I once wanted to be a ballerina. I was four, maybe five, and deeply committed to the idea despite being pigeon-toed and having the grace of a folding chair. Then I wanted to be a novelist. I’d write long, dramatic stories in pencil and insist that my family read them aloud. Briefly, I thought I might be an archaeologist, inspired by a mix of Indiana Jones and a deep love of digging for things. Later, I decided on CEO. Of what, I wasn’t sure. Something powerful. Something with a corner office.
What I became was a woman with 47 browser tabs open. Most days, I toggle between Teams, email, spreadsheets, and an endless list of half-finished ideas. Somewhere in between the group chats and Google Docs, I carry a vague but persistent feeling that I am meant for something else. Something more. Something I can’t quite name but never entirely forget.
Work, I’ve learned, is not just what we do for money. It’s how we spend our waking hours. It’s how we make sense of ourselves and our value. It’s what we say when someone asks, "What do you do?" at a dinner party. Which really means, "What do you offer the world?" And more quietly, "Do you like who you are becoming while doing it?"
I’ve had jobs that drained me. Jobs that paid the mortgage but chipped away at my joy. Offices where the air felt stale and the lighting was always too harsh. Places where people said "Let’s circle back" as if we were all in on some grand, circular farce.
I’ve also had jobs where I felt alive. Not euphoric every moment, but deeply awake. Where the people made me better. Where the work felt like it had a point. Where deadlines made me sharper and ideas flowed freely over bad coffee and shared playlists.
And then there’s the in-between. The job that is fine. The kind that is neither dream nor disaster. Just… your job. A way to fill the hours and collect a paycheque. A place where you are tolerated more than celebrated.
I used to believe there was a perfect job out there. A dream role that would light me up, validate me, and make me feel whole. I imagined a desk bathed in natural light, colleagues who became lifelong friends, and an inbox filled with praise. I believed that if I could just find the right job, everything else would fall into place.
Now I know better. Work isn’t a single thing. It shifts. It evolves. What fed me at 28 doesn’t feed me now. The hustle that once thrilled me now just makes me tired. I crave different things. Flexibility. Purpose. People I like. The chance to make something that outlives the meeting in which it was born.
There was a season of my life when I worked constantly. I wore my busyness like a badge. I was proud of how much I could juggle. But somewhere in the flurry, I lost the thread. I couldn’t hear my own thoughts over the noise of productivity.
These days, I pay closer attention. I ask better questions. Not just "What do I do?" but "What kind of life does this work make possible?" Does it give me time with the people I love? Does it stretch my brain? Does it make me laugh, at least occasionally? Can I stand behind it with a straight back and a clear conscience?
I’ve learned that meaningful work isn’t about title or salary or even passion. It’s about fit. About how closely the work aligns with your values, your strengths, your sense of timing. It’s about how it makes you feel at the end of the day. Spent in the right way.
And sometimes, it’s about reinvention. Taking a risk. Writing something new. Saying, "This is no longer enough." And trusting that what you build next might be closer to the thing you imagined when you were young and foolish and just brave enough.
The work that feeds me now doesn’t always look impressive. It involves long stretches of quiet, a fair bit of doubt, and the occasional high that reminds me why I started. But it’s mine. It feels honest. It feels earned.
If you’re lucky, you get to do work that feels like home. That calls out the best parts of you. That makes you want to keep going, even when it’s hard. That kind of work doesn’t always come with applause. But it gives you something else. A kind of quiet certainty that, yes, this matters.
So maybe the question isn’t just what you do. Maybe it’s what you’re becoming because of it.
And if the answer feels off, that’s not failure. That’s information. That’s your invitation to begin again.