A few weeks ago, I applied for a job. I was really excited and I even relished the process of revising my resume, going down memory lane, if you will, as I wrote the essay questions.

This particular role emphasized large-stakeholder facilitation and group process, with opportunities to collaborate with adjacent teams on innovating processes and programs. In other words: lots of things I love doing.

I also loved the idea of not having to fill the groups myself. Just showing up and—voilà!—an executive team, sitting there, waiting for me. Do you know how dreamy that sounds when you run your own business?

I met with the hiring manager first for an informal meeting at an adorable coffee shop. I adored her. Immediately. She wore super twee socks, lots of neat jewelry, and had even lived in Brooklyn, like me! I could have talked to her for hours.

My second interview was wonderful, too. I was certain I was moving forward. I always move forward. I am an exceptional interviewer, after all.

I wrote a bang-on thank-you note and waited.

Forty-eight hours later, I got the email. I knew from the subject line, before I even opened it. My heart skipped a beat. Still, I clicked.

“We had an incredibly strong and competitive group of candidates for this role, which made this a difficult decision.”

Ugh.

After the initial disappointment, I worked out. And cleaned. And also made a salad—three things that always make me feel better, especially when I have the right ingredients in the house. (Lots of cucumbers, lettuce without THE PARASITE, and hard-boiled eggs, which, by the way—and this could be a whole other post—I have a very hard time peeling. If anyone has tricks, please share.)

And then I returned to something one of my teachers gave me during MAPP. Shout-out to Leona Brandwene, who always knows what to say or give and can always be counted on to bring the party through her earring choices.

One fateful day in November 2018, she said to me: Imagine a Venn diagram.

One circle is the problem you want to solve. One is your particular constellation of gifts, skills, and strengths. And the third is what the world needs right now.

Somewhere in the middle is your work.

Not your job.

Your work.

What you were put on earth to do.

Those words helped me create to Circle. My business. They are part of the reason I am sitting here right now, writing this to you.

Looking back at nearly every professional experience I have had—from my social work internship at Harlem Hospital and fine dining at Eleven Madision Park to working as a recruiter and every career services job after that—I have gotten some version of the same critical feedback:

You're not traditional.

You go rogue.

For a long time, I wondered if that was a problem. Especially when people told me it was a problem. Especially when I got in trouble for it.

But going rogue is also how Circle came to be. It's how Double Shift came to be. It's how much of the work I am proudest of has come to be.

And somewhere in the aftermath of not getting this job, I realized there was another reason the role had been so appealing to me.

I wanted some relief.

I wanted stability. I wanted colleagues. I wanted someone else to fill the groups and put the executive team in the room. I wanted to walk in and do the part I'm really, really good at without also having to sell it, market it, package it, find the right person, follow up with that person, wonder whether I should follow up again with that person, and then somehow maintain an active presence on LinkedIn. Oh, and also an active presence as a mother and wife and sister and friend and daughter, and etc. ad infinitum

I wanted, for a minute, a straight line instead of a zigzag.

And I don't think there is anything wrong with wanting that. In fact, one of the strange things about this experience is that I still think I would have loved the job.

But not getting it forced me to confront a different question: Was I looking for a new opportunity—or was I looking for an off-ramp from the uncertainty of building something of my own?

Hmmmm…

I'm at the beginning of year three of my business.

Year three!

There is still so much I haven't tried. So much I haven't built. So much I don't know yet about what this thing could become.

And maybe that is what I had forgotten while I was imagining the lovely hiring manager and the colleagues and the pre-filled rooms.

The work is still the work.

The problem I want to solve hasn't changed. My gifts haven't changed. And, if anything, I am more convinced than ever that the world needs spaces where people can examine the lives they've inherited, the choices they've made, and the futures they actually want to create.

The container may change. In fact, I hope it does. I want corporate clients. I want bigger rooms. I want collaborators. I want to keep experimenting with what this work can look like.

But I don't want difficulty to make the decision for me.

Because I suspect this happens to many of us when we're trying to make something that matters—a business, a career, a piece of art, a life that doesn't quite follow the template.

Eventually, an off-ramp appears.

And sometimes taking it is wisdom.

But sometimes the moment you most want the straight road is the moment you're being asked whether you still believe in the zigzag.

Maybe the question isn't, Should I stay or should I go?

Maybe it's: What would I choose if I weren't looking for relief from uncertainty?