A little over seven years ago, I graduated from university. I had been accepted into an economics master’s program at a private university on a scholarship. Amid the rush of moving from one city to another, I lost sight of what I truly wanted. It didn’t help that I had no idea where I wanted to work, was terrified of uncertainty—what might happen, or what might not—and had already been rejected by the only two places I had applied to. Adding to this were my family’s expectations and the encouragement from two professors at the university, which convinced me that I would make a great academic. Let me cut this part short: in the end, the master’s program brought along an incredible sense of loneliness, and I completely abandoned the idea of pursuing a PhD.
I started job applications—part-time at first. Determined to finish what I had started, I decided to juggle both thesis writing and a job. That’s how my corporate life began, working in the strategy department of a startup. Meanwhile, I was still chasing consulting opportunities, which eventually led me to McKinsey.
September 2, 2019. My first day at McKinsey. I had always been a reserved, somewhat shy, and introverted person. Walking into the office that day, I was so nervous and felt so out of place that I almost couldn’t bear it. In fact, I didn’t feel like I belonged there for nearly an entire year.
My first project, ironically, started in Jordan. The team included a young engagement manager from Hong Kong, and me. The client was a pharmaceutical company, and we spent every day working at a factory, grinding for hours in a windowless room, then heading back to the hotel, working late into the night, and starting all over again the next morning. Naturally, the client realized I wasn’t much of an expert, and during the second feedback session with the partner, I was given the feedback on being “green”. On top of that, I started receiving feedback about “speaking up.”
And so began a year and a half where the feedback about "speaking up" even haunted my dreams. They said I needed to speak up more, share more of my ideas, and be more assertive. I would sit in meetings, not focusing on the discussion but agonizing over when I should speak—now or later?—and before I could decide, the meetings would end. Unsurprisingly, the feedback about speaking up kept piling up.
Meanwhile, I was working relentlessly. My second project was for an oil and gas company—a refinery, with an implementation project. I eagerly started reading about oil and gas processes and chemical reactions, but my job turned out to be more about chasing people and managing the initiatives. On the second week, the partner came into a meeting and said, “This initiative needs to be given to a smart analyst,” right after I was assigned the initiative. Cue the inferiority complex—I began doubting whether I was smart enough. Eventually, I confronted the partner, and things were resolved amicably.
I guess, in time, I proved that I was smart enough.
Not all of my time at McKinsey was spent doubting myself. Eventually, I found the right projects and the right people. Psychologically, things became easier, though the physical demands—long hours and intense work—remained the same.
I worked hard, day and night, always trying to give 100%. One night, my boyfriend said he is in the relationship by himself—he was right. I became more mindful, but I still gave everything I had.
Then one day, something clicked, and I couldn’t work anymore. I took two months of unpaid leave. Those two months were filled with long morning coffee, painting classes in Galata, and lots of reading. Then I returned to McKinsey, re-oiled the machine, and started working again.
In my four years at McKinsey, I experienced a lot and learned even more. Eventually, I learned how to “speak up,” and they the Firm also found some middle ground, accepting me more for who I was. Things became easier, thanks to a few partners who truly understood me. This reinforced my belief in the importance of support and allyship.
Time passed, and I received a job offer. I started working in London, reporting to a former manager from McKinsey.
I began giving 100% again. But then came some setbacks—indecision, uncertainty—and that button in my brain clicked once more. For the past three to six months, I’ve been living in a state of confusion, this time in a much harsher form. Some days, staring at my screen, I feel like the walls are closing in. I want to get up and leave, but my skilled worker visa and responsibilities keep me tethered to my seat.
One day, I approached my manager and told him, “I’m very close to burning out, and I’m not okay. I’m going home, and I’ll come back when I feel better.” He agreed. I spent a week at home, reading books, walking, and doing crafts. I started to feel like myself again. By Monday, I had several meetings scheduled and a flood of messages waiting for me. I felt grounded again. Yes, I would return to work on Monday.
I went back that Monday. It only took two days for all my peace to vanish. I was back to square one.
A few more weeks passed. I couldn’t give 100% anymore. During a coffee chat with my manager, I received a lot of feedback. After six years of being the perfect employee, I suddenly wasn’t a very good one anymore.
And that’s when I started to wonder—who was this “perfect employee,” or what were they supposed to be?
Also over the years I realized, this "perfect employee" didn’t seem to want me to actually live my life—or maybe those who wanted to have a "perfect employee" weren’t fully aware that they were dealing with a real human being.
Companies often look for individuals who fit their culture, are loyal, and repay the investment made in them with time and effort. But what happens if the company’s values don’t align with yours? If you find yourself clashing with the culture? Should you start questioning things? And if you do, does that disqualify you from being labelled a "perfect employee"?
I think I’ve decided to stop trying to be the "perfect employee." Defining myself through my corporate achievements has been something I was programmed to do for many years. But now, when I look back, I realize that I’ve spent my youth chasing this definition of success, striving to be the perfect employee.
And this "perfect employee" persona is making me more miserable every day, limiting my experiences, and gradually eating away at the time I can spend on myself and with my loved ones.
That’s why I no longer want to be the perfect employee—I want to be the perfect version of myself. I want to prioritize myself, recognize the value of my time, and live accordingly.
If that means stepping outside the traditional definition of corporate success, then so be it. Life is too short, and every moment is too precious to waste.