I spent over a decade in the heart of HR at Google.

I started out starry eyed and eager to contribute to “making work better for everyone.” That was our organizational motto at the time. As an analyst, I looked at employee data and provided recommendations to leadership. I thought with the right data and analysis, we could fix work for everyone. Even harassment and discrimination. I worked with brilliant people to tackle the structural mechanisms that largely kept women and people of color from the top (and outside of the highest paying jobs). 

I wouldn’t have used this word, but I was ambitious. About my career? Yes. About making a positive difference in the world? Even more so. That was the thing that could keep me going no matter how exhausted I was.

My first career crisis happened when I could not, for the life of me, figure out how to get promoted. It was humiliating and demoralizing. Worse, even when I decided to stop working so hard (since it wasn’t paying off), I ended up working more, covering for three people’s jobs. I resented others who seemed to be recognized so much easier. The stress from this stage precipitated my Hashimoto’s diagnosis. It was also what first got me to therapy. 

My second, more painful, heartbreak happened when I realized the company repeatedly blocked and undid anything we did to meaningfully improve working conditions for women and people of color. I was in the belly of the beast, and I learned how things actually work. 

At first, I went into overdrive. I felt like I had to fix everything before I could relax and feel safe. I felt like I was letting down my team and everyone who our work touched. I thought, “this is Google, if we can get this right here, we can make things better everywhere.”

My motto was, “I can fix this.”

And when I couldn’t, I felt like something was wrong with me. I failed because I didn’t have what it took. I thought I’d let everyone down. 

I was disillusioned and disoriented. I kept telling people I was “unmoored.” It was such a lonely feeling. I didn’t know who to talk to about it.

It took me years to find my way back to myself and feel alive again. I read and learned from people who walked this path before me. And I had to learn specific ways of creating nervous-system-level safety for myself. 

On the outside, this looked like finding a job in a “quiet” part of the company. Laying low and recovering, sitting in nature. I moved to a lower cost of living area and spent time learning how to be a mom. I made friends who weren’t in tech. And after many, many tears and sleepless nights, I left Google.

On the inside, it was a lot of soul-searching and therapy. And learning to be okay with resting and recovering from the impact of what happened. 

Now, I help people recover from the disillusionment that comes when you directly experience how toxic your company and industry can be. 

I don’t prescribe staying or leaving tech or any other job.

I care that you feel safe enough to choose for yourself.

Not because you’re afraid, not because of false choices. Because you’re inspired by the future you’re actively creating.