, and it’s had enough. Enjoy its shameless chaos!
Use your fancy dishes on a frozen pizza. Plate that bitch like it’s Michelin-rated + garnish it with two stiff middle fingers.
Watch your favorite cartoon growing up. Listen to the theme song like it’s the national anthem for your inner child.
Look at your calendar for next week + cancel something you don’t want to do. Thank future you… “You’re welcome, bitch.”
Try to do a cartwheel. Or don’t. Just standing there thinking about it counts. Let your body remember the vibe, even if your wrists say hard pass.
Make a hopscotch on your driveway with chalk. If the neighbors stare, challenge them to a duel.
Unfollow five people who you’ve outgrown. This is your feed. No more forced inspiration or glowy marketers.
Drink your coffee somewhere new. The porch. The floor. Inside a blanket fort. Wherever your notifications can’t find you.
Post something online and then ghost it. Let it float around aimlessly. You said it. Now it’s time to soak up some sun.
Flip through an old photo album or yearbook. Let yourself feel sappy, ridiculous, nostalgic, or weirdly hot. You’ve still got it, and that matters.
Stretch while you watch trash TV. Stretch while a group of plastic idiots argue about who kissed who. Consider this multitasking for the soul.
Clean out your purse, backpack, or glove box. Throw away the 38 rogue receipts, 2 forks, and aisle worth of trinkets. Marvel at the finished masterpiece. Breathe easier.
Watch a sunrise or sunset. Just stand there and absorb it like emotional WiFi.
Eat lunch without doing anything else. No laptop. No phone. No multitasking. Just bites, breaths, and a moment that belongs to you.
Make something with your hands. Bread. Play-Doh. Furniture. Some knitted work of art. Let your mind, body, and soul remember what it’s like to create without performing.
Try a new fruit or vegetable. You’re not trying to be better… you’re trying to remember what discovery feels like.
Sit outside in silence for 10 minutes. Let the world be noisy while you stop trying to keep up with it.
Make your favorite meal from childhood. Yes, the one out of a box. Yes, with all the butter. Yes, with reckless levels of comfort + carbs.
Go to a thrift store and try on the weirdest outfit you can find. Take a selfie. Belly laugh. Leave it on the rack like a fashion crime scene.
Go to a farmer’s market or flea market just to wander. Touch things. Smell things. Talk to the jam lady about her apricot journey.
Say no to one thing without explaining why. Period. Full stop. That’s the boundary now.
Write down 10 things you’re proud of from the last year. Include the weird stuff. Especially the weird stuff. That’s where the gold is.
Buy yourself a treat from that bakery down the street. Eat it slowly. Moan a little. Call it erotic self-preservation. This is foreplay for your nervous system.
Delete the app that makes you feel like you're constantly auditioning. Instagram, I’m looking at you. Bye, bitch!
Give your pet or kid a ridiculous new nickname. Shout it in public. Say it with love + zero shame. “Poopsie Toilet Lips, where are you!”
Take yourself to a matinée. Alone. Get popcorn. Laugh too loud. Be the weirdo in the 4th row who radiates peace.
Buy an ingredient you’ve never used and google how to cook it. Live on the edge of your spice rack. Fail gloriously if needed. That’s not the point.
Crawl across the floor + hiss if someone asks if you’re okay. Bonus points if you knock something over and whisper, “worth it.”
Take a full 3-day weekend off social media. Let the dopamine screams go unanswered. Be bored. Be unreachable. Be FREE.
Give yourself permission to not care for one whole night. Not about your inbox. Not about the dishes. Not about the empire you “should” be building.
Turn off every light in the house and lie down on the floor. Let the dark hug the burnout out of you; this is blackout for the brain.
Duck someone. It’s putting a small rubber duck in someone’s car door handle to brighten their day. There’s someone who is infamous for doing it in our local shopping center.
Put your head in the freezer for 10 seconds like a human popsicle reset button. Come back out new or at least slightly less melty.
Mail a postcard to a random address. Write it like a message in a bottle and let the USPS (or your equivalent) be your ocean.
Skip instead of walk. Even for 10 steps. That’s childhood muscle memory, baby! Let it groove through your joints.
Pick a word that speaks to you and write it in 25 different places around your life. Your mirrors, fridge, in your car, on your desk, on the window you stare through while you do the dishes. Love-bomb yourself with that nugget.
Lie in the grass and look for shapes in the clouds. Give them wild names. Let your imagination crawl back into your body.
Stop the ice cream truck. Don’t think. Don’t calculate. Just hear the music and GO! Let your mouth be sticky + your hands be 5 yrs. old again.
Climb something small. A rock, a tree stump, a jungle gym. Be higher than normal + proud for no goddamn reason.
Use your phone camera to zoom in on your nostril and send it to your bestie/buddy. Caption: “Feeling [blank].”
Pop bubble wrap like it’s a sacred ritual. One pop per grudge or grievance. Release that shit.
Dress like a mullet and go OUT. Business on top, regret on the bottom. Parade it like it’s couture.
Leave creepy love notes in your kid’s lunch box or backpack. Write “I see you” in red crayon with a single googly eye taped on. Let the paranoia season the pretzels.
