It’s 7 PM.

I’m sitting at my desk, aptly located on the 25th floor of one of the most prestigious buildings in Istanbul. So prestigious, in fact, that those running the company which owns the building decided to call it the Crystal Tower.

There is nothing sparkly about what I’m doing though. Well, not exactly, anyway. I’m the brand manager of a super-mega-prestigious business credit card. The kind of card that comes with discounted fragrances at Harrods, unlimited business lounge access and, apparently, serious long‑term psychological damage.

Myself, and my team of five other marketing managers absolutely have to finish this project tonight because our department head Cruella-de-Vil said she really really needs it by tomorrow morning. (Translation: she will look at slide 3, say hmm, and then forget it even exists.)

I try to shift my focus from how much I hate her, how much I hate this credit card, and the fact that my heart is beating out of my chest like I’m being chased by a wild animal who also has KPIs to hit. I calmly tune out everything and start making inconsequential, microscopic moves of boxes and text on my slide.

Then - flash. Everything goes dark.

I can’t see anything. I can’t see my screen. I can’t see my hands. I can’t see the dramatic Istanbul view outside of our ivory tower. Is this what they meant by the crystal in Crystal Tower or am I actually dying?

I look around in darkness and grab my manager sitting right next to me for help. Is this how it ends?

Will my in‑memoriam photo feature our card?

At this point, you’re thinking that my coworkers would have gathered around me in panic, or at least some sort of commotion right? Well, I wish I could say that’s what happened. Though they have shown some interest in the matter, that is not exactly what happened.

In hopes of drawing more attention to my decaying self (I did think I was dying for those 5 minutes, so fair) I start describing my symptoms, expecting them to call an ambulance or something. But desperation is met with an unexpected calmness:

My manager tunes in from somewhere close by: It’s alright hon, it’s called a migraine with aura. We’ve all been wondering when you were going to get one.

What?

They help me out of my chair and onto a makeshift bed they made using our (hideous) promotional pillows with our card’s logo on them.

As I’m contemplating my newly discovered health condition - I feel the cells in my body politely but firmly screaming we can’t do this anymore!.

Don’t worry - I quit soon after.

I spent a few days staring at the walls (as one does). I tried to decode my body’s disproportionate reaction to what my coworkers called a typical Tuesday. Was it the job itself I disliked? Was it the people, our nightmare director? Or was it the soulless corridors of our mega-corporate building?

The one thing that kept flashing (pun intended) in my mind among all the dreadful thoughts was how disconnected I felt from what I did for a living: the brand, the product, the work. Nothing about it felt like me. I only stayed because I was scared to do something about it. Scared that if I did something I actually cared about, no one else would care back. That my opinions were too specific, my taste too particular, my whole deal too much of a thing.

Plus, what would people say? Will they like who I really am? What if people don’t like what I want to create, and I end up on the street, trying to sell my product, or god forbid, my art?

Being an outlier is terrifying - but I sure as hell didn’t want to stay in that job waiting to see what other acute illness I unlock.

So I quit.

I packed my things, quit my job, and moved from Istanbul to Amsterdam to start my own business. I know what you’re thinking. Sounds pretty easy on paper right? But no, I’m not a nepo baby. The plan was to rely on my limited savings that would barely cover my first year of living in Amsterdam, resolve the visa issue through pursuing a college degree (what would eventually become my 3rd degree overall) and hope for the best. Have you ever heard of the leap of faith?

Yep, that’s what I did.

Years have gone by and I’m happy to report that my instinct then was right. My days were full of things my nervous system seemed to accept. I made art, I voiced my unfiltered opinions (very Dutch of me), I spent countless hours with founders digging into their weird, finding the beauty in their stories. And yes - I didn’t have a paycheck at first, but at least, the work I was doing was all me.

Eventually, paychecks started rolling in too.

The reason I’m revisiting this story these days (and remember it so well) is most likely because I’m taking similar steps that scare the hell out of me yet another time. Once again, I’ve moved out of my comfort zone. Once again, I’m uprooted my career and my whole life, for a move abroad. The scale of the move has gotten bigger this time too: about 2 years ago, I moved from Amsterdam to New York.

I wish I were foreshadowing the happy ending my second major move came with right now, but alas, whether there is a happy ending to my New York journey or not is yet to be decided. By factors that are out of my control.

What can one do, right? It’s called life.

I guess, the only thing I can do for now would be to avoid repeating the mistakes I did the last time I made a similar move. So in the spirit of always bettering myself, this time I decided to document things.

I’m documenting this whole journey from my unique perspective as an outsider in this new place I call home. And I’m not doing it just to be dramatic (though it would be very me to do so). Think about it: everyone who is famous for being uncommon in some way or another has had a similar oh-shit moment. Even Anna Wintour, who is not a personal fav of mine, but an undeniable icon regardless, was fired from Harper’s Bazaar for being too radical. And it is exactly that unapologetic point of view, that determination and that stubborn sense of self that cost her a job AND eventually made her the icon that she is, right?

So, the moral of the story is this, I guess:

You can keep rearranging tiny boxes on slides for things you secretly hate, waiting for your body to file an official complaint.

Or you can listen now.

Which one will it be?