I used to believe that hard work could fix anything. That if I cared enough, gave enough, and pushed through every storm, the results would eventually speak for themselves. But a recent experience I had taught me otherwise.
It all began when I applied for an individual contributor role, but after several interview rounds, I was asked if I am up for a leadership role. Do I want to climb the ladder?
I thought hard before I said, “yes”.
I am not sure whether it’s desperation for being unemployed for 8 months since I took a break to care for my daughter or it’s because I am really ready for the role.
But I did it. I said yes. And when I walked into the office, meeting my “team”, I told myself I was ready — ready to lead by example, stabilise a messy team, and build systems that could outlast personalities. I wanted to bring order where there was chaos, clarity where there was confusion.
After all, that’s what I know best – turning vision into structure, and structure into scalable, people-first impact.
For a while, I did.
I redesigned workflows, set up processes, and coached my team to be more accountable. I learned everyone’s role because I didn’t want anyone to feel unsupported. When someone was on leave or struggling, I filled in — quietly, consistently.
My team appreciated it. They often told me I was patient, structured, fair. They knew I had their backs.
But somewhere between being the dependable one and the one who holds everything together, I lost myself.
I started to realise that when you climbed the ladder it isn’t only about what you do — it’s also about what the environment allows you to do. You can be the most dedicated person on the steps, but if the culture doesn’t support you — if communication breaks down, if trust is thin, if decisions are made behind closed doors — your strength eventually turns into exhaustion.
That’s what happened to me.
The longer I stayed, the more I felt invisible. The meetings I wasn’t in mattered more than the ones I led. The voices that shaped direction weren’t always the ones doing the work. And the more I tried to “fix” things, the more isolated I became.
I kept asking myself: Why can’t I make this work?
I had the skills, the people, the structure — everything that, on paper, defines good ink. Yet I was running on empty.
Then I realised — maybe the problem wasn’t me.
Maybe it was the culture within.
Culture is the invisible hand that shapes everything. It decides whether people collaborate or compete, whether leaders empower or control, whether effort is recognised or overlooked.
And when the culture is misaligned with your values — no amount of passion, hard work, or good intention can make you thrive.
That was my quiet awakening.
I decided to leave then.
I left because I couldn’t grow in a system that didn’t nurture growth. I left because when you are in a position to shape direction, build people and inspire great things to happen –
it should feel purposeful, not painful. I left because I finally understood that culture defines the boundaries of you can take when you are up there.
For a long time, I blamed myself — for not being political enough, not networking more, not “playing the game.” But looking back, I see it differently now.
I see a woman who showed up.
Who tried to protect her team from chaos.
Who built processes from scratch when no one else would.
Who held the line — even when she stood alone.
I was there, in that position, and I see that when you climbed the ladder, and you find yourself up there, it is not about winning every battle but about recognising when a battlefield no longer deserves your energy.
The biggest lesson I’ve learned is your title means nothing if the culture you create, the standard you set through, how you treat people, how you stay grounded, how you choose integrity over convenience, even in small pockets is not aligned with the kind of person you claim to be. Titles fade, but the culture you build through your actions is what truly defines your legacy.
And sometimes, creating that culture means having the courage to walk away from what doesn’t align.
Today, I no longer see my burnout as failure. It was feedback.
Feedback that I had outgrown that space.
Feedback that told me I was ready for a new kind of leadership — one rooted not just in systems and deliverables, but in humanity, trust, and shared growth.
If I could go back, I wouldn’t undo my “yes.” I would still step forward — only this time, with more awareness. I would network earlier, ask for support louder, and remind myself that strength isn’t about holding everything together — sometimes, it’s about knowing when to let go.
Growth doesn’t always come from achievement. Sometimes, it comes from realising what no longer fits — and daring to build a better version of yourself beyond it.
That’s where I am now — learning to lead again, from a place of clarity and calm.
Because I finally understand that leadership and culture are two sides of the same coin.
And the kind of leader I want to be… will never forget the cost of forgetting that.
Fix your culture first. 😉
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