Sailing without a Map

I wasn't expecting that. I never saw this coming.

No, I never imagined I’d find myself here—adrift in a vast sea with no shore in sight. It’s almost laughable, how we draw up our plans, as if by design—a timetable to guide us, to keep us on course. Yet, at the close of each cycle, we look back and realize how empty those plans have become, how meaningless they feel.

It feels like only yesterday when my sister sent me that message, asking me to show up for an interview dressed in "smart attire." But foolish me, I took the word "smart" at face value and thought it meant simply dressing well. Oh, how foolish I was.

And still, I remember how my heart leapt—excited, thrilled, yet trembling with nervousness. I was elated to have found a chance at a good job, a steady pay, but there was fear too. Fear that clung to me like an old friend. I’ve always been that way—afraid of the unknown. It’s been years since I left high school, with bright dreams in my chest—passing with colors so vivid, joining a prestigious university, becoming a writer, a filmmaker. Timetables, once again, drawn in the stars.

Yet, none of it came to pass. All those dreams buried, six feet under. But still, I waited. Hoped. Wished for some miracle that might bring me what I longed for. A year passed. A long, endless year. And I found myself trapped in the monotony of my job as a boutique salesperson.

Sitting, day after day, watching the world walk by. This—this was not what I had expected. Not like this, at least.

So imagine how I must have felt, when the call came for an interview. Picture it—when I arrived, and there before me stood a towering skyscraper, its glass windows gleaming, the very office environment I had always dreamed of working in.

Imagine, then, how my heart sank when the guard at the gate looked me up and down. Perhaps it was the awe in my eyes or the way I was dressed—who could say?

And now, imagine the feeling when the first interviewee entered. A person much like me, yet so different—dressed in crisp office attire, a briefcase in hand, walking with the confidence of someone who belonged. While I stood there, empty-handed.

Not even a CV to offer.

All these memories comes rushing in now, like the final moments of a lifeline slipping away. How I met so many others like me—hundreds, to be exact. It made me wonder if I’d ever make the cut. But somehow, I did. I passed the interview, and I was ecstatic, overwhelmed, and terrified all at once. Especially when I learned that the job’s responsibility was to collect debts.

The first thought that hit me was the image of going door to door, asking people to pay their debts—and if they refused, I’d take their things. The idea nearly sent me into a panic. But thank goodness, it wasn’t like that.

My job turned out to be more like customer service, where I called people to remind them to make payments. It seemed easy enough at first—just talking on the phone with the customers. No big deal. It was no big deal… until I saw how things worked on the ground. It wasn’t no big deal, not at all.

I called my first customer, and I froze, speechless. Then my second, and I stuttered. By the time I reached the third, I had expected it to be easier, but instead, I was chastised, berated—verbally torn apart. I ran to the washroom, tears streaming down my face.

Those words cut deep—like knives that shredded my self-esteem, leaving me feeling paper-thin, a waste of space, undeserving of anything. I still remember the sting of those words, the way the tears dripped down my chin. For a moment, I wanted to give up. Maybe this wasn’t meant for me.

But then, another came into the washroom, crying. And then another. And another.

There’s a saying—a pain shared by many hurts less.

So, I sharpened my sword, made my skin as tough as a shell. There were days when the pain seeped through, but there were also good days. My first salary felt like a breath of fresh air, and with it, I bought my first Camon 12.

I loved the office, I loved the team, and I grew to love my job. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, until Covid struck. Thank the heavens, I could work in the comfort of my own home.

I’d heard, seen, and read how loneliness could tear homes apart, but to me, being alone was a blessing. I gave my all, and by the end of the pandemic, I had become the best of the best. When the opportunity to climb the ladder came, daydreams of success clouded my mind, and I lived in a fantasy, convinced I had already won.

But then, those words hit me: "You can never be a team manager." How simple, how degrading. A slap in the face, bringing me back to reality. It wasn’t the kind of feedback delivered after days of interviews—it was a taunt, a mockery, a murmur during the interview itself.

How paralyzing those words were. I took them hard and vowed never to cross those lines again. So, I focused solely on serving the customer instead, pretending his words hadn’t grazed me. Three years passed, and the job became tiring, monotonous. It felt like I was standing in the same spot for an eternity, under a scorching sun, my mind shrinking to a mere molecule.

Friends moved on. Some found greener pastures, others climbed higher, but I remained in the restaurant. Not because I was incapable, but because of the fear—a fear of hearing those words again.

Then, one day, a dear person with a good reputation told me, "I see potential in you." Immediately, the urge not to disappoint surged within me. I found myself submitting my application, passing the first round, then the second. I remember my skin crawling, my heart thumping in my chest, as memories from years before resurfaced. But at the end of the day, by some miracle, I didn’t stutter or freeze. I finally passed!

I wasn't expecting that.

Never in a million years, especially after being taunted for lacking a masters and degrees, mocked for the audacity I had in trying to grow with only a high school diploma, did I think I would be here. To the point where the workplace I had come to love turned toxic—a slap in the face to those who doubted me.

