A Burger King commercial convinced 15-year-old me I needed to be in advertising. I was a Type-A, people-pleasing, rule-follower, doing everything to the highest standard, including planning a life and career I didn’t think to question after a 30-second moment.
My career would start at Leo Burnett. I’d work my way up, meet someone, get married at 27, and have kids a few years later.
Life had other plans
I landed in smaller organizations, doing a bit of everything. I worked my way up from marketing associate to director of marketing, where I managed teams and multiple brand budgets totaling more than $1 million.
I was good at my job, and my reviews told the same story. Then, one Thursday afternoon — coming off a successful project — I was called into my boss’s office. He told me restructuring was happening and that I could stay, but would get a pay cut.
I grabbed the severance letter and left, knowing the next time I’d walk in would be my last. Friday morning, I strode confidently into his office, lawyer-reviewed and annotated, signed severance letter in hand.
I’d spent 10 years there, starting as a fresh-faced 20-something with a lot to learn about the business world. It wasn’t my first job, so I wasn’t naive, but I was impressionable. It’s where I learned what success looked like: work hard and don’t rock the boat. I didn’t realize how much unlearning I’d need to do.
By then, I was 35, married just over a year, and knew I’d land on my feet. I did, but not how I expected: my career progressed; my family stalled.
I felt peace during my maternity leave
Almost five years later, I was weeks into maternity leave, thanks to adoption — something I only dreamed of, after seven miscarriages and stillbirths. And, as someone who worked since 14, I was in uncharted territory, without a reliable schedule or routine.
To my shock, I felt an unexpected peace, unbothered by to-do lists, deadlines, or the corporate ladder. I’d never known this me. Priorities were changing, although I hadn’t realized it yet.
I already had a seat at the table and made a name for myself. A win on paper, but what I’d been chasing my whole life no longer fit who I’d become. Sure, I was successful, but was I happy?
Things started to click when I listened to Sheryl Sandberg’s Lean In. What if I don’t want a seat at that table? What if I’m not sure I ever did?
Another five years passed, and it took the birth of two more sons and a re-org for me to finally understand: I didn’t need to stop being successful. I needed a life that actually worked for me.
When I returned from leave after my youngest was born, new leadership with new ideas led to the elimination of my position, but they gave me six weeks’ notice and my laptop.
As I pulled out of the lot that final afternoon, “This Is the Day” by The The started playing. Its chorus was the fight song I didn’t know I needed. As a semi-woo-woo person, I believe in signs. This was one. I almost had to pull over. Instead, I cranked the volume, belted it out — Jerry Maguire-Free Fallin’ style — and headed home to start what’s next.
For years, people had told me they’d “love to hire me… if they had the budget.” I realized that people may not be able to afford a full-time me, but they could afford a project me or a retainer me.
So I built a business around working with good people doing good things.
I needed flexibility as a mom of 3
My business came with an unexpected benefit: flexibility for our three young boys. We’d learn they were neurodivergent, and the oldest two were later diagnosed as ADHD and autistic with a demand-avoidant profile.
As my own boss, I can schedule and participate in their IEP meetings and therapy sessions without needing permission or worrying about time off.
Now “success” looks like being present, owning my time, and working with caring people who trust me to get the job done, family chaos and all.
Some days I work from the couch, the car, on the dock while they fish, or wherever I can grab space and time, even if it’s 11 p.m. And some days, I don’t do any billable work.
My whole life, my idea of success was based on others’ definitions — I didn’t realize I could define my own. My path is messy and far from perfect, but it’s the one that’s mine to create.
Hey, 15-year-old Erin: Surprise, and thanks!
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