The Illusion of the Career Woman

I grew up in a non-pressured, supportive Dutch family. Third child. No spotlight. No expectations. It gave me the freedom to drift, to explore, to just be. We weren’t the academic type, we were farmers more than scholars. University was for other people. Not for us.

But then I saw some rather unimpressive peers give it a go. And something inside me said, well, if they can, then so can I. I enrolled in a business degree, and that’s when the illusion started to form.

La Illusion

At university, and later in corporate life, I became fluent in the language of external success. Titles. LinkedIn bios. Charm. Heels. I saw peers rebrand themselves into these polished, efficient, perfectly presented high-achievers, and I did the same. I could hold a room. I could charm a boardroom. I could tailor my outfit to the exact tone of a company’s ‘culture’. I was sharp. Strategic. Employable.

And, for a while, it worked. I climbed the ladder. I made more money. I got promoted. But inside, something was already cracking.

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Le Crack

I’ll never forget that meeting. We were sitting in a small conference room, discussing the outcomes of a one-on-one staff survey. Someone from head office had gone into the field and spoken to frontline workers—nurses, carers, personal support workers. People doing the real work. People who had been invisible for years.

The report was brutal. Staff were bullied. Burnt out. I already knew this, because in my first job, I’d worked in payroll. I had read the resignation letters. Letters that never made it to HR, because payroll sat outside the HR system. They were just quietly discarded. Shoved aside. The truth, muffled.

So when I later moved into HR, I flagged what I had seen. That’s how this research came about. And that day, when the report was tabled in front of upper management, something happened I’ll never forget.

One of the senior managers leaned forward and said, “We don’t want this in the report. The CEO doesn’t need to read that. Nobody wants to see this.”

Her assistant nodded, took notes. The instruction was clear: remove the truth. Hide the rot. Keep up appearances.

I sat there, numb. I had read the resignation letters of those front-line workers. The pain, the pleas, the vulnerability. And now we were erasing them, just like before. Only this time, I was in the room. This time, I was part of it. If I stood up and went against it, it would have costed my job, I tell you that.

From that moment it hit me: what the fuck am I doing here?

The same people who wore ribbons for “R U OK Day” were burying real cries for help. It was all performance. And that day, something in me cracked wide open.

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I didn’t quit straight away. But I knew I was not gonna held up too long in that corporate show. During the holidays, I stumbled upon a TEDx talk about women, happiness, and relationships. Something about it broke me open again. I cried. And I knew, deeply and suddenly: I want a child.

I told my husband I was ready. We conceived within months. I’d never felt more purposeful in my life.

My pregnancy shocked people. At work, I was the career girl—slick, polished, on track. One woman, eyebrows raised, asked, “Was it planned?”

I replied dryly, “Well, I do know how babies are made.”

And one senior man—an ego on legs—finally noticed my bump in a meeting and said, stunned, “What, you’re pregnant? I didn’t even know?!.” As if he’d still been entertaining some fantasy that I’d be available to him one day.

Pregnancy didn’t fit the image they had of me. But for me, it was liberation.

I finally had a reason to step away. To say no. To soften. I had always said I never wanted kids. That they wouldn’t fit in my life. But the truth was, I’d just been too far gone into the illusion. Too cut off from what I truly needed.

Pregnancy unlocked the part of me I never knew I was allowed to be: the loving mother.

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Motherhood changed everything.

I left my job. I stayed home, grounded by the generosity of Australia’s parental leave policies and my own savings. And for the first time, I stopped performing.

I deleted my LinkedIn. Not deactivated. Deleted. I burned the whole thing down. Years of curated connections and slick headlines—gone. I wanted out of the game. Completely.

And yes, sometimes I forget who I once knew. But I also know I’ll never go back to that version of me. I cut the cord.

Now, when people ask, “So what do you do?” I say, “I’m a mother of two.” And I watch the flicker in their eyes. Oh. Right. Hashtag irrelevant.

Because even now, so many still believe motherhood needs to be topped up with a “proper” identity. A job. A hustle. Something measurable.

But I know what matters now. And I don’t need a title to prove it.

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I still use my skills. I freelance in marketing. I work for people I like, when I can.

But I also know my limits. I’ve had moments where two projects come in at once, and I panic. Because I don’t just run a business—I run a household. I cook. I clean. I raise small humans with values. And I want to do that well.

Still, I keep up. I stay sharp. I read, I watch, I listen. I’m fascinated by psychology, by branding, by emotion and story. I’ve turned all that training inward. I use it now. For me.

And I’ve grown strong. I paint my fence. I fix my car's taillight. I don't shrink for anything or anyone. My younger self wouldn’t recognise me. But she’d be proud. She’d see a woman who doesn’t need to prove anything anymore.

A woman who is, finally, whole.

⸻

There’s one thing I haven’t said.

Back then, I used to stalk people on LinkedIn. Especially people from my past. The ones who doubted me. Bullied me. Asked, “You’re going to university? How?” The ones who thought I’d never make it.

And for years, I tried to prove them wrong. Every headline, every job, every move—it was all performance.

But not anymore.

Now, I’m not trying to impress anyone. I’m not chasing relevance. I’m living it. Every day. In the stillness, in the mess, in the joy of ordinary things.

The career wasn’t it.

This is.