The joy I felt was overwhelming, yet fleeting—like a quarter hadn’t passed before I received another call, telling me that the whole interview had been canceled.

What do you do when you're handed heaven, only to be thrust back into hell? Do you cry? Do you curse? Me? I laughed, finding humor in how I was able to prove to physics that words can be transmitted to thousands in an instant.

My parents, my family, my friends—all of them knew. I had told them and to think I had to go back and recall what I had said was utterly humiliating. Yet, I did it. I played it cool, hoping no one would know. But the whispers, the hisses, and the jabs proved otherwise.

Inside, I burned with the weight of it all—my heart a storm of gray. On the outside, I smiled, pretending that I didn’t carry the weight of disappointment. This place—the workplace—was no longer beautiful. The colors had waned. It smelled like smoke. So, I prayed. And my prayer was answered.

Without another interview, I was promoted to team manager. Can you imagine my joy? The Bible condemns revenge, but I’ll admit it—I gloated at those who had once mocked me, even writing a poem dedicated to them called Mean. Yes, now I was managing them.

It felt easier, somehow. I was a hard worker. When a client asked, “Are you ready for pressure?” I scoffed. “What pressure?” I thought.

I knew what I was doing. My boss was an angel, guiding me well—until one day, he left the company. New management arrived, and that’s when things started to change. Suddenly, everything felt tight, like I was being squeezed into a box from all sides.

I tried. I truly did. I pushed myself, worked harder, but no matter how much I gave, it was never enough. Every little mistake, no matter how small, was pointed out. My boss wouldn’t let it pass.

He pushed my team to the brink, and in retaliation, they drove me insane. I had to worry about them. I had to worry about my boss. I had to worry about clients. I had to worry about HR. Once again, I was boxed in, trapped in a room full of smoke with no windows or doors to escape.

I found myself crying every night, spacing out all the time. I couldn’t eat; my appetite had left me for good. People told me I was turning gray, but what could I do? I was overworked. The loads my boss was supposed to carry, I had to bear. And on top of that, being a woman meant I was always viewed as prey.

Sexually harassed, yet afraid to speak up. Afraid of the scandal, afraid of the shunning. When it became too much, I spoke to my boss's boss.

I didn’t want anyone to be fired. I didn’t want anyone in HR’s presence. I just wanted them to be warned. But instead, I was shut down by a fellow woman, who spoke to me as though I was the one at fault. As though I wasn’t doing my job, while the four of them went out and drank their hearts out, gloating how they have tamed me.

I wanted to go to HR, but they turned out to be drinking buddies. How could I trust them? Everyone around me looked like monsters, ready to devour me the moment I spoke. Who could I trust? Where could I go? My team was hurting, but I was bruising. I wanted to leave this place for so long, yet I was afraid of what might be waiting for me outside.

If I leave now, where will I go? I remember how happy my family was when I got promoted, when I landed the job. Quitting was never an option. So, I ignored everything that was happening. I focused on managing my team, doing my reports—until one day, I found an email from HR calling me in for a case hearing regarding a mistake no worse than a typo that had no real effect on anything. It was escalated by my boss, who went around telling everyone how stupid and hated I was. Stupid, yet I was the one doing his work. Hated, because the team despised his dictatorship.

The witness? One of my harassers. The one who pushed for the escalation? The very person I had once gone to for help. My verdict had already been decided before I even presented my defense, and I knew—this warning would close doors for me for the next six months.

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t breathe. Hatred like never before engulfed me. Anger simmered within me. I tried to convince myself that this was just a season—a season that would pass, and I would forget it. But when the haze of the fog lifted, I saw things clearly.

No one in this life is given no choice. Everyone has a choice. All that matters is whether we’re strong enough—not cowardly enough—to make it. So, I did my part. I did my reports. I went to the hearing. I presented my defense. Everything felt light, so clear. And as I awaited the verdict, I took my leave. I took a trip, cleared my mind of everything.

Two weeks later, I knew what choice I had to make.

I resigned.

Not what you expected, right?

I didn’t expect it either.

But during the course of my term, I had grown to envy those who resigned. They became my idols—people who had the courage to start anew. During my sabbatical, I came to realize that being a team manager was never my dream.

Looking back, when I first got the news of my promotion, I realized I wasn’t happy for me. I was happy for my family—happy that they were proud that their youngest child had become the youngest manager.

I dreamed of writing. Once upon a time, I dreamed of creating films. Yet, in the pursuit of money, in the pursuit of becoming the pride of others, I had forgotten what I truly wanted for myself.

I know these are just dreams, as I’ve been told. But dreams are what keep us hopeful, aren’t they?

Now, here I am, though still lost in the middle of the sea, for the first time, I’m not afraid. I’m not burdened. I’m not churning with anxiety. I have no idea what the seasons ahead will bring. What 2025 will bring.

This ending was never part of my plans. It was not what I had expected.

But for the first time, I sail without a map.