I Left Work That Mattered for a Title That Didn’t — And I Can’t Go Back
I spent much of my adult life chasing prestige. It was my version of chasing the white rabbit; much like Alice did when she went down the rabbit hole.
Here’s the story of how that unfolded.
Once upon a time, I spent years as a police officer and detective—investigating crimes, pursuing actual truth, making decisions that mattered beyond quarterly metrics.
It was work that mattered. It mattered to the victims I sought justice for. It also mattered to me. In fact, it was a childhood dream of mine.
But alas, it wasn’t enough. I wanted the big payday. A chance at being on the cover of a magazine with my arms crossed, where they are talking about how we revolutionized something.
So I left police work after nearly a decade to chase this new “dream.” I joined a Fortune 500 company first—the kind of name that makes your parents finally stop asking when you’re going to get a “real job.” It was cool, but it was during the tech heyday. The time when Google had nap pods, Facebook had massage chairs, and Twitter...
Well, Twitter had a DJ booth, two specialty all you can eat lunch rooms, a game room, a coffee shop, a smoothie bar, and a fresh orange juice machine. How do I know this? Because after seeing all the people in these tech jobs getting lavish benefits, I decided I wanted it. So I found myself sitting in an all-hands meeting watching Kendrick Lamar perform while everyone around me pretended this was normal.
By now, I saw how the executives at every single company were treated. Like royalty. So I decided to shoot my shot and take a senior level role in an innovation division at Panasonic. This led a role where I was a VP level executive at a startup. I was certain that role was the one that was definitely, absolutely going to change everything. Want to know what happened to the stock after I left? I think you had to pay people to take it.
At this point, there were signals that things in tech were starting to change. So to keep my head above water, I had to take a step back and take a mid-management role at a large tech company with actual resources, stable stock options, and enough runway to take us to the moon and back.
But in the end, none of that mattered. I got laid off.
Here’s the rub. My calling was to be a police officer. I loved it. And I left it to chase prestige.
Now don’t get me wrong, all of it was a killer ride.
“Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming ‘Wow! What a Ride!’” — Hunter S. Thompson
I’ve flown to Australia to attend meetings. I’ve eaten at restaurants where the menu doesn’t list prices because if you have to ask, the meal isn’t for you. I’ve had the career trajectory that’s supposed to work. The one where each move is strategic, each company more impressive than the last, each title carrying more weight.
But despite all of these experiences, I was left feeling empty.
When you’re a detective, you pursue answers. When you’re a corporate climber, you pursue titles. I didn’t understand the difference until I’d already traded one for the other.
As a cop, the work had a finish line: solve the case, find the truth, close the file. The satisfaction was real because the problem was real. Someone got hurt, you investigated, you built the case, you got resolution. The work ended when the work was done.
Corporate achievement never ends. Every rung feels like the destination until you’re standing on it. The Fortune 500 role was supposed to be it—the validation that I’d made it, that leaving law enforcement had been the right call, that all the years of building toward something had paid off. I got there and the feeling lasted approximately forty-eight hours before my brain recalibrated. Suddenly the Fortune 500 job was just the baseline, the new normal, and the real achievement would be getting to a company that moved faster, that mattered more, that was building the future instead of managing the past.
And that beast is something that never gets satiated.
Each move, the math made sense. Better company plus better title plus better compensation equals fulfillment. I had the data points. I had the trajectory. I had a career that looked, from the outside, like a series of smart moves that were obviously leading somewhere.
The somewhere was a layoff email and a severance package and a calendar that suddenly had no meetings.
Here’s the thing about the prestige treadmill: it’s not designed to get you anywhere. It’s designed to keep you moving. Every achievement resets your baseline. Every promotion recalibrates what counts as success. You get the title you wanted and immediately start eyeing the next one. You get into the company you wanted and immediately start wondering if you should have held out for the other offer. The treadmill speeds up to match your pace, and you never notice because you’re too busy running.
The status markers were supposed to help. Flying business class. Eating at restaurants where the chef brings out a course personally and explains the origin story of the radish. Watching Kendrick Lamar perform at a company event like it’s just another Tuesday. These were the external validators, the proof that the climbing was working, that leaving law enforcement had been worth it.
They didn’t stick. The flight lands. The meal ends. Kendrick leaves the stage. You’re back at your desk with the same hollow feeling, except now you can’t even complain about it because you just flew business class. How do you tell someone you’re unfulfilled when you’re living a life that’s supposed to be the destination?
When I was a detective, I knew what meaningful work felt like. Closing a case meant something. Finding the truth meant something. The work had weight because the stakes were real. Corporate work has the appearance of stakes—revenue targets, market share, competitive positioning—but it’s all just numbers on a screen until the company decides your position should stop existing. Then you find out exactly how much your leadership role mattered: it mattered until it didn’t, and then it was gone.
The system is designed so you can never admit it’s not working while you’re still on it. Everyone around you is also running, also climbing, also collecting achievements that reset their baseline the moment they’re achieved. Nobody says out loud that the treadmill is broken because saying it out loud means admitting you’ve been running toward nothing. Admitting you traded real work for prestige work. Admitting you left a calling for a career trajectory that led exactly nowhere.
Here’s the cruelest part: you can’t go back. I’m older now. Police departments don’t hire detectives in their fifties who’ve spent a decade optimizing stakeholder alignment instead of investigating crimes. The door silently closed behind me. I traded a calling for a series of impressive titles, and now I have neither.
The prestige treadmill doesn’t have an off switch. It just keeps running until you fall off. And when you finally stop moving, you realize the treadmill never went anywhere at all. You’re exactly where you started, except a few decades older and a calling short.
I investigated this case thoroughly. The evidence is clear. The conclusion is obvious.
I just wish I’d solved it before I became the victim.