Walk backwards through one aisle of Costco or Target and pretend you’re rewinding your mistakes. Pause dramatically by the seasonal section.
Lay on the ground in public for 60 seconds just to see what your brain does. If anyone asks if you’re okay, say, “I’m just rerouting.”
Introduce dinner like it’s a guest on your podcast. “She’s messy. She’s lukewarm. She’s here to ask you 1,000 questions about your day while you chew.”
Take a selfie mid-ugly cry + save it as “CEO headshot.” Give your emotions the same respect you give your to-do list.
Draw mustaches on people in magazines. Yes, it’s immature. That’s literally the point.
Give every plant in your house a new, deeply inappropriate name. This is Glenda the Thirsty Bitch. She likes sun, blasting classic rock, and emotional validation.
Carry on a whole conversation, sing-talking ONLY. If someone tries to speak normally, just hold a finger to their lips and harmonize harder.
Healing doesn’t need a deadline… just a wild hair + a willingness to look dumb in public.
Pick one. Any one. Especially the one that makes your insides scream, “I DARE YOU!”.
Wield it like Sepholina the Stick and swing freely.
To the new ROI: Rest Over Impressions,
Dre ‘Weird Before It Was Cool’ Beltrami
Founder, This Digital Playground
Gangster, The Entire Internet (Since 2014)
Beer Hater, No Matter How It's Brewed (Since 1979)
Step into your YOU-SHAPED ERA: Your Brand DNA Dossier Is Waiting 🦄🦄🦄 >>>
NEW HERE? Don’t mind the mustard on my shirt. Welcome to my (Dre’s) savage, shameless, cart-sized revolution, where business bends to your life… not the other way around.
This isn’t your Aunt Betty’s Substack newsletter. This is a safe place to land + a wild place to build from.
It’s the kinda place your mom warned you about. Where it’s safe to…
⚡️ Throw f-bombs around like confetti
⚡️ Show up as you are
⚡️ Market in your pajamas, from your notes app, without a plan
⚡️ Write with a stiff middle finger
⚡️ Swear off niching
⚡️ Launch things late, weird, and from the bath
⚡️ Use memes as marketing and not explain a damn thing
⚡️ Give Oprah her pedestal back
⚡️ Change your mind publicly
⚡️ Shred your content calendar and trust your gut
⚡️ Ghost your Instagram for good
⚡️ Prioritize vibes over views
⚡️ Charge what you want, just because you want to
⚡️ Take two-hour naps and call it R&D
⚡️ Be seen, be soft, be savage—all in the same damn sentence
⚡️ Never ask for permission again
⚡️ Work 3 days a week and call it full throttle
⚡️ Create in seasons, rest on purpose, and sell when the mood strikes
⚡️ Be a walking contradiction and still make it make sense
⚡️ Declare “this is how I work” and let people opt in or out
⚡️ Create content that makes your inner child belly laugh
⚡️ Build a solopreneur life that doesn’t require recovery
⚡️ Be wildly visible + deeply private at the same time
⚡️ Leave money on the table if it costs you your joy
⚡️ Slow down, so your soul can catch up
⚡️ Choose depth over dopamine
⚡️ Measure success in freedom, not followers
P.S. Have you taken my UNBrand DNA TestTM yet? It’s weirdly accurate, slightly unhinged, and ridiculously fun.
P.P.S. If you love a good binge, you can read all my past editions right here. If you want to support this hot dog cart-sized rebellion, upgrade to become a co-conspirator.
Who’s the nutcase behind this cart-sized flamethrower?
Well, hey there, internet stranger… soon to be kindred? Maybe? Possible Well, see soon enough. 🤷♀️
I’m Dre Beltrami, the OG of Personal Branding Leaving A Paper Trail for Weirdos to Find You. I write with a middle finger that's 90% intuition, 10% spite, and 0% respect for industry norms. Expect rants, rebellion, and business moves so feral they come with a confetti cannon. 🥳
If you’ve ever felt like a capitalist chew toy in a lead magnet death spiral…
CONGRATS… you’re home, weirdo! The Hot Dog Cart isn’t about growth hacks or scalable dreams. It’s a flame-throwing, margarita-soaked, stiff middle finger escape hatch to rescue your voice, your joy, and your weird-ass magic out of the jaws of the capitalist system. NO strategies. NO 6-figure flexes. NO problems dressed up as secrets. NO funnels with arms. Just liberation, one roasted weenie at a time.
I double DAWG dare you to…
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I didn't think you were serious so I scrolled to the end first. There is, indeed, 101 suggestions!
3. Break out in a dance party - I do this a lot
7. Throw rocks into a body of water - narrarate like a dramatic breakup montage - This is now on my to-do list
15. Sit in your car and do nothing - Thanks to a post from another Substacker, I literally scheduled this into my day- a stillness challenge, except I'm at work with a bunch of noisy dudes, so I was going to go sit in my truck
24. Put googly eyes on random shit - our coffee maker is sporting some new eyes. Waiting for the wife to notice, and it's been a few days, so she probably just rolled her eyes and moved on.
79. Crawl across the floor - this is supposed to happen at Walmart some day. The hissing would be a nice touch!