During every performance review cycle in my corporate career, the question I heard most was some version of this:

'What gaps do I need to bridge between my current contributions and the expectations of the next tier?'

I answered it. Carefully. Strategically.

While I was helping others expand their role, scope, and responsibilities for their promotions (as well as working toward my own), my health was quietly declining—a decline that eventually landed me in the emergency room, followed by surgery and a recovery that took a couple of years. That was due to a neglect of self-care.

The question I wasn’t supposed to ask.

I left Meta with the "Lean In" philosophy deeply ingrained in my mind; believing that wanting anything less than a constant upward trajectory meant something was wrong with me: Am I not good enough?

What I didn't realize then was that performative success comes at the cost of mental health. I had to learn that the hard way.

Sitting in recovery, I finally allowed myself to ask this question:

Do I actually want to keep moving faster and reaching higher, if the only reward is carrying a heavier load?

For most of my life, slowing down felt like failure, like I hadn't worked hard enough to live up to my potential, or that I was fundamentally flawed.

Beneath all that noise, here is what I was really feeling:

• I didn’t want more responsibilities; I was already stretched thin.
• I didn’t want to wrestle with office politics; I wanted to step away from them.
• I didn’t want more meetings; I wanted to do work that made a real difference.

The shift behind the noise.

Eventually, the world caught up to this quiet realization.

Lately, I’ve watched a broader movement unfold: leaders stepping back into individual contributor roles or leaving traditional corporate environments altogether. As AI reshapes organizations through constant restructuring, never-ending layoffs, and shifting job scopes, the familiar playbook for career growth is transforming into something new—and unsettling.

What’s left underneath all these shifts is surprisingly simple.

We humans want good relationships.

We want our health back.

We want financial security.

We want to lead and live with purpose.

We want to feel like ourselves again.

Not just a bigger title or a broader scope, but a life that actually fits who we are, and who we are becoming.

Unlearning high-functioning overdrive.

I grew up with a productivity-first mindset. Downtime felt dangerous. Rest felt like falling behind. If I wasn’t doing, I wasn’t worthy.

Somewhere along the way, we started measuring our self-worth by the density of our calendars and the weight of our titles.

But a mid-career identity shift asks a harder question: Who are you when you strip all of that away?

The most important work I’ve done—the work that actually changed me—wasn't a promotion.

It was learning to separate my identity from other people’s expectations. I stopped tethering my worth to a company or a job title and started asking with real conviction:

Who do I actually want to be in this phase of my life?

I am deeply grateful for my support network and the “freedom funds” I intentionally built that gave me the choice to step away, and the space to create new pathways for myself and others.

This way, we can live by design, not by default.

A collective awakening.

Recent industry data confirms what so many of us are feeling internally. Recent workplace studies, including insights from LeanIn.Org and McKinsey & Company, highlight a growing shift in workplace dynamics: a widening gap where fewer women are pursuing traditional promotion paths compared to men, driven largely by systemic burnout and structural friction rather than a lack of capability or drive.

I soon realized: stepping back isn't a lack of drive. It’s an awakening to the true cost of navigating that friction every single day.

It isn’t an ambition flaw to fix. It’s a transition toward greater self-honesty and self-compassion.

For those of you who resonate with my story, take a deep breath.

If you don't want "more" right now:

• You’re not ungrateful.
• You’re not broken.
• You’re not falling behind.
• You’re not alone.

You're just human.

P.S. If a friend or colleague came to mind while reading this, consider forwarding this essay to them. Sometimes the best gift we can give another woman is letting her know she isn’t alone.

P.P.S. Let’s keep the conversation going. Join me on LinkedIn — let’s connect there!​