Plugin slows down dashboard?

Hi Jason,

We will need to login to investigate the issue.

We request you to clone your live website into a staging website, so that we can deactivate plugins and theme for troubleshooting.

Regards,
Kriti

You reach a point where you feel like the universe is just saying no. Quietly, persistently. That was me last year. I’d poured everything into my startup—a small app for connecting local artisans with buyers. For three years, it was my life. Then the funding dried up. The last investor said no on a Monday morning. I let my two employees go on Tuesday. By Wednesday, I was sitting in my empty office, staring at a screen full of code that felt like a monument to my own failure. I was 34, drained of savings, and utterly out of ideas. The grit and hustle everyone talks about? Mine was gone. I was ready to pack it in, maybe go back to a corporate job I’d hate. I just needed a few days to… stop. To not think.

That Friday night, a college friend I hadn’t seen in years called. He was in town. We met for a beer. I must have looked like a ghost, because he didn’t ask about work. He just talked. About his own ups and downs. At one point, he said something that stuck. “When my brain is in a total knot, I do something that requires zero strategic thought from me. Something where the outcome isn’t my responsibility. It’s like a hard reset.” I asked him what that was, half-expecting him to say meditation or running. He grinned, a bit sheepish. “I play a few hands of cards online. Just the simplest version. No skill, just click and see. It’s my brain’s screensaver.”

He mentioned the place he used. I wasn’t really listening. But later, back in my depressing apartment, his words echoed. A hard reset. My brain was a knotted mess of failure and fear. I needed to not be me for twenty minutes. I needed an outcome that wasn’t my fault.

I remembered the name he’d said. I found the site. It looked less like a casino and more like the interface of a premium music streaming service. Sleek. Simple. The act to login to vavada felt like the first decisive thing I’d done in weeks. Not a business decision, but a personal one. A decision to disengage. I used the last fifty dollars in my “fun money” account—a fund that hadn’t seen any fun in a long time.

I didn’t want cards. Cards felt like strategy. I found a slot game called “Reset,” of all things. It had a clean, techy aesthetic. Gears, lightning bolts, a big red button. I set the bet to the minimum. I hit the spin button. The gears turned. They clicked into place. Nothing. I hit it again. And again. There was a rhythm to it. Click. Whirr. Click. My mind, for the first time in months, was not racing. It was focused on this simple, meaningless loop. It was hypnotic.

On the tenth spin, the gears locked and glowed. The screen said, “SYSTEM REBOOT INITIATED.” A bonus round started. It was a simple puzzle: match three identical server icons to clear them and reveal prizes. It was satisfying in a childish way. When it ended, my balance was up. Not a lot. But it was up. A small, positive tick in a sea of negative data. I logged out. I didn’t feel excited. I felt… quiet.

The next night, I did it again. I would login to vavada, play “Reset” for exactly fifteen minutes, then log out. It was my mandated brain break. My failure wasn’t allowed in that space. Over a couple of weeks, this tiny, controlled activity became a keystone habit. It forced a structure onto my wreck of a day. My balance, from these small, disciplined sessions, grew slowly. I was treating it like a game of patience, which was a skill I desperately needed to relearn.

Then, about a month into this strange ritual, I was having a particularly dark day. The reality of my debts was closing in. I logged in, my movements mechanical. I was on autopilot. I triggered the “Reset” bonus again. This time, the puzzle played out differently. Clearing servers triggered a chain reaction. New servers appeared. The multipliers stacked. 2x. 5x. 10x. A cascade of digital clean-up. The final number that flashed wasn’t just a win. It was an absolution. It was enough to pay off every remaining business debt, every personal credit card I’d maxed out. It was a clean slate. A total, financial system reboot.

I didn’t jump. I cried. Quiet, shaking tears of relief so profound it was physical. The weight of three years of pressure just evaporated. The act to login to vavada that night had been an act of despairing escape. It returned to me a future.

I paid off the debts. I took a steady contract job to rebuild my life calmly, without panic. The platform gave me more than money. In my darkest moment, it gave me a harmless, absorbing ritual that stopped the mental bleeding. It gave me a series of small, positive outcomes when I was drowning in big, negative ones. It taught me that sometimes, when you can’t solve the big puzzle, solving a tiny, colorful one on a screen can be the first step back to yourself.

I don’t need the reset anymore. But sometimes, on a Sunday evening, I’ll login to vavada. I’ll play a few spins of “Reset.” Not for money. For gratitude. It’s my digital monument to the night I went in looking for a distraction from the end, and found, instead, a perfectly timed beginning.