From the outside, my life looked polished, successful, and enviable. I was an executive director in the beauty industry, one of those positions people assume must be glamorous. I traveled globally, stayed in beautiful hotels, attended private meetings, and sat across from brand designers whose names carried weight and prestige. I had access. I had influence. I was trusted with decisions that shaped entire product lines and corporate partnerships. And yet, none of it felt the way people imagined it should.
Traveling the world was not exciting or romantic. It was exhausting. Airports blurred together. Hotel rooms felt interchangeable, cool lighting, neutral walls, heavy curtains drawn tight against unfamiliar cities. My body paid the price. Jet lag became normal, long days, short nights, constant vigilance. I had to be alert at all times, watching trends, anticipating the next “it” brand, securing exclusivity before competitors even knew what was coming.
There was no room to exhale.
Meetings with designers did carry a certain prestige. Sitting in immaculate studios with sleek tables, minimalist decor, and carefully curated aesthetics, I could feel the admiration from others in the room. But for me, those moments were transactional. Another negotiation. Another strategy session. Another step forward in a career that kept advancing… toward something I could no longer clearly define.
At the end of the day, it was still just my job. A job I was very good at, that demanded everything from me, and a career that quietly asked for more than it gave back.
I was building empires, just not my own.
I poured myself into other people’s visions, other people’s brands, other people’s wealth. I gave my creativity, my intuition, my time, my energy. I would give everything to build their empire, staying late, pushing harder, stretching myself thinner, believing that dedication would eventually circle back to me. But it didn’t.
There were moments, quiet ones, usually late at night, when the world finally went still. The city lights outside a hotel window. The hum of air conditioning. The silence after another full day of performing competence and control. Those were the moments when the question surfaced, uninvited but persistent:
Where am I going?
Not geographically. Not professionally, but spiritually.
I had everything that was supposed to equal fulfillment, yet something essential was missing. I could feel it in my chest, a gentle but constant knowing that this was not why I was here. That this life, impressive as it looked, was not aligned with my true calling.
I always knew my calling was different than what I was doing.
I didn’t have language for it yet. I didn’t have a plan. But the knowing was there, steady, patient, impossible to silence. It showed up as restlessness. As fatigue that sleep couldn’t fix. As a quiet grief for a life not yet lived.
This was my what my ordinary world had become. Successful. Respected. Exhausted. Disconnected from myself.
Something within me was already leaning toward the edge, aware that staying where I was would eventually cost me far more than leaving ever could.