When You Stop Fitting in Boxes

When I decided to leave my mainstream architecture job, I expected the decision itself to be the most difficult part. After all, it meant walking away from a degree I worked hard for, a path that was considered “secure,” and an identity I had been building for years. But surprisingly, the actual act of quitting was quiet. There was no dramatic exit, no box full of office supplies, no final round of goodbyes. Just a polite email, a racing heart, and a quiet kind of relief.

What I didn’t anticipate was what came next. The real discomfort began at weddings, family lunches, and those awkward chance encounters where someone would inevitably ask, “So, where are you working now?” That’s when the panic crept in, not because I regretted my decision, but because I didn’t know how to explain it in a way that would make sense to them.

Telling people you’ve left a stable job is one thing. Telling them you now “write on the internet” is another. It always triggered a pause. Sometimes a smile. Often a raised eyebrow. And then the realisation would set in—they had no idea what I was doing, and honestly, I wasn’t sure how to explain it either.

No one warns you about this part. The part where you feel like you’ve let people down simply by choosing something that doesn’t fit their expectations. It’s not that they doubt your capabilities. It’s that you no longer fit neatly into a box they can label. You’re no longer “an architect,” “a designer,” or anything that sounds like a title you’d put on a name tag. You’ve become a question mark in their mental directory.

And when people don’t know where to place you, they tend to respond with confusion or concern. That reaction used to get to me. I found myself over-explaining what I did, trying to sound more impressive, more strategic, more “put together.” Deep down, I just didn’t want to seem lost.

But here’s what I’ve learned over time. You don’t owe anyone a grand plan. You’re allowed to be in-between. You’re allowed to explore, experiment, and even fail without a five-year vision to justify it. Most people forget the conversation as quickly as they asked the question. The discomfort is real, but it doesn’t last.

Eventually, the questions stopped feeling so personal. I stopped feeling the need to defend my decisions. And instead of panic, I started feeling a quiet confidence. Not because I had figured it all out, but because I finally stopped pretending that I had to.