Jelling Events

In almost every story of career change come to fruition, there is a palpable moment when things click into place, as they did for John Alexander. A new option materializes. Taking the leap looks easy. Diverse experiences form an intelligible pattern; feelings that had been building up jell as a coherent story. Facts and intuitions, reason and emotion come together, and we feel ready to seize the moment. These moments of crystallization tend to occur much later in the transition; most often they are an effect, rather than a cause of, change.

Harris Roberts had such a moment after he announced his resignation as a regulatory expert at Pharmaco. Having gathered his courage to confront his mentor with the news, Harris was wracked with doubt about his decision and even began to second-guess himself when he absorbed Alfred’s reaction. Then came a moment when it all made sense.

After I talked to Alfred, I picked up a book of poems that a friend had given me. I’d had it for a while but hadn’t gotten around to reading it. The very first poem is about leaving. I don’t remember the exact words, but it says something like, “You’re leaving your house, there’s wind, there’s darkness and you start hearing people’s voices and they say, mend my life, don’t go, don’t go, mend my life.” And I thought, Wow! Slap me in the head. If I stayed, why would I be staying? I would stay for them, not for me. I would be staying because Alfred Mitchell said, “You can’t do this to me.” That’s when I realized that this was like a bad marriage. That’s when it became clear to me why I was leaving. I wasn’t, and maybe never would be, participating in defining the structure and future of the organization. I was a tool, which is flattering, because I believe that I’m maybe one of a half-dozen tools that the organization relies on to take care of the issues. But you get to a point when you say, “I’m not a pawn.” I knew I had to go because I just wasn’t happy. I was miserable and tired of complaining about it.

By the time Harris came upon the poem, he had already accepted his new job as president and COO of a medical device start-up. A new beginning does not necessarily mean we are finished with the past, and Harris, having promised himself a six-month transition period, was having a terrible time disconnecting from Pharmaco and his mentor, Alfred. The poem he read helped him come to terms with that by simultaneously intensifying his image of what Pharmaco would be like if he stayed and giving him a metaphor for why his leaving was inevitable. His turning point had come three years after he had started trying to find his way to a new career. None of us can snap our fingers to create either unfreezing or jelling events. Is there any way to ensure that we won’t miss them altogether?