Nine months later

Sometimes we have to do what makes us happy...

It was my dream job. It had cost me my time, my health, and —let's be honest —a big chunk of my principles, but nothing mattered anymore: I'd made it. I was a mid-to-upper-level manager in a large company, one of those that shape the world and make your curriculum something to talk about, even with strangers who have no idea what you talk about at those fancy dinners people invite you to from time to time. I was a medium shot on my way to becoming a big deal.

I had survived the Corporate climb despite the COVID era, when I tried to convince myself about my warrior skills. I had overcome so much stuff at that point that staying at home didn't seem like a big deal.

"Of course, I am completely capable of staying at home with the three kids, two dogs (puppies with a tendency to chew on walls), and my dear partner!" I told my manager when he asked me if I would be able to deal with everything going in and out of work.

Spoiler alert: I wasn't

There were two adults to take care of the chaos reigning in our home. We both worked full time, jumping out from our laptops to whatever the next disaster unraveled: dirty diapers, dog walks, bored children, school homework... and still, that was nothing when compared to what I had to face (virtually, of course) outside. I was then a team lead, managing eleven individuals, and I had to face a wide range of situations during my daily calls with them. There were sad people, depressed people, and a delusional one who kept asking me if I thought it would be okay to go on holiday to other countries.

The months passed, and my personal and professional lives became so intertwined that it was difficult to distinguish between the two. The clock no longer mattered, nor the amount of light outside. Life became a never-ending cycle of work with a Disney soundtrack in the background, until every sound became just noise, and every move around me seemed just a way to annoy me.

Interestingly, top management instructed the lower ranks to be mindful of the well-being of everyone around us, but I suppose my boss did not read that email. He only discovered I was not okay when I told him I had to talk with the doctor about my back pain, trembling hands, and the utter conviction that I was about to lose my marbles in no time.

"You could take a couple of days off," he replied, but I told him that was no longer a solution... and I was right because the man who picked up the phone and spoke with me for the next hour kept in contact with me for the next days until he was sure I managed to talk with the company doctor to arrange a work leave.

The burnout menace everyone talked about became a sad reality to me.

It took me four months to return to work, feeling full of energy and convinced that I had successfully overcome the crisis. I was training, meditating, journaling, and being mindful of my acts and thoughts. I knew I was not invincible, and I made it a point to let everyone around me know how I planned to delegate more and focus on the things that mattered. And so I did, and everything worked brilliantly until months later, when I contracted COVID and developed its long-term version, which was less than convenient for my plans to continue climbing the corporate path.

Suddenly, the fog flooded my brain, and that's what I had for months: fog and pain. That sucked, but I continued with my work, the therapy, the family... until it wasn't enough. I loved my job and what I had achieved up to that point, but the persistent physical limitations and my twentieth working anniversary collided in a dangerous way, which almost broke me.

The more I did, the less sense everything seemed to make. Since I had changed my work methods, things had improved so much that I felt ready for the next role—a higher-level management position—but I started to listen to voices around me telling me what I should do and how I should behave. There was no chance for me to progress unless I became one of the guys, or at least, acted like them. I, who had progressed despite all the differences...

It was not the first time I had listened to that kind of voice —the one that tells you to do things the "standard way," avoid trouble, and be a team player. Why do some people do that? Why do they try to convince you of something you're not? Just because it makes their life easier? The problem was that I was no longer in the team player mindset. I felt more like a trainer who wanted to buy part of the team. Some thought that was a wild idea, and others tried to change my mind, asking me to relax, as if that were remotely possible. I had several discussions with managers about potential roles, but nothing seemed to work; the fog in my brain wouldn't dissipate, and I began to question the purpose of everything I did.

The painful resolution was that I needed a break.

I gave a two-month notice before going on a six-month sabbatical. I trained a person to replace me. I made sure no one could complain about my absence. I was cold and goal-oriented until my last day in the office, and I worked to ensure that no one would suffer because of my needs.

No one suffered. No one complained. I was happy.

For six months, I wrote every day. I read a lot and drafted a story that kept me busy and excited about something new. I hadn't done such a thing for the same twenty-something years I had been working, since I exchanged my creative soul for a much more practical, business-oriented one. I focused on myself and what I needed for the first time in many years, and when I returned to work, I faced the same old discussions... as expected. A week later, I began searching for the position I wanted, and this time, I found it.

I got the job. One more step up. Always up.

I studied the needs of my role, created a plan, and aligned strategies. I had candid discussions, made allies, and secured my position. I reached my targets, made my case, made it work... and still, something inside of me kept telling me: you're faking.

Nine months later, I told my boss, "You know what? I quit."

He looked at me, incredulous, looking for an explanation.

"I need to do it for me," I said.

"Don't you like your job?" he replied, "Do you want to do something else?"

"I'll write."

... and that's precisely what I'm doing.