Work identity serves, then severs

My work identity: the rise before the fall. [Don't Work: Part 01]

Jul 07, 2024

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Series: Don’t Work | Part: 1 of 10 | Reading Time: 5 mins
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This is part of the series, Don’t Work, exploring our identity and meaning around work.

Work was my compass, my identity, and my driving force. This is the story of how that identity was forged—and, ultimately, how it unraveled.

Work was the axis around which my entire life revolved.

I worked and worked, and then when I was done with work, I thought about work. Even when I was with family and friends, my mind was still at work.

My ambitions were centered on work. My future plans? Work related. Books, podcasts, articles were all about… I think you get it by now.

Work was where I found my worth.

I know I’m not alone here.

We live in a world where we are often defined by what we do. Our identities are inextricably tied to our work.

So why was work such a central part of my identity? Where did it come from?

I. Seeds of identity

If this sounds like the beginning of a therapy session, bear with me, because I'll fast-forward through this part quickly.

The punchline is there's no boogeyman lurking in my childhood.

But I’m starting here because our work identities often take root early in life:

That identity may come from an overbearing parent (it’s usually the dad, isn’t it?). They instill their values or what they want for you through their affection or its absence.
It may stem from growing up with scarcity, be it financial or emotional, driving a lifelong quest to overcome feelings of insufficiency.
It may come from a built in competitiveness, amplified through sports or other games. Where we are seduced by the clarity of where we rank relative to others, and yearn for ways to move up at least one more spot.
It may be driven into us by cultural programming in school, where the educational factory pumps out obedient workers via unsubtle scoring systems in the form of gold stars and red check marks.
Or worse, it may come from some type of early trauma, in the form of abuse or another unspeakable act. A void opens, desperate to be filled by any means possible.

While these scenarios are true for so many, they don’t reflect my experience.

The reality is I lived a nice, pleasant, boring childhood. Boring in a good way.

My parents were successful, level-headed lawyers that worked hard, but knew balance. They valued education, but never withheld affection when I came home with a B+. They showed me the value of a good career, without pushing me in any one direction. They were there for me, but they also let me do my thing.

While we lived a good life in a nice town, we did it with modesty. My mom can’t stand to drive anything nicer than a Honda Accord because “that’d be too impractical.” Money was never scarce, yet I wasn't indoctrinated with the belief that happiness depended on it.

I was an above average, but not great student. An above average, but not great athlete. And so on. Pretty middle-of-the-road all around.

While there may be hidden clues within my childhood, which could be found via deeper detective work, it’s hard to pinpoint any red flags.

(this is not to discount the experience of anyone else who had it worse. In fact, if someone with my solid foundation can still be claimed by a work identity, what does it mean for those with more difficult backgrounds?)

II. Crisis of meaning

In early adulthood, my story took a turn.

I graduated from my above-average college, eager to become an independent adult. All these years of learning, internships, and resume-padding extracurriculars were supposed to culminate in this moment.

But adult life turned out to be a letdown.

Not terrible. But painfully mediocre. Just “meh.”

I had gone through a long, gradual build up to a mundane climax.

It turned out that adulthood, rather than some exalted pinnacle of life’s experience, was just a monotonous cycle of daily meaninglessness, drudgery, and boredom.

The plain fact is that you graduating seniors do not yet have any clue what “day in day out” really means. There happens to be whole, large parts of adult American life that nobody talks about in commencement speeches. One such part involves boredom, routine and petty frustration. The parents and older folks here will know all too well what I’m talking about. - David Foster Wallace, “This is Water” - 2005 Commencement Speech

Soon, I fell into a crisis of meaning. What was it all for?

“This is it?” I wondered.

The shock to the system was quite severe. I had been basking in the glow of childhood, with life still ahead and dreams wide open. Emerging from the tunnel, with my walk-up song blaring, someone threw the wet blanket of reality over me.

The dreams became dull. Expectations led astray.

All I was left with was restlessness and emptiness, a void I now had to somehow fill.

III. Filling the void

In this wasteland of meaning, I stumbled upon a young startup.

The opportunity felt like a large cup of coffee after a restless night of sleep—an instant jolt of energy that banished my existential angst.

For the next decade, I wouldn’t pick up another book on finding meaning or a passion. Self-help advice seemed irrelevant now. For the first time, I felt a deep sense of purpose.

The startup gave me a chance to create and mold myself while building something important. Here was my chance to make an impact.

And its ambition matched mine.

What was my ambition? It's hard to articulate fully. It was not about the money (although that desire definitely came later). It was more about the prospect of glory and status. I wanted to craft an epic story.

I sought to become actualized through my work — to matter, to mean something in this world, to transcend the meaninglessness of adult existence.

Work was the vehicle to take me there.

The energy behind my prior restlessness was converted into fuel for work. The anxiety found a place to go — not just to be released, but to be used productively.

And I used it to build. Not only build the company, but build my identity and career at the same time.

I poured everything into that identity. I was committed. Even consumed. I felt part of my work and part of the company.

That hunger for meaning, now satiated. Work was the answer to my existential crisis.

IV. And it worked!

I’m not going to lie… a strong work identity served me well.

That intense identity was reinforced over-and-over again. Personal achievements were met with rewards of status, money, and more opportunity for glory.

This work identity was my edge. Challenges could be overcome through perseverance and persistence. There was a sense of invincibility, a belief that as long as I worked hard enough, everything would fall into place.

It pushed me to ceaselessly improve. Achievements were temporary - launching a new product, building a new team, seeing our customer base grow. All these milestones were just a gateway to another possible achievement around the corner.

My drive and ambition drew people in. It attracted others with the same intensity and focus.

I experienced a cycle of my identity → converted into ambition → converted into work → then reinforced back into the original identity. It was a perfectly designed system, continually building upon itself, growing bigger and bigger.

I worked for my identity. And my identity worked for me.

Until it didn’t.

Next up comes the fall—the unraveling of my work identity.