Frustrated in Singapore: Rants From a Dehydrated Hiker
I began approaching signs as I neared the end of the hiking trail, one of Singapore's few trails that spread across the northern part of the country. Bold, uppercase red and black letters stamped the white metal signs urging hikers not to turn back. I hesitated, unwilling to accept that it was time to exit nature's sanctuary, which coddled my unsettled soul.
Despite Singapore's stifling heat, I completed my hike well under the estimated time, captivated by nature's charm. But now it was time to face reality. I couldn't stow away amongst the wildlife, although the notion entered my imagination and was one I decided to entertain as I sat on a bench outside the exit.
I had to face the fact that my career pivot, while a timely decision for my well-being, was an untimely one given the job market and economy. I was hustling without much gain. This experience wasn’t the Black version of Sarah Jessica Parker’s Carrie Bradshaw character (minus the focus on having sex in a city) — the "writer-taking-on-the-travel-and-space-tourism-scene" — adventure I had envisioned.
Breaking into writing alongside trying to start a business placed me in constant reactive mode. Every corner I turned was another challenge I was too defeated to face, another expense I couldn't afford without salaried employment, and another humbling moment that added a blow to my already fragile ego.
Logical Tiffany interrupted moments filled with peace and joy to dangle doubt above my head, filling freed mental space with more cluttering questions of whether my decisions were sustainable or led me to lucrative opportunities.
Over recent years, I remember passively mentioning the idea of pivoting to a blended creative-technical profession in conversations with family and friends. In response, they'd distort their faces into disgusted disapproval and mumble through their clenched jaws and twisted mouths that my idea wasn't a secure career pathway. Many of them are now laid off.
Sweat stung my sunburnt forehead before gathering at the tips of my eyelashes and trickling down the bridge of my nose. I was hot and bothered by everything: the melting heat, troubling memories that had risen and baked into my brain, and a future that seemed to evaporate before me.
With a heavy sigh, I released whatever air I could inhale from the raging humidity. What was I going to do? I couldn't go back to how things were, but I didn't know how to move forward. And, I swore, if another career coach caught a whiff of my stray scent and reached out with another chummy LinkedIn note to "connect" or "catch up," I was going to lose my shit.
I didn't need people to advise me on how to bend to others' preferences anymore. I needed genuine guidance from people who knew that bending only allowed people to look past you.
Earlier in my career, I was determined to bend, to be everything to everyone. To avoid the frequent, embarrassing corrections on my speech by work colleagues, I practiced playing with tones and pronunciations at home to clear out (what were unnoticeable to me) remnants of Caribbean influence from my parents. I attended endless conferences to help me upskill and stay abreast of industry events until my schedule left me no space to breathe and process the information gathered. I tirelessly sought mentors, particularly Black or Brown women, at the intersection of creativity and technology.
Finding a mentor was and remains a challenge. There were too few female executives of color (or none at all) at the companies where I worked. Those I encountered were too busy to respond or dismissed me as another responsibility they didn't need to be added to their overflowing plates. Whatever the reason, I assumed that if what I experienced in the workplace was a living hell, as executives, they were indeed in Satan's pit. All I could do was offer prayer and move on. So, I worked hard to self-mentor by assessing where I required support and learning how to offer it to myself.
However, my faulty self-improvement plan did not dissolve my stress, and the noise grew louder. Everywhere I turned, I wasn't good enough, skilled enough, groomed enough…enough, enough, enough. I didn't have one professional space where I felt safe and accepted amongst my peers except for internal gatherings driven by a diversity initiative.
I cupped my sweaty head into the palms of my hands, supported by elbows that dug dents into my sore thighs. I briefly sat up and reached for my canteen to gulp the last water reserve I had been carrying. And like that water, I soon thought my luck would run out. My thoughts spiraled, forcing me on the verge of crying, and back into the palms of my hands, I quickly retreated.
My greatest regret is ignoring what I needed, wanted, and deserved, not moving towards opportunities that expanded me rather than folding me up and tucking me away. I allowed many workplace issues to boil over to the point where they distanced me from communicating gracefully, placing me in a state of agitated expression. I resented those who couldn't or refused to understand why the culture they perpetuated was problematic.
In the end, I was always the problem. Paired with the personal trauma I scrambled to work through, the ever-piling workplace bullshit led me to feel as though I was sinking. I often wished I had disappeared so all the clangor of drilling expectations would vanish, and I couldn't sink any further from not having met them.
With little or inconsistent engagement on every digital platform and in every social circle, I wrestled with maintaining presence and authenticity as some of the overwhelming reminders played endlessly in my head:
“It’s unfortunate, but there are just some rules you must play by.”
“Don’t be too direct in your speech, or you’ll appear aggressive.”
“Don’t speak too low or stay quiet; they’ll say you’re avoidant and not a valuable contributor.”
“Don’t share how a situation makes you feel because you’ll be seen as too emotional.”
“You should smile more; it’s inviting.”
“Stop talking so much about the importance of diversity because it’s divisive.”
“Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t be you at every cost because you’re just too much, and they’ll describe you as unrefined or a troublemaker.”
Ah, unrefined. Those who used such a word yet declared themselves as diversity advocates wanted me to be as refined as delicate, white sugar ground down to the finest granules that dissolved quickly and consumed easily.
But I'm happy with my brown, granulated complexities yielding exuberant flavors. I'm proud that I stubbornly stick to the cup, no matter how much one stirs. I want nothing more than to stop refining myself into non-existence.
I sighed, pulled my sticky face from my hands, and stood up. If I couldn't retreat into the luscious, green wonderland, I would convert those years of gaslighting into fuel, let that shit combust and release it through forward motion. I had my moment for rest and reflection; it was about time I kept moving.
