The Prison I Built Myself
Leaving corporate life and breaking free from the golden handcuffs I chose to wear.
The Decision That Took 10 Years to Make
Almost 18 months ago, I walked away from my career as a Company Secretary. Not dramatically. Not with a resignation letter full of righteous fury or a LinkedIn post announcing my next big venture. Just quietly, with trembling hands and a knot in my stomach that wouldn’t go away.
I remember sitting in yet another meeting, watching people perform, because that’s what so much of corporate life is, performance, and feeling utterly hollow. The title on my CV said I’d made it. The salary said I was successful. But something fundamental had broken inside me, and I couldn’t ignore it anymore.
But let me back up, because this story doesn’t start with leaving. It starts with a younger version of me who believed that hard work and talent would be enough.
The Climb
For almost 10 years, I climbed. And climbed. And climbed.
I worked the long hours, not occasionally, but consistently. The kind where you leave before your partner wakes up and come home after they’ve gone to bed. The kind where weekends blur into weekdays and you’re answering emails at 11 p.m. because that’s just what you do when you’re proving yourself.
I moved cities and countries. Multiple times. Each move a step up the ladder, each new role a validation that I was capable, that I could handle more responsibility, that I was going places. I was young and ambitious, and I wanted people to see what I could do. I wanted to prove that age was just a number, that competence mattered more than years of experience.
And in many ways, I succeeded. I got the promotions. The opportunities. The recognition.
What I didn’t realise was the cost I was accumulating. Not just in time or energy, but in something harder to quantify. In the person I was becoming.
A Particular Chapter
There’s a chapter of my career I don’t talk about much. A particular environment in a particular place where I learned lessons I never wanted to learn.
On paper, it was a fantastic opportunity. In reality, it was a masterclass in corporate toxicity that I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
I worked alongside narcissists and ego maniacs who had perfected the art of appearing supportive while systematically undermining anyone they perceived as a threat. These were people who would champion you in public and sabotage you in private. Who would smile warmly during your successes and then quietly poison the well when your competence made them look inadequate by comparison.
The thing about toxic environments is that they teach you survival skills you never wanted to learn. I learned to keep my cards close to my chest. I learned that “collaboration” often meant “share your ideas so I can take credit for them.” I learned that office friendships rarely survive when someone’s position is threatened.
I learned, painfully, that most people are looking out for themselves. And while that sounds cynical, it’s simply true in many corporate environments, and perhaps even naive of me to think otherwise. The incentive structures reward self-interest. The political dynamics punish vulnerability. The culture celebrates individual achievement while preaching teamwork.
You might find genuine people who turn into friends, hidden gems who operate with integrity and actually have your back. I’ve met them. Less than a handful in 10 years. The kind of people who have lasted the test of time because they’re rare enough to be precious.
But they are few and far between.
Coming Home
Gelli and I got married, and we decided to move back to the UK. Fresh start, we thought.
If only it were that simple.
I moved house three times in rapid succession, the kind of instability that makes you feel untethered just when you need roots most. As a newly married couple, we should have been enjoying that honeymoon phase of building a life together. Instead, I was drowning in paperwork for Gelli’s spouse visa.
We spent nearly a year apart. Newly married, separated by immigration requirements, exorbitant cost, and long processing times, video calling when we should have been falling asleep next to each other.
Then my mum was diagnosed with cancer.
The call came on an ordinary day. The kind of day where you’re worried about meeting deadlines and managing stakeholder expectations, and then suddenly none of that matters because your mum has cancer and needs surgery to remove part of her lung.
I remember trying to focus in meetings after that. Trying to care about corporate governance issues and board papers and compliance frameworks while my mum was facing her mortality. Trying to be professional while my personal world was crumbling.
And then, because apparently the universe has a dark sense of humour, I was in a car accident on moving day.
Nothing life-threatening, but enough to add another layer of stress, another thing to deal with, another reminder that I was juggling too much and doing none of it well.
Through all of this, I kept going to work. Kept performing. Kept pretending that everything was fine because that’s what you do in the corporate world.
You don’t bring your problems to the office. You don’t let them see you struggling. You maintain the facade.
But inside, I was breaking.
The Fear
Here’s what nobody tells you about walking away: the fear doesn’t wait until you’ve made the decision. It starts much earlier.
