Me, My Life & Why Part 18

Part 18

It started with a LinkedIn message titled, “Exciting Opportunity, Let’s Connect!”

Which, in the ancient language of corporate nonsense, translates to:

“We saw your nervous breakdown go mildly viral and we think you’d be a good fit for middle management.”

I ignored it.

Naturally.

Because the only thing I was managing lately was the slow decay of my inbox and my steady emotional decline every time someone said “circle back.”

But then they emailed.

A real offer.

A real job.

Senior-level.

Remote flexibility, health benefits, a salary that could actually fix things.

They even said they admired my “authenticity,” which I’m pretty sure is code for “you tweeted about burnout without crying once.”

I read the job description three times.

And for a second, a tiny, traitorous second, I considered it.

It was everything I used to want.

Status. Structure. Stability.

And okay, fine, money.

The kind of money that could finally make bin day reminders someone else’s problem.

But the idea of saying yes made my stomach twist.

Not in a “nerves” kind of way.

In a this tastes like ash and ambition kind of way.

I sat with it.

Made a list.

The pros were obvious:

• Regular income

• Fancy title

• Could probably afford dental without weeping

The cons were harder to explain:

• Would need to reply to emails in a timely fashion

• Would need to pretend to care about KPIs again

• Would need to become a version of me I’d buried, with ceremony and snacks

I didn’t want it.

But I also didn’t trust that.

Because what kind of idiot turns down stability?

What kind of woman says no to the thing her past self would’ve begged for?

I told Alex.

He was quiet. Thoughtful.

Then he said, “If it feels like putting the mask back on, it’s not a job. It’s a regression.”

Which is exactly what I needed and absolutely hated hearing.

I told him I wasn’t sure.

He shrugged and said, “You already said no. You’re just trying to make it sound professional.”

He was right.

I wanted to say yes out of fear.

Out of old wiring.

Out of that dangerous craving for approval and LinkedIn likes and proof that I was still worth something to the productivity gods.

But the me who wanted that?

She was tired.

She was brave, and brilliant, and broken.

She was who I had to be to survive the version of the world I didn’t fit into.

But I don’t want to survive anymore.

I want to live.

So I drafted a response.

Thank you so much for thinking of me.

It’s a generous offer, and I’m truly flattered.

But I’ve spent the last few months rebuilding myself in ways that don’t fit neatly into KPIs.

So I’ll have to pass. I’m choosing life.

Warm regards,

A woman in pyjamas who now owns three types of cereal and zero blazers.

I didn’t send that version.

Obviously.

I sent the polite one.

But I felt the real one in my chest.

And that was enough.