I Am Not My Job, But I Still Have to Show Up

A Christian woman learns identity, ambition, and restraint in the corporate world

Photo by Jess Bailey on Unsplash

What does it mean if you spend many hours of your Monday morning dreaming about sorting boxes of clothes? There were other details, but a large part of it was just that. Sorting boxes and bags of clothes. Whose clothes? Why was I the sorter?

Anyway.

I spent a good part of my early morning, after turning off my alarm but before fully waking up, thinking about Shakespeare and his “the world is a stage” quote. I am an Assistant Brand Manager stuck in a content writer phase. Well, not as stuck as I was last year, with the back-to-back impostor syndrome, locking myself in restroom stalls to hyperventilate or cry, depending on what was being served that day. Imagine doing content writing for so many years and then suddenly realising you could become so much more. Rude awakening, honestly.

The corporate world teaches you pretence, acting, really. It teaches you how to mask disappointment when you are randomly handed news you were not prepared for. And if you are a Christian, your next prayer session starts sounding like this:

I am not my job. Christ is my identity. My worth is not tied to a job. I am who Christ says I am.

Endless confessions. Mostly to stay rooted. Partly to avoid fully processing the blow that has just landed.

And when you feel overlooked, if you are anything like me, you start overanalysing. Is it just me and my ambition, or is it actually happening? You narrate your life’s ordeal to ChatGPT, and when it says you are not overthinking, you breathe a sigh of relief. Then the Holy Spirit gently points out what you could also do better, which is fair. So you journal. And journal. And take steps back. And almost become an observer when you should be an active participant.

Your next prayer session changes again:

I do things excellently as service to You, my God. I am not deterred. I have Your wisdom. I know what to say and when to hold back.

Things begin to work. It becomes quiet. Suspiciously quiet. Then people start asking what is wrong, because somewhere along the way, you have become distant without meaning to.

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The corporate world teaches you to lie, be diplomatic, they say. When you are asked if you feel undervalued, you weigh your answers carefully, even if the question comes from a friend, because your friend is also your boss. Suddenly, you are learning how to draw lines you did not know you needed. You sieve your thoughts. Even when something feels right to say, you weigh the stone until it becomes a feather.

But it also teaches you to think before acting. To be quick to listen and slow to respond. It teaches you to take what you can and leave the rest. How to present yourself better. Dress better. Carry yourself in rooms where presence matters. It stretches you beyond your comfort zone and shows you how much you do not yet know, and how much you can still learn. Baby steps.

It teaches you to pray more about everything. The little things. The big things. Your feelings. Other people’s feelings. That they see you. That they do not. That gratitude must never leave you. And when your colleagues begin to resign one after the other, with or without another offer, you remember that it is probably not a sign for you. It may not be your cue to leave yet.

The corporate world gives you a yearning for family. Work-life balance becomes your mantra until you are reminded, by a random video someone sends you, that there is no balance anywhere, only priorities. God first. Then family. Maybe the corporate world exists to help realign priorities.

I miss who I was before I realised I needed to open my mouth to survive in a large corporation. Before I left a small publishing house in Ibadan, where pen on paper was enough. Where I simply said, this story works, or yes, that answer is correct.

It teaches you to wrestle with confusion while still delivering results. Maybe everything feels like too much for a girl who believed she would spend her whole life writing and reading. One thing this season has taught me, indirectly, is that this writing gift will not be used for complaints.

More than a corner office, God has given me something beautiful. And as I navigate changing positions and quiet office chess moves, I hope I never lose my sense of wonder. I hope I never lose my sensitivity to the move of God. He brought me here. He will keep me. Bixby play me, *Zion, by Pst Fiyin Adeniyi X Pst David Bentley*… because rejoicing is the only way I will not run mad here.

On another note, yesterday, while out with my friends at the cinema, I realised that Fernandez would fit my name so much.

Will I be on the lookout for a Fernandez? No. That is all.