I’d been thinking about leaving for a while. Months, maybe even years if I’m honest with myself. But being a Company Secretary was all I knew. It was my identity, my expertise, the thing I’d invested a decade of my life building.
And it came with financial security. The kind of salary that lets you live comfortably, save easily, make plans without constantly checking your bank balance. The kind of compensation package that becomes a very comfortable prison.
“Golden handcuffs, they call it. And they’re not wrong.”
I was terrified of losing that security. Terrified of not knowing who I was without the title. Terrified of making the wrong decision and regretting it forever.
Gelli was supportive. Genuinely, completely supportive. She saw what the work was doing to me, saw the toll it was taking, and told me: she’d rather have less money and more of me.
But everyone else? They said they were supportive. Used all the right words. “You have to do what’s right for you.” “Life’s too short to be miserable.” “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
But I could see it in their eyes. The confusion. The judgment. The unspoken question: “Why would you walk away from all of this?”
They thought I’d lost my mind. And maybe I had.
The Leap
Eventually, you reach a point where staying becomes more terrifying than leaving.
I handed in my notice. My hands were shaking. My voice was steady, years of corporate training had taught me how to project confidence even when I felt none, but inside I was screaming.
What am I doing? Do I have a plan? What if this is the biggest mistake of my life?
I didn’t have answers. I just knew I couldn’t keep doing what I was doing.
The First Year
If you’re expecting me to tell you that everything was amazing after I left, that I felt immediately liberated and free and fulfilled, I’m going to disappoint you.
The first year was brutal.
The anxiety hit first. The constant, gnawing anxiety that I’d made a catastrophic mistake. That I’d thrown away a successful career for… what exactly? That I should go back, apologise, try to undo what I’d done.
Then came the panic. The 3 a.m. wake-ups where I’d check my bank balance and calculate how long we could survive. The moments where I’d see a job posting and feel physically ill with the temptation to apply, to go back to what I knew.
Recruiters started calling. Good positions. The kind I would have killed for a few years earlier. Companies that wanted my expertise, my experience, my decade of knowledge.
And I had to decline.
Each time felt like closing a door. Each time felt like choosing uncertainty over security. Each time felt terrifying.
The financial reality set in quickly. Money doesn’t replenish automatically when you’re not on a corporate salary. Every pound spent is a pound you have to think about, plan for, justify.
We learned what we’d been spending on things we didn’t need. The subscription services we’d forgotten about. The convenience purchases that added up. The lifestyle inflation that had crept in unnoticed when money was flowing freely.
Now, saving for something takes time. Real time. You can’t just buy it, you have to plan for it, wait for it, make trade-offs for it.
And here’s the strange thing: you appreciate it more.
When you have to save for months for something, it means more when you finally get it. There’s a satisfaction in delayed gratification that instant purchasing never quite delivers.
But the fear never fully goes away. There’s always that voice asking: “Do we have enough? What if we run out? What if this freelance work dries up?”
Somehow, though, you get through it. The money comes together when it needs to. Not abundantly, not easily, but enough.
What I’ve Been Doing
People ask me what I’ve been doing since I left. It’s a reasonable question, but I never quite know how to answer it.
The truth is: I’ve been doing freelance work. Contract projects here and there, enough to keep money coming through the door. It’s not glamorous. It’s not a clear narrative. It’s not “I left corporate to start my dream business” or “I’m now pursuing my passion for X.”
It’s messier than that. It’s figuring things out as I go. It’s taking opportunities that make sense financially even if they don’t fit a neat story.
And that’s been one of the hardest parts, not having a clean narrative. We live in a world of LinkedIn success stories and clear career pivots. My story is muddier. More uncertain. More human, perhaps, but harder to explain.
The Ongoing Cost
My mum recovered from her first cancer. The surgery was successful, and we were cautiously optimistic.
And then it came back.
Different location this time, her kidney. They had to remove it. And her health continues to decline in ways that break my heart.
I think about the years I spent climbing the corporate ladder, the time I sacrificed, the energy I poured into work while she was healthy and well. Time I can’t get back now.
I’m not saying I regret my career, that would be too simple. But I am saying that trade-offs are real, and you don’t always realise what you’re trading away until it’s gone.
The Harsh Truths
If I’m being completely honest, here’s what a decade in corporate life taught me:
“The hardest prisons to escape are the ones we build ourselves.”
