The reality is every man wants nothing else but to work; even if in a bad career place, good men all continue to work after-hours, in independent research, side projects, etc. The "work-life balance" slogan is from second wave feminism agitating for working mother benefits; and while today's working foid yearns for the foodie/travel/hobby consumeroidslop to fill the no-family hole and compete positionally on sns until they settle, the feminized reddit soybrain and whipped beta bf who tags along, resenting his career to do nothing outside productive outside of it, has dumbly learned to follow, and tells himself, "Yes, this is life"—and he blinks. You can receive or you can create. All of history, man's identity was married to his work; and work was and is how man supports family, driving everything he can to support his descendants with power and wealth in life and inheritance. The work-family balance is man goes out on the hunt to conquer power and wealth and drag its bleeding body back to the cave for the family to carve up and grow strong on, and trains his sons to join him. It's no coincidence the meme of the deathbed boomer regretting he spent too much time working hard to improve his household and not enough "enjoying the little things"—booze cruise tours, TV dinners on the couch, booze at the kid's classmate's birthday, stroller pushing through disneyland—is the same generation who for the first time in history collectively dissipated all inheritance for their descendants. Yeah, your life efforts were pointless. And yes, your life will be too, if you don't build towards a dynasty. It is a myth that man lives only for a century; man lives for millennia—some men accumulate power and wealth, decade after decade, century after century, while others dwindle and diminish into destitution, until finally, it's their last life left, and when it ends, it's a pathetic, lonely, miserable death; and it's its own suicide, to die without descendants, and for that reason, the reward is an eternity in hell, and the devil does not need to recruit anyone else to whip you and boil you and torture you, because every single one of your patrilineal lineage will step up and gladly do so, forever, because you murdered them, out of selfishness, laziness—pure, unapologetic weakness—and you have no excuse for it, and they will not forgive you, because however weak they were, it was less than you; and they watched every decision made that led you there. Every decision you make today is a thumb on the scale of what fate takes tomorrow. Take a moment to envision your evolutionary spawn, 100 hundred lives from now based on the life you live today—when I look at a redditor soying over some gear he bought from Amazon, I see boneless slump hooked with IV's in a million-dense cattle pen pleasure-tortured by machine elves with electric pitchforks with their pheremones farmed to power a great intergalactic war machine. And the speartip of this war machine sits a plediean court of 8 foot tall golden aura nordic aliens, expressionless beyond the slight wry smirking at the planetary genocide underfoot. 100 hundred sons down the line of the future, which one is yours?