In the Middle of Becoming
What do you do when your job doesn’t reflect your soul—but still pays for your life?
I’ve only seen the ocean a handful of times—and only as an adult. I remember standing there that first time, on the boardwalk in Laguna Beach, trying to take it all in. The scale of it. The sound. The movement. There’s an enormity to the experience, like standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon. It humbles you, even if you don’t know exactly why. It’s a strange kind of stillness, where you’re looking at everything and nothing at the same time.
If you live near the ocean, maybe you stop noticing it after a while. But for me—prairie-born, and still living far from the coast—it’s something I’ve only experienced in passing. And not nearly enough.
The waves crash in, over and over. Just like they did yesterday. Just like they will tomorrow, and long after I’m gone. There’s a rhythm to it that feels quietly familiar. At the time, I wasn’t thinking about what the ocean was taking—but it was. Even now, I know that when I return someday, the shoreline may look the same, but it won’t be. Bit by bit, it’s becoming less of itself.
That’s how this phase of my life feels to me. Predictable, sure. Respectable, mostly. But there’s this quiet ache I can’t seem to shake.
And I don’t think this feeling is exclusive to those several years—or even decades—into their careers. I’ve spoken with people just starting out, and even those still figuring out where to begin. There’s this tension I keep seeing—the gap between the work we do (or want to do) and the parts of us that actually feel alive.
From an early age we’re told by parents, teachers, and well-meaning adults that we have something unique to offer the world. That we’re creative, observant, compassionate, analytical, articulate. And there’s real truth to that. We are these things. But eventually, the question shifts from what are you good at? to what someone will pay you for.
And that’s where the tension begins to settle.
The earliest years of your working life are about taking risks and making compromises. Truthfully, it’s about putting in the time. Proving you can be reliable, dependable, and competent. And for a while, that’s enough.
But then, at some point, you start looking back. You start asking different questions.
And that’s where I find myself now.
This isn’t a mid-life crisis. Or a story of regret.
I’ve built a life and career I’m proud of. And one that has, in some ways, leveraged my skills and personality.
But right now, I’m also still doing what’s expected of me. Sending the emails, tweaking the spreadsheets, sharing ideas, staying visible.
And lately I’ve started to wonder: if I just keep going like this, what exactly will be left?
It’s one of those things that makes more sense in hindsight. And now that I’ve noticed it, I can’t unsee it: the dissonance between two lives. The one I’ve built—a respectable, productive adult life within the corporate frame—and the one that still feels out of reach.
Not defined by productivity, but by whether anything actually resonates.
I’ve been trying to notice the quieter signals. The ones that hint at where the tension is really showing up. Some of those signals are subtle. Others are right there, if I’m honest enough to look.
And I know I’m not the only one seeing these things.
I’ve started listening more closely to how coworkers, clients, and managers talk about me. Not just the compliments, but the patterns. The qualities they trust, even if they never name them outright.
Sometimes those traits are easy to spot. Other times, it’s more like…people just assume I’ll handle certain things. Even when they don’t say why. And more often than not, the traits people recognize in me sound deeply familiar—things I grew up hearing from adults.
Things I internalized as being core to who I am.
“You are a natural leader.”
“You are so skilled at communicating.”
“You have a calming presence.”
Think of some of the things that are unique to you. The traits people have always noticed. The ones that come easily, but still feel essential. Maybe it’s your memory. Your empathy. Your ability to make people feel heard. Maybe it’s the way you hold the space—knowing when presence matters more than words.
And lest you think you don’t inhabit some aspirational quality, it might be something far simpler. The ability to show up and be reliable. To keep going. To bring steadiness amidst uncertainty. That counts too—maybe more than we give it credit for.
The corporate world has a funny way of minimizing some of these kinds of traits. Turning them into culture-fit jargon. Resume buzzwords. Or leaving no room for them at all.
But these aren’t just soft skills. They’re like little signal flares. Traits that want to be seen. Evidence of what matters most. Core to how you move through the world.
And when the work you do doesn’t truly rely on them, it’s no wonder something starts to feel off.
If you’ve read this far and suspect we’re not moving toward a neat and tidy conclusion, trust that.
I’d love to say this is a turning point. A Season 2 transformation arc. But it’s not. It’s more like a meditation.
On the lives we inhabit while waiting for our real one to begin.
More and more, it feels like writing’s become something else. It’s my way of taking something back. A way of giving shape to things rarely said out loud, but often felt. And when people connect with it, it’s not because it’s polished. It’s because it’s true.
It’s a good reminder that resonance doesn’t need a job title. Or a paycheck. Sometimes it starts with honesty. Sometimes, it’s just giving language to something others haven’t said yet.
Maybe that’s one way forward. Not abandoning the life you’ve built, but letting those signal flares find other places to land and take root. Hobbies. Side projects. Conversations that feel like they matter.
Those quiet spaces? That’s where I think the real stuff starts to show up. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, they open doors that bring your truest strengths back to the forefront. No casting call required.
But here’s the part that’s harder to talk about.
When you’re on your own—like I am—there’s no shared narrative to distract you. You’re not commuting or sitting through endless goal-setting meetings for your kids, your partner, or anyone else. You’re doing it for you.
And when it starts to feel hollow—when it drains more than it gives—it doesn’t just feel like a mismatch. It feels like poison.
We all know what happens when people build things too close to the ocean. Eventually, the shoreline takes them back. Those crashing waves don’t care how long it stood—only that it’s time. Yet, we collectively remember what was there. We talk about it and look to what remains for meaning and motivation.
Maybe the point of all of this isn’t to build something permanent, but something that leaves a trace. Something that meant something while it was here.
That’s what I’m aiming for now. Not a reinvention. Just more small and intentional ways to use what’s already in me. To notice what resonates. And lean into it when I can.
To leave behind something that might matter. Even if only to me.
The author snaps a pic at Laguna Beach.
Real life has fewer voiceovers.
But standing here, I swear I heard Kristin say:
“I just don’t know what Stephen wants anymore.”
Know someone who’s been quietly asking the same questions?
Feel free to share this with them.
