Unsubscribed

Still showing up. Just not buying it anymore.

Lately, I’ve felt like I’m disappearing. Not because I stopped working. Not because I stopped caring. But because something in me… quietly unsubscribed.

From the narrative.From the hustle.From the idea that if I work hard enough, care deep enough, and lead thoughtfully enough, it will all just… work out.

It hasn’t. And I know I’m not alone.

I’m still working—part-time, leading operations at an agency I genuinely respect, with people I like. I’m doing good work with a team that trusts me. But even that—the good version of work—doesn’t fully shield me from what’s happening.

Because it’s not just the job, it’s the world we’re working inside.

What I used to believe

I’ve been doing this for a long time. I’ve led teams, built communities, coached leaders, and delivered real outcomes. I’ve written books, made podcasts, built frameworks, and advised clients through absolute chaos. I’ve also lost sleep over things like Jira tickets and emoji tone. That’s the work.

I still believe in the work, in leading well, in helping people talk to each other like humans, and in clarity, accountability, and collaboration.

But lately, that belief feels more like muscle memory than conviction.

We’re all showing up to jobs that no longer reflect the world we’re living in. We’re being asked to perform stability when the ground is clearly moving under our feet. And we’re told to just… adapt. Keep going. Smile through the layoffs, the budget cuts, and the pressure to do more with less (and less, and less).

We’re expected to align when what we actually need is to be honest about how far we’ve drifted.

The truth I’m sitting with

I’m part-time, raising two teenagers, and holding my breath every day, hoping the numbers work out. Spoiler: they often don’t. I’ve lost the version of life I used to have, and it’s sad and, frankly, a little embarrassing. Not because I’m ashamed—but because we still pretend this stuff is private. Like being scared makes us less professional.

The economy is brittle. My industry—creative leadership, digital operations, people-first consulting—is being sliced and automated into nothing. I’m staring down 50, wondering if I’ll ever be hired again. Not because I’m not good. But because good doesn’t seem to matter the way it used to.

We’ve trained machines to mimic us. We’ve trained ourselves to be… replaceable.

And yet—I’m still here. Still refreshing inboxes. Still mentoring younger team members. I still believe there’s a better way to lead. Still giving a damn when everyone else is detaching.

It’s exhausting.

And if you're reading this, I’m guessing you feel it too.

So I unsubscribed.

Not from work.Not from leadership.Not from hope.

I unsubscribed from the story.

The one that says:

• Burnout is your fault.
• Vulnerability is a liability.
• Empathy is nice, but ROI is nicer.
• Your value is in question.
• You can have a meaningful career if you get better at pretending things are fine.
• You’re alone in these feelings.

I unsubscribed because that version of success no longer fits.

I unsubscribed because even though I love the work, I don’t love who I have to be to survive inside the system right now.

And yet—I’m still subscribed to you. The ones who are still here, still showing up with half a heart and a whole lot of honesty. The ones grieving something they can’t even name. The ones wondering if the dream now is a tiny house, a minimum wage job, and finally being able to breathe again.

Same.

What this is

This is the first post in a series I’m calling Unsubscribed.

It’s not self-help. It’s not brand strategy. It’s not a funnel to a downloadable PDF on how to fix your team.

It’s something slower. And, I hope, more real.

I’ll be writing about:

• Leading when your own future feels shaky
• Being experienced and invisible at the same time
• What it means to quietly grieve the life you used to have
• Dreaming of starting over—and wondering if that’s actually progress
• Supporting a team while parenting through your own unraveling
• Logging on when you’re already checked out
• Holding truths you haven’t shared yet (but might)

And yeah, some of these will still have some bite. I’m still angry. But I’m not writing from rage—I’m writing from the refusal to pretend anymore. From the desire to connect, not compete. To collaborate, not collapse. To say what’s true, even if it’s messy.

If you’ve unsubscribed too...

You’re not broken.You’re paying attention.You still care—even if you’re tired. Even if you’ve gone a little quiet. Even if the systems that once felt exciting now feel alien.

I see you.

If anything I’ve said sounds like your internal monologue, I hope you’ll stick around for what’s next. Read, reply, share, scream into a pillow—I’m here for all of it.

The work isn’t working.But maybe we can find something else.Maybe we can build something different.Something honest. And still good.

Even now.