The silent grief of career pivots
The pits and falls of the road less taken
Winner of International Creative Writing Grand Prize
My friend quit his consulting job last year to start a pottery studio.
His LinkedIn announcement got 2,000 likes. Comments saying “so brave” and “living the dream.” His parents went quiet for three weeks. Not angry. Just quiet. That kind of quiet that’s worse than anger.
Both reactions were true. He was brave. And his parents weren’t wrong either. They remembered something the LinkedIn crowd didn’t — he’d spent eight years building something, and now he was walking away from it.
We’ve learned to celebrate the pivot. We haven’t learned to hold the full weight of what it costs.
The standard advice is basically correct. Follow your curiosity. Skills transfer. It’s never too late.
But it’s true the way “just be yourself” is true. Correct, but missing the hard part.
The hard part isn’t logistics. It’s that you have to kill someone to change careers.
The version of you who was going to make senior partner by fifty. The one who knew exactly what to say at industry events. The one your parents described to relatives with that specific pride that comes from a legible answer to “what does your son do?”
That person doesn’t pivot with you. That person ends.
Nobody teaches you how to grieve a life you chose to leave.
We have rituals for deaths, divorces, layoffs. We don’t have rituals for “I walked away from something I was good at because it wasn’t enough anymore.” Society doesn’t know where to put that. So you carry it privately, feeling strange about feeling sad, because you’re supposed to be excited.
My friend told me the hardest stretch wasn’t the beginning. It was eight months in. The adrenaline had faded. The pottery studio was harder than expected. Late at night, he started doing the math on what he gave up.
Not because he wanted to go back. But because loss is loss, even when you chose it.
Here’s the part that sounds like freedom but isn’t.
When you follow a traditional path, there are markers. Promotions. Titles. Salary bands. You know if you’re ahead or behind. The race is exhausting, but at least you know which direction to run.
When you step off the path, the markers vanish.
Suddenly you have to decide what success even means. That sounds liberating in a podcast. On a Tuesday afternoon when you’re questioning everything, it’s vertigo. You’ve traded external validation for self-definition, and self-definition is a job nobody pays you for.
Something else nobody mentions: some of your reasons for leaving will turn out to be wrong.
You’ll think you wanted freedom and discover you wanted a different structure. You’ll think you wanted creativity and realize you were just bored. You’ll think you were escaping a toxic environment and find you carried some of the toxicity inside your own head.
This doesn’t mean the pivot was a mistake. It means we’re bad at knowing ourselves in real-time. The stories we tell about why we’re changing are partly true and partly rationalization. You’ll only understand your real reasons years later.
So what do you do with that? You move anyway. But you hold your own narrative lightly.
There’s a loneliness in transitions that nobody warns you about.
Your old colleagues don’t know what to talk to you about anymore. “How’s the pottery going?” The question hangs there, searching for connection across a gap that didn’t exist before.
Meanwhile, in your new world, you’re the beginner. Everyone shares references you weren’t part of. Inside jokes you don’t get. You’re competent enough to be there but not fluent enough to belong.
My friend described it as being a tourist who’s trying to pass as a local. Some days he pulled it off. Most days he felt the difference.
Something that reframed everything for me: linear careers were never really the norm.
Your great-grandfather probably did six different things depending on the season and what the village needed. The idea of one profession for forty years is a twentieth-century invention. A historical blip. Already collapsing.
We’re not entering a strange new world. We’re returning to something older.
The problem is our psychology hasn’t caught up. We still expect a straight line even as the world makes straight lines impossible. That gap — between how careers work now and how we feel they should work — is where most of the suffering lives.
One last thing I keep noticing.
People respond to your pivot in ways that reveal their own unlived lives.
Some are genuinely curious. Your change wakes something up in them.
Some are skeptical in a way that’s actually fear. If you can leave, they can too. That threatens the stability they’ve built around staying.
Some project their own regrets onto you. You become a character in their internal story about risk.
And some disappear. Not from cruelty. They just don’t know how to relate to you without the old context.
My friend lost two close friendships in the first year. Gained three new ones. Different math than he expected.
A non-linear career is not a failure to have a linear one. But it’s also not the breezy adventure it sounds like in interviews.
It’s real losses and real confusion and long stretches where you don’t know if you decided well. It’s also more alive than staying safe.
Both things are true. The freedom and the cost. The excitement and the grief.
If you’re standing at the edge of something right now, you don’t need me to tell you it’s going to be great. You need someone to say: the mess you’re feeling is accurate. Other people have stood here, confused and uncertain. That’s not a bug in the process.
It’s just what it feels like to be between lives.
I like how I can relate this to even career shifts between jobs as well. the uncertainty. the questions and mess one goes through!
Well written, keep inspiring! :)