Workload Fills Calendars. Wordload Fills Your Head.

Agendas, appointments, and activities? Workload

The stress, anxiety, overthinking, and fatigue from managing workload?

Wordload.     

              Workload fills our calendar. Wordload fills our head.

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Key Takeaways

·       Workload fills our calendar. Wordload fills our head

·       Wordload is the unseen weight, the hidden tax, of our words, stories, and narratives shaping identity, decisions,
behavior, performance, and outcomes.

·       Pressure writes fast. Truth writes slow

·        RE| allows space to recognize the script, and the pause to respond, not react

·       Take the pen back with RE|written
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Wordload is the cumulative weight of our unchecked language. It’s the hidden tax of our words, stories, narratives, and digital noise. Wordload consists of our inner monologues, self-talk, and scripts. It can be inherited. It can be learned. It can be trained. Like laundry, it can pile up, and when left unexamined, leave us slightly smelly…and naked.

Wordload interprets our perception, then applies a label.
Wordload writes the sentence, then sets direction.
Your inner critic echoes. 
And takes the pen, writing:

              Doubt                                           Shame
              Guilt                                              Fatigue
              Anxiety                                         People pleasing
              Decision fatigue                       Impostor syndrome
              Burnout                                       Insomnia

Wordload is the invisible load shaping outcomes every day:

·       Identity.

·       Connections.

·       Decisions.

·       Behaviors.

·       Performance.

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WHAT WORDLOAD SOUNDS LIKE:

“We’ve always done it this way.”  Creativity, stifled.  
“Because I said so.” Curiosity, closed
“God won’t give you more than you can handle.”  Healing, slowed.
“That’s just who I am.”  Growth, stunted.

Even as I write this guide introducing Wordload and solutions built for hallways, conference rooms, bedrooms, and hospitals, I’m affected.
“I have no clue what I’m doing.”
“I don’t have the pedigree for this work.”
“What if people don’t understand and don’t like this?”
“I seriously left my job for this?”

While we learned, “Actions speak louder than words,” it’s simply not the case.
Words were already deciding and we can’t outrun the first sentence.

Yet, we exhaust ourselves from trying.

Wordload is the argument with the mirror. The conversation at 3:00 am with ourselves. The snap at the dinner table. The silence in the meeting.

It’s slammed doors. Angry texts. Curt replies.
Then wondering, “Why did I just do that?”
Wordload becomes a diary of missed opportunities to be the best version of ourselves.

Like interest, Wordload compounds—daily.
With our mirror. In bed at 3:00 AM. Doomscrolling at our desk.

And we start googling,
“Why can’t I sleep if I am this tired?”
“Why is my heart racing when nothing is happening?”
“Why can’t I relax?”
“What are the symptoms of…”

So, we try to fix the body.
Muscle tension and pain, cortisol belly, heart and blood pressure checks mean new diets, workouts, and medications.
All while ignoring the monologue in the background. The one making it even harder to take care of ourselves.

We all understand the “fight or flight“ mechanism. But we are no longer running into bears. To our brains, five triggers are the equivalent of entering the octagon at a UFC match—against ourselves.

• STATUS

• UNCERTAINTY

• CONTROL

• ISOLATION

• UNFAIRNESS

Bears and fights are no longer threats, at least for most of us.  
Now, it’s words, sentences, and stories.
Wordload.

You walk in the room.
The brain says, “Everyone sounds smarter.”
Wordload says, “I’m not good enough to be here.”

The email/text sits unanswered.
The brain asks, “Did I screw that up?”
Wordload says, “They’re mad at me.”

The promotion goes to someone else.
The brain says, “That’s not fair.”
Wordload says, “But I do all the heavy lifting!”

Under pressure, the brain reaches for closure. It compresses our thoughts into scripts. Then it picks the easiest sentence. Not the true one.
Pressure gets the first word.
Pressure writes fast.
Truth writes slow.

“PRESSURE WRITES FAST. TRUTH WRITES SLOW.”

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Wordload prevents the cavalry from saving the day. Instead of sleep, insomnia and brain fog.
Instead of exercise, doomscrolling for dopamine, and googling for answers.

Internal monologues start narrating our calendars and to-dos, memos, meetings, emails, texts, calls, appointments and activities, relationships, partnerships, and marriages, digital and social media.

At 3:00 am, the silence is deafening.
“Did I really say that?”
“What if…”
“What did that mean?”
Brains are wired to rehash the past and rehearse future catastrophes.

Wordload is scripting before your first cup of coffee.
Even in the silence.

It’s no wonder we’re exhausted, anxious, burned out, and struggling.
But to protect ourselves?
“I’m fine.”
“I got this.”
“Can do.”
“Anything you say.”
That’s the Ariel Effect. We trade our voice, identity, beliefs, and behaviors, for safety.
For belonging.
For achieving.  
Wordload is our default sentence. Even if it’s wrong.

