For nearly a decade, I felt like I carried the professional curse of Cassandra, the Trojan princess from Agamemnon. In Greek myth, she could foresee the future but was doomed never to be believed. (It didn't end well.)
Here's why. After college, I thrived in luxury retail. I loved the role, excelled at it, and became the company's top salesperson with innovative ideas to improve operations. Yet, despite my success, head office—and sometimes even store managers—ignored my input. I felt powerless.
So, I moved to head office at a major fashion brand, convinced I'd finally have a voice to drive change. Reality hit hard: interpersonal challenges persisted everywhere. My performance depended on others, and their delays derailed my best efforts.
I pushed forward professionally. 'If you provide sample orders by next week, we avoid rushing during the buying meeting. Please confirm by [date] for next steps,' I'd email bosses. Or: 'This fix ignores X, Y, and Z, risking [future issue].'
Within three months, I'd set a high bar. By six months, exhaustion set in. I foresaw pitfalls but, like the lowest rung on the ladder, couldn't prevent them. Helplessness returned. My career became a cycle of flagging issues bosses dismissed, only for chaos to erupt—leaving me to clean up.
'Don't borrow trouble,' my boss said when I raised concerns. It felt dismissive; I was frustrated and in tears. Little did I know, it was the best career advice I'd receive on handling conflict and my reactions.
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I quit, left New York, and returned to Chicago, taking a job with my dad. DadBoss was great—until it wasn't. I confronted unchangeable workplace realities, including aspects of Dad I couldn't fix.
Something had to shift. His voice echoed: Don't borrow trouble. Yes, 100 slides were excessive for a presentation, but it was his call. I stepped back, stopped reinventing the wheel. Better CRM tools would boost sales efficiency and ease my marketing, but implementation wasn't my power.
I realized I wasted hours on unasked emotional labor, tormenting myself over the uncontrollable. Letting go meant focusing on what I could influence. I might disagree with a decision, but changing it wasn't my role.
When I stopped fixing everything, I learned not all problems need solving.
Initially, it felt like slacking. Gradually, I saw I'd sprinted endlessly on a hamster wheel. Others tolerate what bothers me—like redundancy versus clutter. Piles of paper don't faze me, but manual data imports irk colleagues. Pushing fixes for non-issues frustrated only me.
Related: 15 things you can do to be happier at work
No matter my excellence—or drive to be best—I burned out within 18 months, repeatedly quitting. As I embraced letting go, I stayed over 18 months, researching how to excel and enjoy my job.
Workdays are long; we spend waking hours with non-friends. Complaints signal issues—or boredom. A gripe about a stain isn't a fix request. I let Dad rework my ideas and endured micromanagement (mostly). Quitting 1,000 daily battles freed energy for battles that mattered.
Working for Dad proved unsustainable—it's tough for everyone—but invaluable. I mastered letting go, boosting my happiness. Now, I skip minor fights, sacrificing 'best ever' status to avoid burnout. For the long game, it positions me to drive real change.
Related: 10 career tips for my 21-year-old self
