Burrito pit stop
Working down in San Diego, California—with its almost unreal mix of sunshine, palm trees, and coastline—always felt a bit surreal to me. As a Canadian, it was a place I’d loved long before I ever worked there. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I half‑expected to see David Hasselhoff jogging down the beach to the Baywatch theme.
But American work culture quickly balances out that postcard image. There’s a real grind to it—especially in the healthcare tech industry. It’s demanding, relentless at times, and rarely lets up. What kept me going during those years was the constant push and pull: when I did manage to carve out time off, I could truly enjoy it. And when it was time to grind—which was most of the time—I still had ways to refill the tank and keep moving forward.
One of the hardest moments for me was leaving work after dark and driving home along the main stretch. In Southern California, how do you not notice the endless lineup of Mexican places—carne asada, enchiladas, quesadillas, taquerias glowing in the night? I’ve always had a deep appreciation for Mexican food and the culture behind it. After a long day at the office, when my energy was shot and the idea of cooking felt impossible, I had my solution.
That was my burrito pit stop.
There was a favorite place—one I still remember clearly, and one I’ve even gone back to years later. I’d pull through the drive‑thru, already knowing what I wanted. I tried a few favorites, but they all shared one thing in common: for about seven dollars, you got a burrito roughly the size of my femur. It was guaranteed to taste good. Even now, just thinking about it makes my mouth water—the smell of carne asada, the warmth of the tortilla, and don’t even get me started on the sauces.
It became something I genuinely looked forward to a couple of times a week. That brief pause between work and home. Bringing it back, unwrapping it, eating it slowly. It wasn’t just food—it was a reward. A small, familiar comfort after putting in long hours. It filled my stomach, sure, but it also fed something else: nostalgia, routine, and a sense that everything was okay.
Looking back, I can see how convenience quietly turns into habit. You don’t question it, because it works. It feeds your hunger, and it feeds your mood. At the time, it felt justified. And maybe it was.
But I also recognize now that I lost a bit of balance. Not because the burrito was bad—but because convenience, when it becomes constant, has a way of crowding everything else out. In the long run, nothing truly good comes from convenience all the time. Life needs a little friction to stay balanced.
Even so, I know I’ll go back someday. Back to San Diego. Back to that same spot. And I’ll probably order the same thing.
I keep this story as a reminder—not to chase dopamine hits, not to get too complacent, and not to confuse comfort with balance. There’s room for indulgence. There’s room for reward.
I still love my burrito pit stop.
Just in its proper place.
