Why I'm Going Through a Tough Time Right Now

This is a very emotional time of the year for me, and it has nothing to do with the holidays, gifts, family gatherings, or anything else that typically makes this a stressful time for people. It's a chapter of my life that brings back painful memories every December.

For most people, the week between Christmas and New Year is a time to slow down, spend time with family, and enjoy the holiday spirit. Some companies close for that week to give their employees time to relax. For me, it triggers memories of the most intense periods of my professional life, which eventually led me to walk away from a 20-year career.

The Weight of Invisible Pressure

For seven years, this period marked the peak of high-stakes tax planning, not the kind you do for individuals filing their 1040s, but complex corporate strategies where millions of dollars hang on interpretation of the tax code.

The intensity went beyond long hours and complex problems. I was surviving in a constant state of tension, always feeling on edge, slowly losing myself.

Tax planning wasn't even supposed to be my core responsibility, yet somehow, it became the most important part of my job. I had to make these complex decisions by myself, always aware of the fine line between tax planning and tax evasion.

As a CPA, I'm required to take an ethics course every three years. It's always the same course. It doesn't teach anything new but reminds us how one small lapse in judgment, one moment of “creative interpretation,” can make you cross a line you can't uncross.

The system is designed to push you toward that line. My compensation was tied to how effective my tax strategies were. The more aggressive the strategy, the better the reward. Nobody said it explicitly, of course. It's just understood.

The Cost of Constant Adaptation

Looking back, I can see that what made those years so difficult was the slow erosion of my sense of self. I used to pride myself on my adaptability—my ability to adjust to any boss or environment. But that adaptability came at a cost. I had spent so many years molding myself to others' expectations that I'd lost track of my own voice and beliefs.

When I did have opinions, I hid them behind research citations, always prefacing thoughts with "according to so-and-so." It felt safer to be a messenger for others' ideas than to risk being wrong about my own. This protective habit became so ingrained that even now, years later, I'm still learning to trust my voice.

One of the most painful parts of that period is the gaps it left in my memory. Sometimes, my children mention moments from their early years that I don't remember. These aren't just missed moments. They're pieces of my children's lives that I can never get back, sacrificed to the all-consuming nature of my work.

Understanding the System

The corporate world has a way of normalizing the extreme. When everyone around you works at an unsustainable pace, pushing their health to the limit, it starts to seem normal. The compensation becomes a justification: "At least I'm being well-paid for this sacrifice." But at some point, it becomes clear that money alone can't justify the cost to your well-being.

I remember sitting at my desk one October evening, three months before I finally quit, when it hit me. If I didn't leave this job, something terrible would happen to me.

Early in my career, I'd heard about a colleague who had a nervous breakdown at work. He had driven himself so hard that they had to carry him out on a stretcher. He had committed to his work to such an extreme that it ruined not only his health but also his marriage and relationships with his children. Back then, it seemed like something that would never happen to me. Now, I could see myself heading down the same path.

The Breaking Point

What haunted me the most was the creeping realization that all this intensity, all this sacrifice, felt empty of meaning. People talk a lot about burnout these days, but what I experienced felt deeper than that. It wasn't just about being tired or overwhelmed. It was about recognizing that what we accept as "normal" in corporate life can actually be dangerous. That success by conventional standards might be actively harming us.

After another brutal year-end planning season, I walked away on January 22. I had no other job lined up, no carefully planned next step. I was walking away from twenty years of building what I thought was supposed to be success - the corporate ladder climbing, the promotions, the increasing salary. I had vague ideas about finishing my doctorate, maybe doing some consulting, possibly writing a book. But mostly, I had a desperate need to feel human again.

The Long Road Back

It took almost two years for the fog to lift, for my system to decompress from the constant tension, and for me to start recognizing myself again.

During that time, I found myself questioning everything I'd been taught about work: that it's not supposed to be enjoyable, that it's called "work" for a reason, that stress is just part of the deal. I kept thinking about how we spend most of our lives working. While our working conditions are better than those during the Industrial Revolution, is that the bar we want to set? Can't we imagine something better?

I spent a year researching and writing about meaningful work to make sense of these questions and my experiences.

Now, years later, I've healed, though the scars still surface every December. When I talk to people still working in corporate jobs, I feel a deep empathy. I know what it's like to be trapped in that fog, to be so deep in it that you can't see a way out. I understand that feeling of being stuck, even when you're successful. I remember that pain because I lived it.