A Working Step Forward

Working for a nonprofit has always given me a deep sense of accomplishment and purpose; like my work truly matters. I started my career in nonprofits, driven by a desire to focus on advocacy with an inner desire to write. I thought I could somehow combine the two and make a meaningful impact in the lives of others. Like many career paths, however, what we set out to do professionally and where we ultimately land are often two very different things.

When I say I work for a nonprofit, what I really mean is that I work for a large nonprofit—one where certain departments feel more corporate than mission-driven. That’s where I sit. I exist in the gray area, making decisions while fighting through layers of corporate language to move things forward. There are parts of the organization that truly embody the mission. I’m just not in one of them, and I’m still trying to make sense of how I landed here.

In a large nonprofit, connection is currency. You’re expected to network, build relationships, and be visible. That’s the piece I struggle with. I want to change lives behind the scenes, in the background of the chaos—developing long-term strategies that quietly support the community. I keep trying to make what I do matter, to find purpose in it, but something is missing. The passion. The challenge. The spark. And then there’s the invisible red tape as soon as you’re close to the finish line of a project—the ultimate gut punch.

With all of that lacking, I’m left wondering what comes next. How long can I push against my desire to help, serve, and support before it’s too late? At times, the mundanity of the routine—the absence of creativity, the lack of challenge—feels suffocating. It’s as if I’m sealed inside a display case, trapped in a nine-to-five grind with no visible outcomes, no tangible results.

When I take a step back and truly consider the reality of my situation, I feel lucky (especially in this economy). I’m grateful for the people I work with, too. I’m surrounded by strong women and men with shared drive and overlapping interests, thoughtful and well-rounded individuals simply navigating life like everyone else.

This isn’t about the culture or the people. It’s about belonging. Where do I fit? Where do I thrive? Where do I feel most alive? I don’t expect to feel happy at work every single day—that’s an unrealistic standard—but I do want to feel that what I’m doing serves a purpose. And I keep coming back to the same question: how do I get there?

I’ve mentioned before that I don’t have a college degree, which means my options don’t always line up easily. It’s not that I doubt my ability to perform—I don’t—but I do feel insecure about the absence of formal education on my résumé. It stands out like a red stain on a white shirt: obvious, unavoidable, staring back at me with a quiet, lingering disapproval.

My professional journey began with the best of intentions—carefully considered choices that brought me to this point. But the person I was then and the woman I am now are not the same. Somewhere along the way, I realized I had been holding onto the glamour of the title and the comfort of the pay, rather than the passion that once drove me to make a difference. It was like waking from a dream—suddenly aware, confronted with the work my past self built, and feeling the responsibility to reshape it, to return it to the original intent that first inspired me—before I lost myself, my fight and my drive.

In the quiet of the early morning, it feels like time to begin again—something that affirms my self-worth, yet reaches beyond me toward community, toward building others. Is that beginning a return to school, a chance to finally scrub the red stain from my résumé and honor that part of me that strives for progress and justice? Or is it something else entirely, unexpected and still waiting to find me?

I clearly don’t have the answer yet, but the questioning itself feels like movement—like the first inhale before a leap. Maybe that’s where change begins: with the courage to admit that the life I’m meant to build is still unfolding, even at my age. I’m ready to let it all in—the newness, the discomfort, the free fall—and ultimately, the exhale and the jump.