You hear, “You’re bad at math,” repeatedly.
And you never engage in class. Ever. Because of the embarrassment and fear.
Wordload embeds.
“I’m terrible at math.”

I lived it.
After the worst customer-facing meeting of my life in front of my boss… and his boss. Their words and reminders, and my own scripting, became embedded.
Six months later, my wife and I are in Cabo. I’m on stage recognized as the best in my region.
In front of the same director.
Yet I was never able to move the needle from “good” to “great” when divisional leadership was in the room.

Instead of a win?
Cabo felt like an accident.
Pressure writes fast. Truth writes later.

Our Wordload spills into rooms: Offices and boardrooms, dining rooms and bedrooms, sanctuaries, doctors and counselors, even locker rooms. Anyplace words are spoken.

A young woman recently told me about her experience at summer camp. She was struggling and finally worked up the courage to ask the counselor,

“Would it be possible for me to take a break? I’m not feeling right.”

The counselor, under the pressure of twenty-five to thirty kids, smiled, put her arm around the girl and simply said,

“Oh, it’s just hormones! You’re at that age and it’ll get better. Go back and join the group.”

That was two weeks before the young lady tried to take her own life. I met her after the second attempt.

The question and answer? Well-meaning. Mature. Measured.
But pressure set the scene.
Wordload wrote the script.
The knife twist? Knowing I had done the very same thing to others.

The problem isn’t just the Wordload we carry. Positive thinking, motivations, “Top 10 hacks,” and mindsets are simply more words.
Just louder.
 It’s hard to tell a single mom to think positively when she is trying to feed a family.
While telling herself she is failing. 

It gets harder when we can’t even recognize or understand the words.

In my own wreckage, I was given a page full of adjectives and asked to describe my mood, coloring in the ones I felt strongly in green, a little bit in yellow, and not at all in red.
The problem?
At the moment, I couldn’t understand the words on the page much less apply them. Three weeks earlier, I had been number one in the country in my role at a Fortune 100 company.

Under pressure. At the speed of words. From more directions.
Are more words helpful?

Please don’t misunderstand. I am not advocating against positive thinking, motivational speakers, and mindset practices. They are incredible tools created by gifted authors and speakers doing remarkable work.
They have a place. But they’re limited.  

They all intervene downstream. After words flow and scripts are running. That friction creates a new tension, a new fight or flight:

“I’m not as good.”
“I’m not enough.”

It’s hard to say, “I’m a winner,” when the mirror points to the scoreboard.  

Right after my conversation with the young lady and her church camp experience. I was heading out. Between the hospital door and my truck, RE| was born in the parking lot.

It was all about the words.

People aren’t broken.
Their words and stories might be.

People are remarkable.
You…are remarkable.
We just need to take the pen back.

With two letters.

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RE |

An R and E. The simple prefix meaning “back” or “again.”  It’s a workhorse that is only attached to verbs.

It stopped the echo of my own inner critic.
Instead of adding more words,
I could RE|write my sentence.

As a prefix, RE| eases Wordload with permission:
A space before our next action, to review, return, and recreate.
To pause to respond, not react.
To the text.
To the meeting.
To our 3 am conversation.

RE| lives at the intersection of work, home, mental health, and faith.
Our skyscrapers and our sanctuaries
Our boardrooms and hospital rooms
Our quarterly reports and 3 am conversations
Our performance reviews and social anxieties.

In a world where more words come at us faster and from more directions than ever before, RE| governs the space between words and direction.
Reclaim identity.
Reignite momentum.
Reimagine potential.
Rejoice in our smallest wins.

Wordload said, “I don’t belong here.”
RE| says, “RE|lax. it’s just a script. Who can I find to connect with?”

Wordload said, “Since nobody answered, I had to have screwed that email up.”
RE| says, “RE|member, just a script. There are hundreds of reasons for a slow response. And none of them have to do with me.”

Wordload said, “It’s not fair.”
RE| says, “RE|cognize the script? There’s a reason I didn’t get the promotion. Who can I partner with to position myself better next time?”

RE| breaks down wordload, zeroing in on the smallest observable and controllable unit of thought. The word. The one building the script. The same script that built behaviors. The very behaviors that determine our outcomes.

RE| wins the argument with the mirror. Because it’s upstream.
Long before positive thinking.
Way before motivations.
Miles before habits.
We can RE|write our own sentences.  

RE|written gives you back the pen.

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RE|written

RE| isn’t a fix or diagnostic tool. It’s designed to assist before help arrives, during recovery, and on your journey. It’s there in the quiet moments.
And in the loud ones.
It’s about words, elevating ourselves and others. Without judgment, labels, or stigmas.
RE|written is the starting line.
It’s the opportunity to recognize and RE|tire old, worn out, half-truths we say to the mirror…and to others. We have the freedom to RE|script our stories. We begin to RE|connect with ourselves.
With the identity we wanted.
With the voice we traded.
With others.
Most importantly, we get to RE|author. Potential. Momentum. Our future. We build our own RE| vocabulary to move forward at work, at home, in our faith, and in our mental health.

