I have a problem. Not a dramatic, call-your-therapist kind of problem. More of a quietly self-inflicted, entirely predictable, nobody-to-blame-but-myself kind of problem.
I say yes. To everything.
Not out of people-pleasing. Not because I'm afraid to disappoint anyone. No, it's something far more chaotic than that. It's enthusiasm. Pure, unfiltered, completely unbothered-by-consequences enthusiasm. The second something sounds even remotely interesting, my brain does this little celebration and my mouth opens before the rest of me has had any chance to think it through.
New hobby? Yes. Spontaneous road trip? Yes. Volunteer to run a workshop on something I've never actually done before? Sure, sounds fun. Move countries? Why not, honestly.
I've signed up for pottery, a night walk, three different language courses and a soap-making kit that is still, to this day, sitting unopened in my hallway closet. Each of those decisions felt completely reasonable at the time. Each of them made perfect sense in the moment I said yes.
This is the part where I should tell you I've learned from this pattern. That I now pause, reflect, weigh the pros and cons, maybe sleep on it.
I have not learned from this pattern.
How I became a manager without fully noticing
The job offer came the way most of my impulsive decisions come: dressed up as an exciting opportunity, arriving at exactly the right moment, when I was just enthusiastic enough to say yes before I had really thought about what yes actually meant.
My employer is great. Genuinely. The kind of company where people actually like each other, where the coffee is decent and where nobody sends passive-aggressive emails at 11pm. The team I was joining? Also great. Warm, capable, collaborative. Nothing wrong there at all.
And on paper, this job made complete sense. I'd always said I wanted to move into management. I'd told people, colleagues, friends, my mum on a Sunday afternoon that I was ambitious, that I wanted to lead a team one day, that I was ready to take on more responsibility. I had a whole narrative built around this idea of myself as someone who was heading somewhere. Someone with a plan. Someone with, dare I say it, leadership potential. I even completed higher management training.
So when the opportunity came, I didn't hesitate. I said yes with genuine excitement. I started the job with genuine excitement. I showed up on my first day with genuine excitement.
And then, slowly, very slowly, reality started doing what reality does.
The moment it quietly started to dawn on me
It didn't happen all at once. That would have been too easy, too clear. Instead, it crept in gradually, the way a slow drizzle turns into proper rain before you've bothered to grab a jacket.
There were meetings. A lot of meetings. Meetings to prepare for other meetings. Conversations about the conversations I needed to have. Spreadsheets tracking progress on things that weren't actually done yet. Feedback cycles and one-on-ones and the constant, low-level hum of being the person other people came to with their questions.
And here's the thing. I don't mind people. I genuinely like my colleagues. But somewhere between the third consecutive Monday morning of sitting through a strategy update and staring at a project dashboard that had somehow added three new red indicators since Friday, I noticed something.
I was bored.
Not in a tired way. Not in a burnt-out way. Just in that quiet, uncomfortable way where you realise your brain has been somewhere else for about forty minutes and you can't remember a single word of what was just said.
What I actually missed
What I missed was making things.
Not planning to make things. Not overseeing the making of things. Not signing off on the approach to things. Actually, physically, concretely making things. Finishing something, putting it down, and moving on to the next thing. That satisfying, uncomplicated loop of doing, completing done.
I missed being operational. I missed having my hands in it. I missed the muddy, unglamorous, genuinely satisfying work of just getting on with it. The kind of work where at the end of the day you can look at something and think: that wasn't there this morning, and now it is, and I did that.
Management, I was discovering, doesn't have a lot of that. Management is mostly invisible work. You're creating the conditions for other people to do the visible work. Which is important, obviously. Which is genuinely valuable. Which is exactly the right role for exactly the right person.
I am not, it turns out, that person. I can do it; I can put myself very well at the service of my team to facilitate everything so that they can do their work well. But is that all there is to it???
This was an uncomfortable thing to figure out about myself. Especially because I'd been so convinced for so long that I was. I had a whole identity built around being ambitious, being driven, wanting more. And now here I was, thinking: more of what, exactly? Because if more means less time actually doing things and more time talking about things, I'm not sure that's the more I was after.
The gap between the ambition you think you have and the one you actually have
There's a version of ambition that looks good in conversations. It's the kind where you say you want to grow, develop, take on more. People nod approvingly. You feel like you're saying the right things. And in some ways you even believe it, because the idea of it sounds genuinely appealing, the responsibility, the influence, the title that finally reflects that you know what you're doing.
But there's a difference between wanting the idea of something and actually wanting the thing.
I wanted the idea of being a manager. The reality of being a manager, for me, specifically, with my brain and my personality and my very particular need to see tangible results, is a different story.
I'm someone who needs to see things happen. I need to be in the thick of it. I need the momentum of actually doing, not just directing. I thrive in the mess of it, the problem-solving, the moment when something finally clicks and you've fixed the thing or built the thing or untangled the thing and you can put it in the done pile and move forward.
That's not a lesser ambition. I know that now. It's just a different one.
What I'm doing about it (spoiler: I'm still figuring it out)
I haven't resigned dramatically. I haven't walked into my manager's office with a speech and a box of tissues. It's more of a slow, honest recalibration happening mostly inside my own head. And on this blog, apparently, because here I am.
What I do know is that this realisation, uncomfortable as it is, is genuinely useful. Better to figure this out now, in a job with a great company and a good team, than to spend another decade chasing a version of success that doesn't actually fit who I am.
I also know that my impulsiveness, the same trait that got me into this situation, isn't something I want to get rid of entirely. The yes-saying has also led to some of the best things in my life. Adventures I wouldn't have had if I'd paused long enough to talk myself out of them. Opportunities that turned out to be exactly right, even if they didn't look it from the outside.
The pottery, admittedly, was a wash. But the half marathon taught me something. So did this job.
The actual lesson, if there is one
I think the lesson, if I'm being honest, is this: enthusiasm is wonderful. Impulsiveness is sometimes wonderful. But every now and then, it might be worth having a brief conversation with yourself before you leap not to talk yourself out of it, just to make sure you know what you're leaping into.
Because saying yes is easy. And sometimes saying yes is exactly right.
But sometimes, somewhere between the offer and the first Monday back, you look around and think: I said yes to the idea of this. And the idea of this is not the same as this.
And that's okay. That's just a little odd story. Just not quite the one I thought I was signing up for.
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