The job title that becomes your identity. The salary that dictates your choices. The trajectory that feels inevitable because you’ve invested so much already.
Corporate environments often reward self-interest over integrity. Not always, not everywhere, but often enough that it shapes the culture. People learn to play the game because the game rewards those who play it well.
“We’re a family here” is one of the most dangerous phrases in business. It usually means they expect family-level loyalty and sacrifice from you, but will make business decisions about you without hesitation.
Financial security can become the most expensive thing you own when it prevents you from making choices that would improve your life.
Geographic mobility for career advancement sounds great in theory, cosmopolitan, ambitious, growth-oriented. In practice, it often means rootlessness, strained relationships, and a constant low-level instability that wears you down over years.
Success, as defined by titles and compensation, can be incredibly lonely. People watch you, judge you, have opinions about your choices. But genuine support, the kind where someone actually has your back with no agenda, is rare.
Most people aren’t your friends at work, even when it feels like they are. The relationships rarely survive beyond the shared context. And that’s not necessarily anyone’s fault, it’s just the nature of relationships built on proximity and shared professional interest rather than genuine connection.
What I Know Now
Eighteen months out, I don’t have inspirational platitudes about following your dreams or finding your passion or living your best life.
Some days I still wonder if I made the right call. Some days I see former colleagues progressing in their careers and feel a pang of something, envy? regret?, that I’m not on that path anymore.
But here’s what I do know:
I’m sleeping better. Not every night, but more nights than before.
I’m present with Gelli in a way I wasn’t when I was constantly exhausted and mentally elsewhere.
I notice things I used to miss, the weather, the seasons changing, the texture of ordinary days that aren’t just gaps between work obligations.
The anxiety and panic have lessened. They’re still there, but they’re different. It’s the anxiety of uncertainty rather than the anxiety of being trapped.
And perhaps most importantly: I’ve learned that I’m more than my job title. It’s taken 18 months to start believing that, and I’m still working on it, but it’s a revelation nonetheless.
What Comes Next
Gelli and I are moving to South East Asia soon.
We don’t have every detail figured out. We don’t have a five-year plan or a clear career trajectory or a guaranteed income stream.
We’re going to figure it out along the way.
A younger version of me would have been horrified by that lack of certainty. The version of me who colour-coded spreadsheets and managed risk matrices and needed to have contingency plans for contingency plans.
But I’ve learned something in the past 18 months:
“Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is admit you don’t have all the answers and move forward anyway.”
I don’t know what my path will look like in five years. Maybe I’ll find myself back in a Company Secretary role in some capacity, I’m not closing that door forever. The skills are still there, the knowledge hasn’t disappeared, and you never know what opportunities might arise that align better with who I am now.
Or maybe I’ll build something entirely different. Maybe the freelance work will evolve into something more substantial. Maybe I’ll discover interests I never had time to explore before.
The point is: I don’t know. And I’m finally okay with not knowing.
Why I’m Sharing This
I’m writing this because I wish someone had been honest with me 10 years ago about what the climb actually costs.
Not to discourage ambition, ambition isn’t the enemy. But to encourage a more honest reckoning with the trade-offs.
I’m writing this for anyone sitting in a meeting feeling hollow, wondering if there’s more to life than the next promotion.
For anyone who’s been told they’re crazy to even consider walking away from security.
For anyone who’s built their identity around their career and is terrified of finding out who they are without it.
I don’t have answers for you. But I can tell you this: the fear is real, the struggle is real, the financial pressure is real.
And it’s still possible. It’s still worth considering. It’s still your choice to make.
Whatever you decide, I hope you make it consciously. I hope you count the real costs, not just the financial ones. I hope you have people around you who will support you even when they think you’re making a mistake.
And I hope you find your version of peace, whatever that looks like.
For me right now, it looks like I’ll be backpacking South East Asia, taking freelance work that pays the bills, visiting my family while I still can, and slowly, very slowly, learning to build a life rather than a career.
The chapter isn’t closed. It’s just evolving. And for the first time in a decade, I’m okay with not knowing exactly how it ends.
But I will say this: the version of your life you keep putting off until things settle down, until the timing is better, until you’ve saved a bit more, until you feel ready, that version doesn’t arrive on its own.
At some point you have to go and find it.
That’s what this is. Come along if you want.
Go Chartless.
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