RE|tire——RE|script——RE|connect——RE|author

1970’s. Small town Kansas. Parents divorced.
I was bullied mercilessly.
At its worst:
Mom was a whore.
My sister was a slut.
I was a bastard.
My body was battered. My voice was taken.

Until nearly 45 years later. When I began to recognize that story was only half true.
Yes, there were bad days.
I realized I had more good days than bad. I had some great friends, great teachers and mentors, whether at school, church, playing soccer, or even on the bus. I re|tired many of the stories, people, and events that shaped me.
The ones that taught me I was a fraud.
That broke relationships and trust.
The ones that told me to hide my authentic self behind toughness, an emotional wall, achievement, and self-protection—because I would never be enough.
 I re|scripted the good days. Not creating a new past. Simply bringing the good to the forefront. I began to re|connect with “Little G.” Who I wanted to be, what I wanted to do, my voice. And with it I began to re|author my future. New words. New narratives. New relationships.

And RE|

I was taught in corporate speak to, “Begin with the end in mind.”
But until you have the right words?  

RE| engages at nearly every stage of the word – outcome process. Even in both directions.
What we say AND what we hear.
And how we perceive what we hear to make better decisions.

Instead of “It’s ok. It’s just hormones. Get back out with the group.”
RE| forces the pause to re|examine. “Wait. What do you mean, off? How can I help.”
RE| intercepts a scripted response under pressure before we speak. We begin to re|connect not only with others, but the best version of ourselves.
Boss says, “Call me first thing in the morning,” right before you leave the office.
Stomach tightens.
Shoulders hunch.
Steps become trudges.

RE| steps in with the words we hear.
Like the game of tag we played as kids, words literally “tag” us at the moment of perception. Just like the tag in the game may come out of nowhere, we may get tagged with a word, and never hear the rest of the sentence.
“Call me” may have been the tag.
Or trigger.
We may have completely missed, “…first thing in the morning.”

Re|cognize the script. “Oh crap. What now?”
Re|tire it and re|place with, “Obviously not a rush if it can wait.”
Shoulders back.
Pace picks back up.

RE| disrupts after perception, before we make a decision.
I had no concept of God the Father. None.
My father abandoned my family when I was two. My step-father—complicated.
I had no reference point to a loving father.
Until I re|cognized my definition of the label, father, was skewed.
I admitted it to a trusted friend and pastor.
No shame.
No guilt.
He suggested I look at I Thess 5, “The God of peace…”
Waterfall moment.
Peace finally intersected anxiety.
Not tears. Bawling.
I haven’t been the same since.

RE| interjects before a behavior.
With the pause.
Instead of a trigger, “Am I reacting or re|sponding.”
Instead of late-night rehashing, “Am I elevating opportunity, or escalating friction?”
Instead of entering the octagon, “Do I have the clarity I need or should I re|fine the plan one last time?”

RE| steps in after the behavior.
“What can I re|view?”

“Did I re|connect with myself or others?”
“I realize I did not give that my all this time.”

RE| steps in even after the outcome.
Without judgment. Without shame.
The prefix gives us more than just space for action.
The pipe, more than just permission to pause

It gives us a moment to re|flect.
Because some things can’t be re-done.
Moments can’t be re|lived.
Maybe they need to be mourned.
Maybe we need a tactical re|treat, simply to reclaim our identity.
I’ve been there…Many times.

It gives us the permission to also re|joice.
Whether it’s a promotion or a big contract.
Whether its twenty-four hours without a fight.
Whether it’s remembering to breathe.
Whether it’s a good night’s sleep.
Whether “I’m fine, just doing the grind,” turned into authenticity and became,
“I’m at the end of my rope. Can you help me.”

RE| is there. And so am I.
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RE|authored

Before RE|?
I had every reason to live. Number one in my company. A trip to Japan on the calendar with my wife. A granddaughter on the way.

And I no longer wanted to.

After RE|
A move to a new city and home halfway across the country.
 A return to the number one slot in the same Fortune 100 company—that I later resigned from because elevating people became far more important than adding value to customers.
Holding my granddaughter for the first time.
A second trip to Japan.
Being present.
Being available.
Sleeping.
Perfect? No. Life’s messy.
I still have every reason to live, I want to even more.  

Just RE|written.

My name is G. Scott, and I write about the power…and burden, of the words shaping people, organizations, and outcomes. I’ve served over thirty years in the corporate environment scaling operations and sales initiatives across regional and national operations and sales teams.

I have been blessed with my wonderful wife Alyson, three amazing kids and my first grand-daughter.

The most important part of my work? You. I hope you share your story!
If this has been tough, please reach out to a trusted friend, pastor, or counselor.
If I brought up anything that caused a struggle—please reach out to 988 the National Crisis Hotline immediately. They are there to listen and help.