The Second Wind

For years, she was laser focused. A Sydneysider with a global presence.

The kind of force that grew markets, redefined performance targets, and carried entire divisions on her back. She created visions and made them real. She spoke the language of growth like it was her native tongue. “Forecasts”, “deliver” then repeat. A virtuoso in the performance theatre of modern business.

She felt loved. Plaudits stacked up high. Leadership awards, keynote panels, strategy dinners with chairs of the board. Every pat on the back felt like a dopamine flood and it was exactly what she thought she needed to be someone. Be someone for the mission. To the shareholders. To the beautiful fiction of corporate family.

And then one Thursday, in short, formal video call, she was let go.

Redundancy. Strategic realignment. She listened with full professionalism. The cruellest part was how much she agreed with their strategy and direction.

She understood it all. It was the right decision. She might’ve even made it herself. But logic offers no warmth. And a severance package did little to replace the personality she’d built around this career of hers.

What do you do when your identity was your inbox? When your friendships were interlaced with deadlines and cross departmental synergies. When your self-worth lived in the margin notes of your latest pitch deck and the applause that followed.

Well, she spent a lot of time on LinkedIn, just to feel connected and professional. But then, she saw them.  Her ghost in a new hire post. Younger. Cheaper. Polished. A different name on the seat that still bears the shape of her long hours.

Her mind drops into silence. Not totally convinced that she’s still breathing.

By the end of the day, she felt herself separating from the whole rhythm of the life she’d manufactured. By the end of the week, she had boarded a plane and drifted east until the world felt slower. Until the noise thined out.

She lands in Japan.

She finds Miyazaki by accident, and stays on purpose.

The sea smells different there. The locals rise early, but not for meetings. There are no calendars full of “tentative” and “EOD.” There’s space to be no one in particular. A freedom in irrelevance. She walks. She watches. She learns how to cook things without Googling the optimal temperature.

Peace is not productive. But it is healing.

She doesn’t know what this means for her. She’s not even sure she has any idea what to do anymore. But she’s beginning to believe that maybe lost isn’t the opposite of progress. Maybe it’s just another name for a different kind of arrival.

And for now, that's enough.

Dreams built, then let go
Miyazaki breathes her in.
Peace blooms, undefined.