20 Years in the wrong job...
The Silent Grip
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There’s a particular kind of self-imposed prison which can actually look like this: successful, well paid, well-respected, sensible, patient, responsible…
Blehhhh (pokes tongue out whilst blowing raspberry, almost the middle finger, not quite!)
I know all of the above because that was me, that was my life. I stayed in the wrong job for twenty years.
Twenty years.
I was more in love with the responses I got from people when I told them I was an Engineering Geologist, than the actual job it-self. So many of oooo’s and ahhhh’s. The best imagery for that - is of a puppy furiously wagging her tail under the gaze of appreciation and external validation! Those sounds were like liquid gold to me because those responses = I am worthy, clever, interesting and good enough.
The thing is I knew. I knew within the first year that something wasn’t right. That this wasn’t it. That there was something else out there that was more me.
I just couldn’t move. Not because I didn’t want to. Not because I was lazy or ungrateful or didn’t care.
I couldn’t move without having all the answers first. I needed to know exactly where I was going before I left where I was. I needed a plan that was 100% watertight. I needed certainty that I wasn’t going to get it wrong.
Of course that certainty never came, how could it? So I stayed and while I was staying, I was also trying.
In my quest to find a way out, I spent money on programs and courses. I started things. I got close and then I stopped. Just disappeared from them and stopped talking about them to those closest to me and hoped they wouldn’t ask any questions.
However, I didn’t stop at the beginning of the program, that would have been too obvious.
I stopped at about 95%, every single time. It took me a while, but I’m okay admitting that now. Honestly, that wasn’t the case for a very long time. I felt deep shame and guilt.
Each time I stopped just short of finishing, I used it as evidence.
See. You can’t follow through.
See. You’re not good enough.
See. This is why you shouldn’t try.
These well worn patterns helped my prison get a little more solid. Thicker walls. Staying became a little more justified. If I couldn’t even finish the things I started in private how could I possibly make a move in public?
The thing that eventually forced my hand wasn’t a decision. It was my body.
When I got sick and couldn’t do anything, couldn’t work, couldn’t perform, couldn’t hold it all together. I finally had the stillness to see what was actually happening.
What I can see so clearly now is this:
I wasn’t waiting for the right moment.
I was hiding from the risk of finding out I wasn’t enough.
This is exactly what I mean when I talk about slowing down.
Not stopping for the sake of it, but slowing down enough to actually see what’s been running underneath. Staying felt safer than trying and failing. Not finishing, felt safer than finishing and still feeling like a failure.
The prison wasn’t keeping me in. It was keeping that fear out.
This isn’t about forcing yourself to move. It’s about seeing clearly enough that staying no longer feels true.
I wonder how many women are living inside a version of this right now. Not dramatically stuck. Just… waiting.
Waiting for certainty that isn’t coming.
Waiting for the moment it feels safe enough to move.
Waiting to have all the answers before they take the first step.
The hard truth is that certainty doesn’t come before the move.
Sometimes, it comes after. But you have to move first.
So this week, just notice.
Is there something you’ve been waiting to feel certain about before you act?
How long have you been waiting?
And is the waiting a choice, or is it fear wearing the costume of patience?
You don’t have to do anything with that yet.
Just let yourself hear it.