“What's my definition of success?” - is a question I've been asking myself a lot lately. Let's just say, I've spent a lot of my twenties worrying about either securing a job, holding down a job or getting promoted. It is the way of the world, or at least of the capitalist (first) world. I'll be honest, being stuck in a loop of big name but dead-end editorial internships after graduation was the biggest insecurity of my twenties. Why couldn't I just get hired?!
And in a way it hit me hard as the first properly capitalist generation following my parents (raised in communism) and grandparents (who knew nothing other than communism, for better or for worse). To my grandparents jobs seem to have just been given, as were flats, and they weren't special in any way.
The goal of getting a prestigious job at some shiny institution was all I could often think about, trying my best to prove my money-earning use as a worthy citizen in this new (to my origins) world and also as a girl in a still largely patriarchal society. In my mind if I wasn't working, I wasn't successful. If I couldn't answer the “and what do you do?” question with true satisfaction, I was a failure. My inner voice/critic was merciless.
And so, after bashing my naive metaphorical wings against as many walls as I could handle in editorial, my first full-time job ended up being in a real-life Devil Wears Prada kind of office (let's call it A&B consultancy, named after demigorgon A and demigorgon B, respectively), with the sole difference of the industry being arts PR and not at all my dream destination. It is the kind of industry that’s limited almost exclusively to a demographic of women, typically capped at child-bearing age when their ability to attend limitless out-of-hours functions and take long-haul flights ends.
It wasn't patriarchal in a way I had anticipated. If anything it often felt like a boarding school for girls, with all of its politics and mind games. I remember being sent home like a naughty schoolgirl to get changed out of what was deemed an exposing outfit that gave away too much flesh for a certain function involving a certain Lord. I remember trembling every time I picked up the phone (which was a lot of the time, given that being the first point of contact for the office was one of my main duties!) because we weren't allowed to ask for people's full names under no circumstances. It was a guessing game for someone pretty unfamiliar with the contemporary art world at the time (and also coming fresh from another quirky office experience, where phones were to be picked up but almost never transferred, out of principle). But back to the A&B consultancy:
"It's not that kind of office. When people call here, they don't expect questions. You just KNOW".
-"OK, Anish, I will put you through now."
But what if it was some Daisy Nobody cold calling to sell their latest printer cartridges? Or worse - a namesake!! Eyerolls and tutting from A, daggers from B.
"It's our new girl. I'm ever so sorry. You know what they're like."
I remember B giving lengthy instructions to employee X from her static Ice Queen asana fused to her desk, having failed to turn her head and notice the empty chair of the addressed employee, MIA on holiday for about a week at least. I wonder if B ever wondered why the instruction was never followed...
I had a lot to learn and a lot of extra layers of that thicker skin to grow. Lunches were complimentary: a benign gesture but in reality a disguise for keeping the staff pinned to the phone wire for fear of missing that all important call. Which one? They all were. And so you were in this non-stop fight-or-flight loop, even while gobbling down some fancy piece of chargrilled artichoke from an overpriced local deli. And don't you dare put your five cents into a conversation and try small talk around the lunch table. It's not your turn to speak! Tut tut tut. "Ah! I wasn't talking to you." A condescending smile follows. “She'll learn.”
There were rare glimpses of jovial non-chalance:
-"Any excitements?” - I never knew how to begin answering that question…
And even of dialogue:
-"You celebrate Christmas in January?! In this country we take the trees down by the 12th night. Ever heard of that? Ah!”
…
-"Me and my grandson are going to Ypres.”
-”What's Ypres?”
Demigorgon A turns to face the room now but gesturing in my direction as if to frame my ignorance: “And this, ladies and gentlemen, is your colleague working on a First World War campaign.” It's hard to put it into words but, let's just say, few escaped the culture of bullying and fear at this place without some sort of newly developed stammer, twitch, eczema or other neurotic ailment.
Things improved in the jobs that followed even if being busy, stressed (often) and burnt out (always) was a running theme. They were truly exciting and I even felt “successful”, rubbing elbows with artists and creatives I found awe-inspiring, hosting events at jaw-dropping places, contributing to something bigger and even historic, achieving career milestones, flying over to work in cool places like Miami, Hong Kong and Switzerland. Switzerland…
Switzerland's Basel is a picture of perfect unperturbed life with its polished streets, pristine pharmacies on every corner and people that exude health and wealth. The river that slithers through the city centre that feels unquestionably sterile and inviting for everyone to take a dip in, the turdless shiny pavements you could quite possibly safely lick your food off.
This is where it all began for me. The 180° turn of my definition of success. But not in a way that you'd think. As I was lying on the bed of my Lego-like hotel room, halfway into a business trip, hopelessly sealed windows overlooking the city's railtracks, my heart was pounding in my chest at what felt like a million beats per minute, my airways tightening and barely there suffocating breaths struggling to make their way through. As I was looking at the blank clinical ceiling above me and wishing for the windows to throw themselves open, I lay there motionless, fully convinced that I'm about to die. I was having my first ever panic attack. But even then my brain was running through a list of urgent early morning press deadlines I was due to accomplish on my tiny personal laptop during this work trip. “ASAP” was the word going on repeat in my head. Everything in PR was always “ASAP”. And even now “ASAP” was more important in my head than my own wellbeing. The moment felt like forever.
Little did I know that what was about to die instead was the tireless people pleaser in me, the socially anxious "yes" woman. It was I - rather than my then employer who I'd curse for underresourcing and for pushing my boundaries - who was the sole orchestrator of this crisis. It was time to start prioritising my own needs and living in alignment with who I truly was. It was time to start saying “no” to taking my then male boss’ suitcase up to the hotel because he had to rush off to a meeting. It was time to say “no” to business trips and favours for the team that involved working two weekends in a row, missing my periods due to stress and a drastic change of time zones and… well… to panic attacks in Basel. Oh how I wish to go back in time as my current self and talk to the girl I was.
So where does all this leave me now, as a full-time mum, with my definition of success? With not much to show for by way of an income and a career on pause, I feel ironically more successful than ever. I feel successful for prioritising my own needs, my family and my relationships - something I didn't do in my twenties. I feel successful for cementing the building blocks of a future adult's nervous system as a mother. I feel successful for being free from artificial deadlines and paradigms. I feel successful for waking up every morning with a sense of purpose. I feel successful for feeling free for the first time since I was a child.
All of this is not to say that I don't have dreams of one day to be allowed back into the world of working adults, career related self-realisation dreams that I dare not voice here that lull me to sleep some days. I wish I knew how I'd feel now, when I was younger. So I hope that this can be a nudge, a blessing or just a much-needed reminder that YOU should always be your number one priority, your needs and your boundaries. A reminder to not be hard on yourself, to reassess your idea of success often, to love yourself endlessly and to not let the expectations of others to ever make you feel small.
I might regret writing this in the morning but, more than anything, I would regret not trying to remind others of all this. And what is your definition of success? I'd love to hear your thoughts.
I hope the morning came and you had no regrets about writing this. Such a beautiful and lovely read.
It is never a waste to throw that bottle in the sea full of meaningful words!
I hope you feel refreshed about posting this. This piece can now serve anytime. Thanks for sharing!
I ask myself this question often and I have a mantra which is the definition of Earl Nightingale "Success is a progressive realization of a worthy ideal".
Just that dynamic of progress and worthy ideal keeps me going on the path. The moment I am progressing that is success. The reminder of it in those days of doubt can heal for a long time.
I believe redefining what success means at each turning point in our life gives us space to project and march toward that organic and transformative-worthy ideal.