Diary of a 20-something Nigerian; why i quit my job, and why i don’t regret it
Well.
It’s been a long minute, but I’m back.
My god, how I’ve missed writing — and I hope you gentle readers are still interested in reading convoluted ramblings about my life.
I’m not sure I explained this, but I haven’t published in so long because of my job and how demanding it was.
Was, because I quit a few days ago.
It’s been a rollercoaster, and I’m kinda scared of talking about it because some part of me is like damn, what if I get sued (by my former company) for defamation?
But an equally important consideration is, Odeshi, Dear.
So, let’s talk a bit about what happened.
If you’ve been reading from the start of this journal, you should remember when I got interviewed and landed this job.
Man, was I happy.
I’d been searching for a job for a couple of months and had finally gotten one. I wouldn’t go home after NYSC and be a bag of rice — I’d finally be making my own money, the start of my independence.
The role was news editor of an online publication, a small start-up founded in the last two years, and it seemed perfect — small, close-knit, young.
I poured myself into it, determined to prove to myself and them that even though I was young, I could handle all the responsibility of managing writers, meeting deadlines and keeping up with the news.
I naturally get a lot of pleasure from being good at things, I love being competent and being seen for that, so I gave 110%, and even though I wasn’t the most experienced at the role, under the guidance of my supervisor (the senior editor), and with the force of my tenacity, I got awarded employee of the month after two months.
Mehn, the ginger was there — I was feeling good about myself and the role, maybe a bit tired, but my savings were growing, and my ego was bolstered.
I decided that I would be at this job for a year before I started looking for something else. I even contributed to a book project during this, and when it was published, I was so proud of myself,
But after the fourth month, things went downhill.
I’d heard people talk about it, but never imagined it could be so… bleak.
That is the word — bleak. Like this yawning chasm of tiredness and emptiness.
Burn out.
I was perpetually tired, not sleeping well, having strange headaches, always, always anxious.
And I’m an overthinker on a normal, but this was crazy.
Everything was work; my life was consumed with it, with my laptop, with publishing stories, with meetings and MPRs and KPIs. I was drowning quite spectacularly.
It was like I’d been sailing smoothly, so caught up in the splendour of the sea and the rush of the breeze, that I didn’t look down to see that there was a leak in my hull, and I was slowly sinking.
I’d wake up and genuinely not want to be alive.
Wow, as I’m writing all of this out, I’m now realizing how bad it really sounds.
Anyways.
I opened my eyes, and the first thought was, I have to get through this workday somehow.
Now, let me add some context.
For the first three months of the job (my probation period), I worked every day of the week.
Monday to Sunday, rinse and repeat.
I managed four writers, edited their work and pushed them to achieve their monthly goals.
Each writer is meant to put out a minimum of five news articles every day, so I was vetting and editing roughly 20 news stories daily.
My work hours were from 8am to 9pm on weekdays, then 9am to 12 pm and 4pm to 7pm on weekends.
This means that for three months, I worked roughly 70 hours a week.
Around that (three-month) mark was when I realized, omo, something needs to give here o.
I didn’t have time for anything else apart from work, and the salary wasn’t that amazing either.
I was getting paid just a little over a traditional graduate salary, and I was doing so much work and had this many responsibilities.
I was not informed about the work schedule when I started, and the blame also partly falls on me.
I made the mistake of assuming it would be a traditional 9–5, a very silly mistake.
In turn, my employers didn’t inform me of this till I was neck deep already.
I was working 7-day, 70-hour work weeks.
In my fourth month, my supervisor then decided on weekly off days; alternating between Saturday or Sunday every week, he would cover for me.
That made things very slightly easier, but by the time the fourth month ended, I was already burnt out.
I hated the job, meetings gave me anxiety, and receiving notifications unsettled me — because it was almost always work — I was exhausted all the time and had no time for myself or anyone else.
I made an effort to find myself in my body and my spirituality, with yoga, meditation, journaling, and regular workouts, but they didn’t help much. And I would feel bad about myself when I couldn’t muster the strength to do these things. So, I was in great shape outwardly, but I was dying inside.
Such a juxtaposition, hm?
Anyway, I then decided that okay, before the end of the year, I’d quit and take some time to rest.
I thought by November or December, I’d leave.
Man really plans and god laughs o, very crazy stuff.
I decided to speak to HR about how I was feeling; burnt out, under-compensated, used and undervalued.
He said he would speak to my supervisor, and they’d determine if I was really overworked or not, and what could be done about it. He also said a salary increase was out of the question, but he would take my concerns into consideration.
A few weeks later, I asked him if there was any update, and he said they didn’t think I was overworked, and I needed to craft “techniques and strategies to make work easier” for myself, and I should talk to my supervisor, (who, by the way, had a shitty, standoffish, unencouraging attitude most of the time.) who would help me out.
That morning, I had cried over how unhappy and stressed I was, and been looking forward to at least something being done about it, and reading that message sort of snapped something inside me.
That was the day I decided I was done.
It’s such a freeing feeling, realizing that you have autonomy, and your life is your own.
Of course, I’m not excusing the privilege I have, I’m still living in my dad’s house and we’re not struggling, I don’t pay rent or really feed myself (apart from going out to lunch with friends), I have some money saved personally, and I do not have any responsibilities to anyone but myself.
But it was amazing to remember that I voluntarily applied for this job — I’m not being forced to work here, I chose this myself.
So, I would unchoose, simply because I could.
I think that, even more than material things, experiences and other stuff, the ability to simply choose, is one of the most beautiful things about life, and I am so grateful I have that.
So, I decided I was done with that shitty job, done with my asshole supervisor, done with the manipulative HR (during my exit interview he said that he had been calling my bluff, and didn’t think I’d actually resign — my resignation had been a shock to him. He then tried to offer me another role in the company, but I’d sooner have sold all the land my family owned than work in that company again) and done with the anxiety I felt every day about work.
I decided in July that August would be my last month in that place.
Sent in my 30-day notice and it felt like the days were taunting me with how slowly they were going, but they passed and now I’m done.
So, these past seven months have taught me a few things:
Always ask for a specific (if possible, hourly) schedule of what a job would look like BEFORE you accept it.
If you have the option to, prioritize work-life balance, because at some point you will become suicidal and start asking yourself why you put yourself there (been there, almost committed, it’s not fun).
Work on your portfolio, passion projects, freelance work, or something. Don’t let your one job consume your whole life, I promise you, it’s not worth losing touch with the things you enjoy doing.
I’ve also learnt that I’m an incredibly determined person when it comes down to it, and I can really do anything I want to, but it’s also important to know when to use this determination, and when to let go.
I’ve always been an agreeable person in general, and as you know if you’ve read other entries, I’ve made a lot of headway in dispelling that personality trait, especially when it means standing up to authority or superiors. I still have a long way to go, because I’m still not as rebellious as I’d like to be, but baby steps.
Speaking up for myself multiple times and leaving when I wasn’t accommodated is one of the things I’m most proud of, I can’t lie.
I am anxious — what if I don’t get another job? what if I don’t make any more money, what if I start to feel like a failure? but I love myself too much to remain in that situation.
I wouldn’t advise any of my friends to remain at such a job, so why should I, the light of the world, talented, beautiful writer that I am, and the apple of my Mother’s eye, now remain in such a position?
It’s not done.
Anyway, I think I’ve ranted enough, and believe me, there’s still so much that I didn’t write here, but if I did, we’d be here for two days.
Thank you for reading, thank you for being, and I hope this entry made sense.
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