I used to want the corner office. Now I'm not sure.

At twenty-nine, I had a five year plan taped to the inside of my closet door. It had bullet points. It had a timeline. By thirty-four, I'd be a director. By thirty-six, I'd have my own team of twelve. Somewhere in there I'd buy a condo with a view and finally learn to like wine.

I was diagnosed at thirty-two, two months after a promotion I'd worked toward for three years. I remember thinking, absurdly, in the doctor's office: but I just got the new title.

What I thought I'd come back to

My employer was decent about it. I took medical leave, and my manager sent a card signed by the whole team. When I came back eight months later, my desk was waiting. So was my calendar, which filled up within a week.

I assumed I'd slide back into my old self. That I'd want the same things, work the same hours, care about the same metrics. I'd been gone, not changed.

Except I had changed. I just didn't know how much until I was sitting in a quarterly planning meeting and realized I had absolutely no opinion about the quarterly plan. Someone was presenting a slide about a two percent increase in something, and everyone was nodding, and I was thinking about how the light looked on the parking lot outside.

I didn't lose my ambition. I lost the belief that it had to look the way it used to.

Guilt, and the other thing

I felt guilty about this for a long time. I had friends who'd lost jobs during treatment. I knew people who couldn't afford to take time off at all. I had a good job with a good salary and benefits that had literally paid for my care. Who was I to feel unsure about it?

And money matters. I want to say that clearly, because a lot of writing about life after cancer skips right over it. Many of us came out of treatment with bills, lost income, and less savings than before. Quitting to find your passion isn't an option for most people, and it shouldn't be framed as the brave choice. Sometimes the brave choice is showing up to a job that pays the rent while you figure out the rest.

But I also noticed that alongside the guilt, there was something else. A kind of clarity. I knew, more than I ever had, that my time was limited. Not in a dramatic way. Just in a practical one. I couldn't spend fifty hours a week doing something I didn't care about, then spend weekends recovering from it. Not anymore.

What I actually changed

I didn't quit. I want to be honest about that, because I know the story would be more satisfying if I had.

Instead, I made smaller changes. I asked to step back from a project that was draining me. I stopped answering email after seven at night, and nothing bad happened. I took a lateral move into a role that was less prestigious but more interesting. I started saying, “I can't take that on right now,” and discovered that my colleagues mostly respected it.

I also started looking for meaning outside of work, instead of asking my job to provide all of it. I started mentoring a young woman in my field. I joined a community garden. I began writing again, mostly for myself.

My work became one part of my life instead of the whole frame around it.

Ambition, revised

I still have ambitions. They're just different now. I want to do work I'm proud of. I want to be good at what I do. I want to be paid fairly. But I also want to leave the office while it's still light out in the summer. I want to have energy left for the people I love. I want my life to feel like mine.

I took down the five year plan a while ago. In its place, there's a sticky note that says, “What do I want this year?” I update it every January. Last year it said: more sleep, more walks, one big trip. This year it says: learn to make bread, and find out whether I actually want to be a manager or just thought I was supposed to.

I don't know if I'll ever want the corner office again. Maybe I will. Maybe I'll get there and love it. Or maybe I'll realize I'm happiest a few doors down, by the window that opens, with time to look outside.

Either way, I get to decide. That part hasn't changed, and I'm holding on to it.

This is a personal essay, not medical advice. If something here brings up a lot, be gentle with yourself.