How I Self-Sabotaged My Way Into Midlife — 'Hi, I'm The Problem, It's Me'
One tiny compromise at a time, I lost sight of what I really wanted.
miss_ty | Canva I’m sitting in a small office, under neon lights, at a desk full of papers. What would happen if I threw all these papers in the bin, walked out, and never returned? I wonder.
I often wonder, but I know I will never do anything like that. I’m too responsible. Too polite. Too little willing to do something so reckless, even though I want it with all my heart.
Through the smeared window glass, I see two tall poplar trees. Behind them is a railroad. Behind it, green hills. In another life, I used to ride my bike past those hills.
I can hear the traffic noise. People are talking on the street. I see birds flying across the sky. They are free. Three more hours until I get out of here.
I’ve been counting the hours for years, stuck in a job I don’t like, and which has so little to do with my interests and knowledge. I’ve been counting the hours since I first entered this dark building with dirty windows and dark corridors thirteen years ago.
It’s been easier lately. Freedom is within reach. In a few months, I will start doing what I love and what I have finally gotten back to.
But sometimes, as I watch the poplars sway in the wind and the birds fly freely, I can’t help but wonder why I self-sabotaged my way into midlife.
CrizzyStudio / Shutterstock
How did I get here? When I was little, I wanted to be a cashier.” Wouldn’t you like to be a doctor or a teacher?” my grandmother asked me.
No. A Cashier. I knew what I wanted, and I had no intention of giving it up. I had a small pink cash register, plastic fruit, and fake money, and I dreamed about getting a job in a supermarket near our house. I would wear a red uniform and pink lipstick and listen to the sweet, ringing sound of the cash register all day long.
Fifteen years later, I wore mostly black. I wouldn’t wear pink lipstick if my life depended on it. But I still knew what I wanted. I wanted to be a psychologist, so I spent my days learning about human minds, children’s emotional and cognitive development, and psychodiagnostics.
I was fascinated by social and clinical psychology. I saw myself as someone who would bring positive change to people’s lives. I passed exam after exam, rushing towards my goal.
I got a job as a school counselor a month after graduation. It wasn’t what I expected. It wasn’t what I wanted to do. Less than a year later, I quit. But instead of looking for another psychology job, I convinced myself that psychology was not my thing after all.
Suddenly, I no longer knew what I wanted. I started making and selling jewelry. Then I worked as a market researcher. Then I designed book covers. With every new job, I felt less satisfied and more distant from myself.
I was the hijacker of my own life, and I had no idea how to get it back.
According to VeryWell Mind, self-sabotaging behavior refers to intentional action (or inaction) that undermines people’s progress and prevents them from accomplishing their goals. It occurs when people hinder their success. Self-sabotage often serves as a coping mechanism that people use to deal with stressful situations and past traumas.
The beginning of my self-sabotage coincided with the sudden illness of my mother, who was my anchor and the person who always supported me and rejoiced in my successes. With her illness, all the dysfunctional patterns in my family came to light, and my relationship with my father and brother became ugly and burdensome. In the midst of all that, I forgot who I was and what I was striving for.
But my mother’s illness wasn’t the cause of my self-sabotage. There were reasons within me that prevented me from dealing with this situation differently. I wasn’t emotionally resistant. I never acquired healthy coping mechanisms. My relationship with myself and the world was broken, and all I was able to do was put my life on hold.
I wasn’t depressed. After the first year of my mother’s illness, when she finally came home from the hospital, I wasn’t even unhappy, even though she never fully recovered.
I simply lost touch with myself, paused my life, and convinced myself that the life I once dreamed of wasn't what I wanted and needed.
Gladskikh Tatiana / Shutterstock
But I wasn’t happy either. I felt like I was walking through life half-asleep, with each new step further from the goal, but not caring too much about it.
It wasn’t just about career. It was also about starting a family. Although my husband and I met shortly before my mother’s illness, and we both wanted children, it took me over ten years to decide on that step.
It was about moving away from dysfunctional relationships with my primary family. It was about making choices and taking responsibility.
“I feel like I’m always ten years late,” I once told a friend. Ten years of running behind and still not having a clear idea of where I want to be.
Almost twenty years after receiving my psychology degree and two years after giving birth to my second child, I was sitting in my small office, where I had spent the last thirteen years doing a boring, meaningless office job.
The idea of getting back to psychology had brewed in my mind for months. My hand hovered over the “send” button. And then I did it. My application for psychotherapy training was out in the world.
Two days later, I received a reply. I braced myself for disappointment. Because why would anyone give a chance to someone who didn’t know what they wanted for nearly twenty years? Why would they choose me over someone who may have already worked in the field? Someone younger and more determined.
Why would they choose me over someone who hasn’t wasted so much time sabotaging themselves?
We would like to inform you that you have been accepted for training in our psychotherapy program. We will soon send you an email with the dates and venue of the meetings.
I read the email again. And again. And again.
When I think about it now, my decision to fulfill my lifelong dream wasn’t a choice — it was a desperate act of trying to get my life back.
It was a way of showing my children we can change — we can choose better lives. It was either that or living half-asleep for the rest of my life.
My decision to change my life was fear-based. I was afraid that if I continued to neglect myself and my potential, my life would pass without purpose.
I was boxed in the corner by fear, and it made me finally take action. Still, I’m not sure I could do this alone. Fear made me realize I had to change something, but I was still unsure if getting into psychotherapy training was the right path for me.
Years of self-defeating behavior left a mark on my confidence and sometimes made me overthink and doubt my abilities. My husband’s and daughter’s support was crucial. They are the ones who have constantly reminded me of who I am, what I can do, and why I’m doing this.
Now, two years after I started my training, when I look out the window at two tall poplar trees swaying in the wind and the birds flying above them, I know I’m on the right path. After years of self-sabotage, I’m finally coming back to myself.
In a few months, I will start working with clients under supervision. This little office with neon lights will be a thing of the past, and I will live and work with purpose.
Milena Babić is a psychologist and writer. She writes memoirs and personal essays on topics such as mental health, relationships, and parenthood. Sometimes she writes about nostalgia.
