If there's one thing I've learned in this season of reinvention, it's that every setback comes with a hidden syllabus. It's a curriculum you don't ask for, but one that teaches you more than any title ever could… if you're willing to lean in and listen.
So, I began a different kind of journey. I didn't choose it, but I owned it. This wasn't just time off. It was time in. Time to get quiet, curious, and intentional. I broke the productivity spell, reconnected with my creative rhythm, and started asking questions about what success could look like on my own terms.
What came next was messy and magical. I rebuilt my portfolio from scratch, learned how to rest without guilt, helped my sister plan a wedding in a week (thank you, AI), and found new ways to use the same strategic brain, but with a lot more heart.
My time at Microsoft shaped me in countless ways—strategically, creatively, and professionally. But it was what came after that taught me the most about myself.
Breaking the Productivity Spell
I didn't realize how addicted I'd become to being productive until I stopped.
The first few weeks after leaving Microsoft were jarring. I didn't miss the meetings or inbox chaos. I missed the validation. I had no sprint to run, no one to impress, and no reason to polish executive updates at 11:58 PM. Without that drumbeat of urgency, I felt lost, floaty, and untethered.
That was the withdrawal.
For years, my worth was wrapped up in how many balls I could juggle and how gracefully I pulled it all off. I wore busyness like a badge and treated rest as something to be earned only after the deadline, the quarter, or the fire drill. When that noise disappeared, so did the armor. Beneath it, I found exhaustion, a creative voice I hadn't listened to in years, and a newfound instinct to do things simply because they felt good.
So, I slowed down.
I gave myself permission to stop optimizing every second. I learned things that had no deliverables. I sat with discomfort instead of trying to outrun it. I took silent walks. Cooked meals for no reason. Measured my days not by output, but by alignment.
It was uncomfortable. And exactly what I needed.
Because once I stopped performing productivity, I realized I wasn't broken…I was burned out. And my value had never been about the volume of my workload. It had always been about vision, voice, and the way I connect dots others don't see.
A Website, a Blank Page, and the Return of Curiosity
Once the noise quieted, curiosity came back.
Real curiosity. Not the performative kind you add to LinkedIn bios. The kind that keeps you up late, not from anxiety, but from excitement. The kind that makes you tinker, test, and teach yourself things you never thought you'd take on solo.
That's how my portfolio site was born.
No agency. No team. Just me, a blank Framer canvas, some AI-powered sidekicks, and one big question: what would it look like to design something that feels like me?
It turned out to be more than a website. It became a playground for everything I'd been learning and unlearning. Branding, typography, UX, storytelling—I pieced it all together intuitively, imperfectly, and proudly. And somewhere between debugging CSS and choosing font weights, I realized I wasn't just building a portfolio. I was rebuilding myself.
Tools that shaped the process:
I'll share more behind-the-scenes next—especially how I used AI to save time and supercharge creativity. But for now, that site wasn't just a calling card. It was the spark.
Rest Isn't the End. Sometimes It's the Beginning.
If you're in a season of uncertainty—feeling underestimated, unarmored, or just plain tired: you're not broken.
You may simply be between versions. And what's emerging might surprise you.
What has slowing down helped you rediscover about yourself? I'd love to hear in the comments.