I Got the Good Job, the Salary, and the Title — Then Thought, "Now What?
What two degrees, six figures, and a $700 shoebox apartment taught me about chasing external validation — and the moment I realized I was standing in my own way.
When Doing Everything Right Still Feels Like Square One
I used to grocery shop every day.
Not because I needed anything. Because I had nowhere to be and no money to spend. Walking the aisles gave me something to do with my hands while I figured out what went wrong.
I had two degrees. I’d lived in Scotland. I’d bartended, freelanced, moved to Boston for a fresh start, quit jobs that were making me miserable, and then left for Europe when nothing stuck. I was doing things. And somehow I kept ending up back at square one — or what felt like it — standing in a grocery store with $40 in my budget, trying to figure out what was on sale.
The thing I told myself was: you just need to get a real job. A good one. One that sounds impressive, pays well, and makes all this worth it.
So I did. Eventually. Six figures. Benefits. A title that played well at dinner parties.
And I remember thinking — okay. Now what?
I Wasn't Chasing a Career. I Was Chasing Proof.
Proof that the degrees were worth it. That the moves made sense. That the failed jobs and the $700 shoebox apartment and the boss who looked at me and said “I thought you’d know more” — that all of it added up to something. Something other people (and I) could look at and go, oh yes, she figured it out.
And then something started to actually work. Friends were sharing my blog and social media. Strangers were commenting. People wanted more. And I got scared and quietly stopped. Not because I ran out of things to say, but because I felt the pressure to make it all look effortless. Like the degrees, the moves, and the hustle were all clicking into place.
I was tapdancing loudly.
But on the inside? I was grocery shopping every day to see what was on sale. I was commuting three hours for a job I was starting to hate. I was living in a $700 shoebox and trying to shove all of that into a caption that made it look intentional.
What people saw was a highlight reel. And the audience I was performing for? Mostly in my head.
The proof I needed was never going to come from outside. I was the one standing in my way.
I was the mountain.
The Pattern: Performing for an Audience That Isn't Watching
It’s why I called my layoff a sabbatical — gave it a clean name, a narrative arc, something that would make sense to other people before I’d even figured out what was wrong (it was burnout, I was burnt out).
It’s why I stayed in a job, telling myself, “Give it five years; this is your ticket out.” When in reality, I was putting the power in their hands and forgetting to build my own thing. It’s why I dimmed my light every time something started to gain momentum. Got too visible, got scared, quietly retreated.
The validation I was chasing was never going to come from outside. Not from the title, not from the salary, not from the people pointing at my Instagram going look at everything she’s doing.
What I actually needed was to show up for myself. And I kept outsourcing that job to everyone but me.
How to Nurture Instead of Perform (And What That Actually Looks Like)
You need to nurture, not perform.
Okay, cool Renée but what does that actually look like?
I gotcha you…
Name the audience. When you feel the urge to package something before it’s ready, ask yourself, ‘Who am I actually doing this for? Is this person real? Are they watching?’ Often, the answer is no.
Let the process be ugly. I tried to turn my healing into content before I’d even started healing. It didn’t work because I wasn’t ready. And more importantly, I was still optimizing instead of feeling. Give yourself permission to be in it before you document it.
Build evidence that you can survive being seen. Every post, every vulnerable admission, every time I share something imperfect — that’s a rep. And each rep proves I can handle it. The vulnerability hangover afterward? That’s just my nervous system catching up to my growth. The cringe is proof I showed up.
Stop waiting until someday. I used someday as a defense. A way to stay safe. Someday after I’ve made enough, done enough, suffered enough, proven enough. But someday is just a lie we tell ourselves.
The life you want isn't waiting on the other side of the right job, the right audience, or the right moment.
It's waiting on the other side of you.
You are the mountain. And the only way is up and over.
