By Adreanna

I almost let work make me forget who I am becoming and what my priorities are — until corporate, in its infinite wisdom, reminded me exactly why I was here.

So I deliberately stepped back into corporate life. Not for promotions, not for recognition, not for clout or applause. I intentionally went for a role below my experience and value — a bridge job. My goal? Mindless clerical work, a paycheck, and just enough mental space to write, create, and play with ideas while my future self matured. Peace of mind. Freedom. The ability to clock out at five and actually have energy left for the things I love.

I got assurances, too. “Yes, Adreanna, you’ll be allowed to exist. You’ll be trusted. You’ll have autonomy.” Cute.

I thought we had an understanding. I thought this bridge was safe. I thought I could quietly do my work and leave. Then corporate did what corporate does.

It smelled my skill, my efficiency, my brilliance — and immediately went, “Hmm…how do we get all that without paying, titling, or acknowledging it?” I politely called it out (rookie mistake), and corporate, in the only way it knows how, reminded me of my place. A little eye-opening encounter wrapped in TPS-report-scented paper. Sharp. Efficient. Soul-crushing.

For a moment, I had lost my way. I forgot that this bridge job was never about climbing, being seen, or achieving. I forgot that my writing — my ideas, my reflections, my experiments — is the work that actually lights me up. In that moment of corporate-induced amnesia, I convinced myself I wanted more from the job, from this career path. But that wasn’t true at all.

Because here’s the juicy bit: the version of me that survives in corporate culture — the Mother self — is people-pleasing, self-abandoning, swallowing disrespect like candy, negotiating endlessly, and code-switching like a linguistics PhD. She was forged in survival, honed in fear, and meticulously trained to keep everyone else comfortable while forgetting herself. She is dying slowly, like Voldemort under that bus bench, but not quite gone.

Enter my Crone self, much like Dumbledore gently reminding Harry that some things are beyond saving. Boundary-aware, self-respecting, unapologetic, playful, hedonistic, curious — she is now driving the bus, sometimes honking at the Mother self to get out of the lane. She’s here. She’s present. But the old version keeps trying to wrest control when triggers hit, corporate atmospheres flash, or hormones decide to throw gymnastics practice inside my body. Light vs. dark. Brain fog vs. clarity. Old self vs. new self. All wrestling like Harry and Voldemort after that tumble off the cliff — before crashing in a cloud of smoke to duel it out one last time.

I’ve cycled through the stages of grief for the old self multiple times this year— often simultaneously, in messy loops:

• Denial: “Red flags? One-offs. Surely this time will be different.”
• Bargaining: “Okay, corporate, here’s my offer — respect my boundaries, let me work, and I promise not to scream into the void.”
• Anger: at the system, at myself, at hormones, at TPS reports, at fluorescent lighting, at existing sober while processing all of this chaos.
• Depression: thick, molasses-level fog that made everything feel like wading through quicksand.
• Acceptance: the Mother self is dying, and the Crone is emerging, slowly taking the wheel, learning to drive without asking anyone else for permission.

And in that chaos, I remembered: writing, creating, exploring, reflecting — that is my work. Everything else is filler.

So, ladies and gentlemen, while I am still in the lingering stages of limbo transitioning from Mother to Crone I’d like to welcome you all to my Crone era… she’s uncaffeinated, boundary-aware, slightly unhinged, and absolutely not here for any of your nonsense. Buckle up — it’s going to be a wild ride.

The Sawyer Club, my blog, is evolving along with me. No longer just a space for eldest-daughter coaching, it is now a digital playground for curiosity, reflection, and eclectic expression. Tarot, crochet, gardening, essays, musings — if it sparks my attention, it has a home here. Lessons from the old self remain, but only as threads in a larger tapestry of what I’m really here to do.