Listen to this story being read by Clare Stephens, here.
When you're growing up, no one tells you that achievement will rarely, if ever, feel how you expect it to.
That you might work for a year to save up for an overseas holiday and be in a bad mood the day you land.
That you might win an award that suddenly feels like it has absolutely nothing to do with you.
That you might climb the career ladder to get your dream job, only to realise it's no longer what you want.
That's what happened to me.
It's 2015 when I first walk into the Mamamia office. I have an Honours degree in psychology and I'm currently doing a Masters of Research about the relationship between obesity and eating disorders. In my mind, it's a pure fluke that I'm here (or kismet, as a colleague will later call it). My sister and I have been writing recaps of The Biggest Loser, trying to comment on the show's dangerous messaging about body weight, shape and size, and an editor at Mamamia saw one of them. She's sent them to Mia Freedman, who has reached out to my sister and I and invited us to come into the Mamamia office for a meeting.
I hadn't known what to wear, because I've never actually been in an office environment before. My previous jobs have been at a golf club, a video shop, at a school, and teaching at university. 'Jeans and a nice top,' my cousin had told me, providing a brief of the Surry Hills work uniform.
So I'm in an office, in jeans and a nice top, speaking to four of the most impressive women I've ever met.
They ask my sister and I what we're interested in writing. They ask us to pitch stories, and they give us honest feedback. They ask us what we want to do, and while my sister has a quick answer, I don't. I just want to be here I want to say. I want a desk and a computer and I want to write.
I somehow get exactly that.
The first day I spend in the office, I go to 'stand up' - a morning meeting where the writers pitch their stories for the day. They throw around an inflatable boob and share their ideas: opinion pieces, recaps, news stories, features, interviews. It takes a few months, but I start to feel at home there, and I realise it's the first time I've ever truly felt like I belong.
These women are my people. They're funny and unapologetic and smart and kind and inclusive and flawed and different and none of us agree on everything all the time. They challenge me and surprise me and the more of them I get to know the more impressed I am.
I'm an assistant, then I'm a content producer, and I realise I love this. I love the pace. I love that no two days are the same. I love the decision making and the ideas and the instant feedback loop and the community.
That's when I realise I know exactly what I want to do: I want to climb the ladder. I want to be the editor. I don't know how long it will take - maybe years and years and years - but I care. I care enough to focus and work hard and learn and fail privately and fail publicly and fail again, and I keep going.
I become weekend editor, and I'm exhilarated but terrified. For a while I'm certain I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm managing writer's work loads, I have full editorial control on Sundays, and I make so many mistakes. Embarrassing ones. Silly ones. But I'm competitive and results driven and I keep trying. For two and a half years I'm in that role, and then I get promoted to morning editor.
My shift starts at 6am. It's a shock... every day. This role is more news-focused and so I become a newshound. I'm now formally managing members of the team and taking on more senior responsibilities. I get a better understanding of how everything works - the team, the decisions, the strategy - and six months later, the editor position opens up.
I want it more than I can remember wanting anything. Part of the application process involves presenting my ideas for how we can change and grow, and my presentation is 35 slides. It takes me a week, but it's really taken me four years. It's been built in all the mistakes I've made and all the ideas I've listened to. It's been built in stand up meetings and after-work drinks and early mornings and lunch time conversations and reading and listening and absorbing.
I get the job, and I cry.
I'm responsible for the editorial direction of the website, for traffic targets, for hiring, for working with clients, for ideating and executing editorial campaigns, and for managing the ~20 people in the editorial team.
It's challenging and I feel like I'm always pretending, just a little bit, to be confident in my decisions. But I thrive under pressure, I want to learn, and I'm in awe of the people I work with. I love this.
And then I don't.
I don't know when it happened, and I don't have one reason why. I think it came in tiny realisations over months and months.
I realise there are creative things I want to do that I simply don't have time for. I'm constantly beating myself up for not writing more, not creating more, but there isn't any time. There is always more I can give my job, and I always want to give it.
I start to notice what I don't enjoy.
I don't like meetings. I find them stressful and know I would rather just be doing the things rather than talking about them.
I don't feel like I'm good at managing people. I'm not direct enough, and I have a desperate need for people to like me. That's not good for a manager or for the person reporting to them.
I like to work on things alone. I like to own a project and see it come to life. But you can't do that when you're leading a creative team. You need to give people buy in, and that's what ultimately makes the final product better.
I'm not a consistent, organised, transparent worker. I like to binge-work. That's not fun for anyone.
Then there's something... ridiculous. But once I notice it, I can't let it go.
Every weekday, whether I'm working from the office or from home, it gets to the late hours of the afternoon and I notice an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach. It's like a dull ache, and it has been there for hours.
When I finally take a breath and try to work out what it is, it's obvious: I really, really need to pee. I have no sense of how long I've needed to go, but I've put it off until it no longer feels like a full bladder and has instead migrated to a generalised pain.
I'm so plugged in to the workday - so switched on with adrenalin - that I have lost my ability to pick up on my body's own signals.
For clarity, I'm not working 16-hour days or skipping lunch breaks, and there is no message from anyone else to work harder or be chained to my desk or sit uncomfortably while my bladder grows and grows and pushes against my other organs.
The problem is me. I'm a deeply insecure people pleaser who can't say no and is constantly in search of external validation because I have no self-esteem.
I.... wish I was joking.
I also start to notice what I was jealous of. I'm not typically a jealous person, but when I watch some of the people around me, I feel a pang. They're taking risks. They're creating. They're stepping outside their comfort zone over and over again, and they're getting something out of it that I'm no longer getting. I want that. And I no longer love what I have.
So I step back.
I have climbed more rungs on the ladder than I imagined I would by 30, and now I want to stop climbing. I want to see what's beyond the ladder.
It's been almost one year since I made that decision. I'm now an Executive Editor at Mamamia, part time, where I'm able to work for the company I love and believe in while also pursuing my own creative projects.
It's really, really hard. I've floundered and my motivation has waxed and waned and WHAT IF I NEVER CREATE ANYTHING MODERATELY GOOD AND ALL OF THIS IS SEVERELY HUMILIATING.
But I feel more 'me' than I have in a long time.
I'm in the privileged position of not yet having children and not having a mortgage to pay off, or any of the myriad obligations that would understandably stop someone from stepping back from a job that wasn't quite fulfilling enough.
But having the freedom to make that decision has taught me that external achievement - like getting the job you desperately wanted - is no guarantee for happiness or satisfaction. That's why there are miserable CEOs and celebrities desperately pursuing meaning and people with awards and money and gorgeous homes who are fundamentally lost.
I think we're meant to become attached to the process of what we do, rather than the outcome. Whether that's in the sport we play or the music we create or the books we write or the children we raise. That's probably where happiness comes from.
I'm not sure yet, but I'll let you know when I find out.
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