Job
According to Cambridge, Job means:
the regular work that a person does to earn money
a particular piece of work
something that is your responsibility
a problem or an activity that is difficult
an example of a particular type
a crime in which money or goods are stolen, or an action or activity that is dishonest or unpleasant
I have to admit, this definition surprised me. When I set out to become a writer I wasn’t expecting it to be easy. And it isn’t. Finding inspiration takes time, and the dictionary is often my sparring partner. I see definitions as challengers: not to defeat, but to wrestle with until something evolves. With job, though, I think the dictionary does a pretty good job.
The word is deeply ingrained in our dialogue — both inner and outer. We place on it our past, present, and future expectations: who we dreamed of becoming as children, who we try to be today out of necessity, and who we imagine we might become.
A Client’s Job
In a conversation with a client, she mentioned being out of a job. She lived in Switzerland, where the unemployment system had given her breathing room. At first, she enjoyed the space, but slowly the urge to re-enter the world grew stronger. She missed interaction. She felt she could contribute more. An opportunity appeared an hour away, and she was looking for clarity: should she take it?
We explored her past experiences, her highlights, her grievances. Nothing clicked. We circled the issue but couldn’t find its center. Then I asked: “What does a job represent to you?”
She paused. “It is a place you go to.”
“And what else?” I asked.
“It is a place you return from,” she said, almost matter-of-factly.
Silence. And then we both burst into laughter. Three full minutes of honest, heartfelt laughter. We jumped back and forth between joking about preparing to leave, arriving, staying for a while, getting ready to leave, and coming back home. Each explanation made us laugh even harder. We only stopped because the session ended.
It didn’t even matter what happened at the job — she was confident there. She already knew she would be successful. What we uncovered was the universal rhythm behind everyone’s experience: going and returning.
She was a psychologist and coach herself, and what struck us both was the raw simplicity of it. A job, for her, wasn’t about income or status. It was about belonging — a rhythm of departure and return. Once that came to light, her choice became clearer.
My First Jobs
I took my first job at 16, distributing flyers for small entrepreneurs offering their services. The pay was low, the work tedious, and the challenge was often just getting into apartment buildings. Later I found a supermarket flyer delivery job that paid better but took me into rougher neighborhoods, where dogs and danger were constant companions.
Eventually, I discovered no one was supervising whether the papers were delivered. I stopped delivering but still got paid — for two years. Guilt finally caught up with me. I realized that even a small dishonest act chipped away at something larger: the chain of people depending on those papers to drive sales, and thus to have jobs themselves.
That early experience shaped my view of work: it isn’t just about money, but about connection, responsibility, and integrity.
Becoming What We Do
As kids, we’re asked: “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Not, “What job do you want to have?”
The expected answer is always a job title — doctor, teacher, pilot — as if being is the same as working. It’s innocent, yes, but also limiting. Slowly, bricks of expectation build a wall: “Be this, not that. Choose this school, not that one. Earn more, life is expensive.”
We start to measure life in terms of better jobs, higher pay, and somewhere in the process, we forget that life itself is precious. Jobs are vehicles, not identities. They’re meant for exchange — to support needs, desires, and dreams.
Losing and Finding Work
I once decided to become an architect. By my third employer, during college, I was earning more than minimum wage at a part-time job. I was proud of myself. Then the 2007–2009 recession hit Romania. Projects stopped, salaries dried up, and I found myself out of work.
I tried — and failed — to be an entrepreneur. I had no idea how to price my work, no network, no knowledge of how companies functioned. I did odd jobs: bartending, call centers, ticketing. Later, IT brought stability and money.
Somewhere along the way I realised I had confused job security with identity. I forgot who I wanted to be when I grew up — or maybe I had never truly decided. The way I chose my jobs was by thinking: “I can do a better job than them.”
I picked this up while growing up, discontent with how adults around me handled things. This side of me kept expanding in the corporate world. I found software people were using but didn’t understand. I disliked how people just did what they were told without questioning. So I learned how to work with software. I learned how to explain the purpose of tools, how to listen beneath sentences to hear what people really needed.
And I gave it all back. I taught people what I learned. I focused on curiosity and saving time. With extra room in our talks, clients began asking new questions: “If this works like this, can I also use it for that?” They saw potential for themselves and came to me with ideas.
