I knew the moment I walked into the office.
My boss, the general manager, didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The look on his face — the crease in his forehead, the vein bulging at his temple — he was angry, and I knew exactly why.
That was a Monday morning.
The week before, on Friday afternoon, I’d had lunch with the owner of the company. He’d asked to meet — just the two of us. It was the first time I’d sat down with him outside of our executive team meetings. This was back in 2010, when I was first considering starting my own business, and he’d heard rumors I was thinking about leaving. To be fair, his son worked for me, so the gossip chain wasn’t very long.
We exchanged the usual pleasantries. Did the uncomfortable dance. We both knew what we needed to talk about, but he waited for me to bring it up.
When the words finally came, they just kind of spilled out. We spent more time than I’d intended talking about my boss. I don’t remember who brought him up first. I told my version of the truth: I was burned out. I was tired of being overlooked — playing the role of workhorse while someone else got to hold the reins. I was working the kind of hours you brag about when you’re trying to prove your worth, and cry about later when you’re trying to recover your life.
Instead of coaching me through the difficulties I was having with the GM — or offering a way to work better with him — the owner leaned back in his chair.
“What if I brought you up to his level?” he asked. “I’ll give you a 30% raise, and you’ll report directly to me.”
Hindsight: I should have considered that offer for more than the time it took me to throw away my lunch and come back to the table at the fast food restaurant we met at. I should have thought more about what it meant. But I didn’t have any real experience with that kind of thing, and a 30% raise sounded incredible for my young family.
So I nodded. It felt like a win. Like someone — specifically, the owner — finally saw how much I was carrying. I’d been underwater for a long time, and someone was finally throwing me a rope.
What is it they say about experience? That it’s what you gain right after you needed it.
I didn’t realize I’d just accepted a position I wasn’t emotionally ready to step into — or that I’d signed up for a relationship dynamic with my boss that was already doomed.
Back to Monday morning.
A man I already had tension with was now being told we were equals. Except we weren’t. Not in work history, not in communication, not in any of the unspoken rules we’d never addressed.
I didn’t stop in his office to talk. He didn’t stop by mine. Instead, I sat at my desk doing what I often do best — pre-ruminating. The story I told myself was that he was doing the same. And that’s why we didn’t talk.
We let the silence do the talking. And it said everything.
By Tuesday morning, I’d made up my mind. I walked into his office and tried to have the conversation we probably should have had two or three years earlier. Honestly, it wasn’t as bad as I’d pre-ruminated it to be — but it wasn’t good either. There was no common ground. No bridge between two people who hadn’t learned to speak the same language.
Nobody builds those bridges for us. That’s work we have to do ourselves. And I never even picked up a shovel.
That afternoon, I picked up the phone for another uncomfortable conversation. I called the owner and gave him my notice.
He didn’t fight it. Maybe he knew the arrangement would never work. Maybe he realized he’d offered me an escape hatch — not a solution.
I’ve reflected on my departure from that company so many times over the years.
I wasn’t emotionally mature — not then. I’m still not, but I’m growing.
I don’t regret leaving the company. But I do regret the way I avoided the preparation — the work that could have given me a chance to stay and make a difference.
I wasn’t prepared to have hard conversations. Honestly, I avoided them. Still do. I wasn’t prepared to take the promotion and own it. I was just tired and looking for a lifeline.
Funny thing, though — tired people don’t need promotions. They don’t need more money (sometimes). They need rest. They need honesty. They need help — sometimes from themselves.
I still fight the belief that if I just work harder, the path will rise to meet me. That recognition will come. That doing more is the same as being ready.
But I’ve learned the hard way — over and over — that being ready isn’t about achievement. It’s about willingness. It’s about the work that happens before the work: the reflection, the confrontation, the questions you don’t want to ask but need to.
I’m not talking about pre-rumination. That’s not the kind of mental work that moves you anywhere. That’s the kind that keeps you stuck. And the cost of avoidance is high.
How many things have I let fester because I didn’t want to rock the boat? How many conversations did I wait too long to have? How many outcomes did I call “fate” or “unavoidable” when, really, they were the result of me not preparing?
We’ve all heard the old saying: the best time to plant a tree is twenty years ago. The second best time is now.
But now still requires picking up a shovel. It requires getting dirty and sweaty and a little uncomfortable. If you’ll pardon the pun, it requires a willingness to put down roots in a place you don’t fully understand yet.
In many ways, I’m still the person I was back then. I still try — way too often — to prove my way out of exhaustion. I still believe in the mistaken ideal that if I just work hard enough, I can fix parts of my life that may not even be broken.
That’s why I’m learning to speak sooner. I still hesitate. I’m not pretending I’ve mastered this. Not even close. I’ve walked into meetings with something hard to say and left with it gnawing at my gut.
But I’m learning to prepare — not for the moment when everything comes to a head, but for the moments that lead there.
Those are the moments when trust is either built or broken. When resentment is either confronted or stored for later. They’re the places where the stories of our relationships are written.
Preparation is starting to look different.
It looks like sitting with discomfort. Practicing words before I speak them — and then actually saying them. It looks like noticing when I’m feeling resentful, and challenging that feeling before I let it fester.
I don’t always get it right. But I’m trying.
And for now, that’s something.
I’ve reflected on my departure from that company so many times over the years. I was not emotionally mature — I’m still not, but I’m growing.
I don’t regret leaving that company, but I made so many mistakes in the way I avoided the preparation and the work that would have given me the chance to stay and continue to make a difference.
I wasn’t prepared to have hard conversations. Honestly, I actively avoided them. I still do that. A lot. I also wasn’t prepared to take the promotion and own it. I was just tired and looking for a lifeline. Funny thing, though. Tired people don’t need promotions. They don’t need more money (sometimes). They need rest. They need honesty. They need help — sometimes from themselves.
I still fight the deeply held belief that if I just work harder, the path will rise to meet me. That recognition will come. That doing more was the same as being ready. But I’ve learned the hard way — over and over — that being ready isn’t about accomplishment. It’s about willingness. It’s about the work that happens before the work: the reflection, the confrontation, the questions you don’t want to ask but need to.
I’m not talking about pre-rumination. That’s not the kind of mental work that moves you anywhere. It’s the kind that keeps you stuck, and the cost of avoidance is high.
How many things have I let fester because I didn’t want to rock the boat? How many conversations did I wait too long to have? How many outcomes did I call “fate” or “unavoidable” when, really, they were the result of me not preparing?
We’ve all heard the old saying: The best time to plant a tree is twenty years ago. The second best time is now. But right now still requires picking up a shovel. It requires getting dirty and sweaty-gross. If you’ll pardon the pun, it requires a willingness to put roots in a place you don’t fully understand yet.
In so many ways, I’m still who I was back then. I still try far too often to prove my way out of exhaustion. I still struggle with a belief that if I just work hard enough, I can fix the parts of my life that might not even be broken.
That’s why I’m learning to speak sooner. I still hesitate. I’m not pretending I’ve mastered this. Not by a long shot. I’ve still walked into meetings with something hard to say and left with it gnawing at my gut. But… I am learning to prepare — not for the moment when it all comes to a head, but for the moments that lead there. They’re the moments when trust is either built or broken, and where resentment is either confronted or stored for later.
So often, it’s the place where the stories of our relationships are written.
Preparation is starting to look different. It looks like sitting with discomfort and practicing words before I speak them, but then actually having the courage to speak them. It’s also about noticing when I’m feeling resentful, and challenging that before I let it fester.
I don’t always get it right. But I’m trying.
And that’s something.
No comments:
Post a Comment