Man, sometimes you hear a phrase like “Natal Saturn in Pisces Retrograde Career” and it just hits you right in the gut. Like, is that why my career felt like I was swimming against a rip tide for so long? Or maybe, just maybe, I spent way too many years trying to be a martyr for causes that weren’t even mine. Lemme tell you, my career journey? It’s been… a trip. And if yours feels like a constant uphill battle in a swamp, you ain’t alone.
I remember starting out, fresh outta school, full of big dreams but absolutely no clue how to actually make them happen. It was like I had this huge, emotional compass, but it was spinning wildly. Every job I landed, I’d throw myself into it, heart and soul, convinced that if I just worked harder, or cared more, or helped everyone else, my own path would magically clear up. What a naive idiot, right? I picked jobs that needed fixing, situations where people were struggling, and I became the go-to person for all the emotional heavy lifting. It wasn’t in my job description, but somehow, it always became my job. I’d be pouring myself out, day in and day out, only to feel completely drained and still not sure what I was even doing for myself.
There was this one gig, oh man. It was with a startup, all about helping people, real feel-good stuff. But the reality was, the founders were visionaries, sure, but terrible at structure. Everything was vague. “Just do what you think is right,” they’d say. Sounds great, until you realize “what’s right” changes every other day, and you’re the one holding the bag. I worked insane hours, blurring the lines between work and personal life entirely. I was covering for people, taking on tasks way outside my scope, just because I felt bad for the team, or the clients, or the general chaotic state of affairs. I’d try to bring up boundaries, try to get some clarity on my role, but it was like talking to a brick wall. Or maybe a really gentle, understanding, but utterly unmoving brick wall made of fog. Every time I thought I made a clear path, it would just dissipate. I’d feel this deep sense of inadequacy, like I wasn’t spiritual enough, or empathetic enough, or something enough, to just “flow” with it. Nah, it was just bad management and me being a complete pushover.
Then came the burnout. Oh, the sweet, sweet burnout. I hit a wall so hard, it wasn’t even funny. My body just kinda… shut down. I was physically exhausted, emotionally fried, and mentally, I just couldn’t care anymore. It was a really dark period. I remember just staring at the ceiling, wondering what the hell I was even doing with my life. This whole “helping others, sacrificing myself” thing? It just left me empty. That was the real turning point for me. I realized I couldn’t keep doing this. I couldn’t keep giving and giving and have nothing left for myself. It felt like I had to revisit all those early aspirations and figure out what I actually wanted, not what others needed from me.
So, I started pulling back. It wasn’t easy. The first thing I did was actually say “no.” It felt like a foreign language. “No, I can’t take on that extra project.” “No, I won’t respond to emails at 11 PM.” People were shocked, some even annoyed. But for the first time, I felt a tiny bit of power. I then forced myself to get really specific about my roles and responsibilities. If something wasn’t clear, I pushed for clarity. I wrote down what I was supposed to do, what my limits were, and I stuck to it. It felt rigid at first, almost against my nature to be so… structured. But it was necessary. I even took a bit of a sabbatical, just to think, to really get my head straight. It wasn’t a fancy retreat; just me, my journal, and a lot of quiet time trying to figure out what actually lit a fire in me, instead of what just drained me.
I started exploring different fields, things that had a clearer path, less of that nebulous “just go with the flow” vibe. It wasn’t a straight shot, mind you. There were still moments of doubt, moments where I questioned if I was being too selfish, or too focused on “me.” But each time, I reminded myself of that burnout. I remembered that feeling of being completely used up. I focused on building skills that were concrete, things that had a tangible output. It took a long time, years even, of deliberately choosing roles where boundaries were respected and where my contributions were clearly defined. Slowly, painstakingly, I built a career that felt solid, even if it lacked some of the early, grand, idealistic visions I had. It wasn’t about saving the world anymore; it was about doing good work, being compensated fairly, and maintaining my own energy. And you know what? It’s a hell of a lot more sustainable.