At the same job, I also became a manager. Again, because I thought I could do better. In my mind, a manager should focus on people first. Without the team, there is no team. So I learned leadership. I internalized processes, offered solutions, created tools, and soon my team grew.
Two years later, I received an “Employee of the Year” award. And I was angry. Very angry. Everything I had done barely moved my income, and I knew it was worth more. I had received recognition and found it shallow. And I was exhausted.
My next job was as an individual contributor. I wanted to keep it simple. So I became a software engineer for almost double the salary. The pay was good, but I was miserable. My manager left, and her boss asked if I wanted to step up. I agreed — but at first, I was the only one on the team. Work piled up, and I did everything myself until I could hire. Slowly, the team grew and I could breathe again.
I built a home and a family, but I left myself behind. After five years in corporate leadership, I found myself deeply out of alignment. Nothing made sense. For the first time, I asked for help and went into therapy.
You see, I had grown up to be a problem solver. As a child, one of my jobs was to fix problems. Or so I thought. My parents argued constantly. It broke my heart, and I wanted nothing more than to see them happy. That feeling stuck so deeply in me that even as an adult, I was still trying to fix their relationship — and through my jobs, I was trying to fix problems that were never mine.
At thirty, I still hadn’t figured out what I wanted to be when I grew up.
Limits and Freedom
Ironically, I spent years resisting limits, fighting for freedom. I couldn’t stand anyone telling me what to do. I skipped classes, ignored my parents, rebelled at work. Yet it was boundaries that eventually brought liberation.
We live in a universe of form: atoms arranged uniquely, matter needing shape. Our skin separates us from everything else. We are the same, yet different. The paradox of unity and individuality.
That paradox is what makes my current job as a coach meaningful. My clients are the only ones who truly know what is best for them. Yet we share a common humanity. Each session is a walk into the unknown — a mystery we witness together.
Over time, I began to see that everything that happened to me is multi-faceted. That nothing is fixed. That my internal dialogue is not a singular truth. That habits and convictions are just that — habits and convictions. They serve for a time, and then they shift. And this left me wondering: Who am I, beyond the job?
The Job of Childhood
As children, our job is discovery. The world is fresh, surprising. Adults seem eternal, houses permanent, the present unbroken. A rug can be a field of grass, a cat a possible steed. The world is a playground.
But somewhere along the way, survival takes over. Fear, responsibility, and scarcity edge out wonder. Childhood CVs get replaced by adult résumés.
What if it were the other way around? Imagine starting your CV with:
“Expert toy interpreter and block assembler. 5000+ days of continuous play.”
“Efficient tree climber. 80% success rate.”
“Professional cloud observer. Specialist in asking why.”
Wouldn’t that reveal more about our essence than job titles ever could?
Think of learning to walk. You had no idea what you were doing. You saw people around you walking and decided you wanted that too. You failed, fell, crawled, pulled yourself up. You tried again and again. And now — look at you walking. Good job.
Back then your title was baby. Until you outgrew it and became toddler. Then child. Then teen. Each stage, a new job. So what is the job of an adult?
The Job Is Never Done
We remember few things about our relatives, but their jobs often stick. My father was a mechanic and taxi driver. His mother, a seamstress and hairdresser. His father, a coachman and warehouse worker.
It wasn’t their titles that mattered, but the way those jobs shaped them — the way they approached problems, the texture of their hands, the language of their bodies. Jobs leave their imprint.
For most of human history, survival was the job. We are descendants of survivors — those fast enough, patient enough, creative enough to adapt. Their fears kept them alive. Their imagination built the world. Their love built families.
But now survival is not as difficult as it was in the past. We have room for conversations. We have room for potential.
And so the job is never done. The world moves, and so do we. Each day is an opportunity to uncover mystery: in work, in play, in silence, in exhaustion.
What if our real job is to rediscover love, awe, and wonder? To see life not only as survival or duty, but as creation, belonging, and expression.
Questions for Reflection
What brings you joy? How do you honor this in your daily life?
What do you want to be shaped by? What have you outgrown?
If your job were not your title or your survival, but your way of belonging, what would it be?