The buzzing sound of my alarm clock marks the start of yet another day in the corporate jungle. Like many others, I’m a typical 6-to-6 office person (9 to 5? In Jakarta? Please. That’s a fantasy reserved for rom-coms and Scandinavian work cultures).
As a child, I had grand dreams of what success would look like: striding through a gleaming downtown skyscraper in stylish officewear, sipping overpriced lattes, engaging in high-stakes meetings about exponential growth and market domination. Ten-year-old me had it all figured out—I was going to be a Director. Preferably in a glamorous, high-powered industry like finance or tech. I imagined leading a sharp, savvy team and earning more than enough to buy all the Uniqlo I wanted, without checking the price tag.
Fast forward nearly a decade into the actual corporate world, and weirdly enough—I’m glad I didn’t end up chasing that exact dream.
Turns out, I’m more of a homebody than I ever imagined. I’ve carved out a quiet niche just east of chaotic Jakarta, a little more removed from the bumper-to-bumper madness and the relentless urban grind. It’s not the skyline view I envisioned, but it’s a life that feels grounded—and real.
To rewind a little: I didn’t exactly land where my degree said I would. If I’d stuck to the original plan, I might be in a warzone as a diplomatic correspondent or representing Indonesia at the UN, sternly negotiating resolutions in four languages. Or maybe I’d be tucked away in a cubicle at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, drawing up policies with serious international implications.
Instead, I find myself talking about natural ingredients and country-specific regulations. I work closely with my team and our clients to figure out what goes into the stuff we consume—what’s allowed, what’s not, what the labels really mean, and just how big the markup is. (Spoiler: it’s big. Like, really big.)
And somehow, this job has taken me around the world. It may not be diplomacy on the world stage, but it is a window into how the global marketplace actually works. And for that, I’m eternally grateful.
I’ve come to accept that jobs like mine—structured, predictable, corporate—aren’t what people typically associate with passion or excitement. They’re often seen as boring, outdated, unsexy. But you know what? I like structure. I like knowing what time I’ll get home. I like not constantly worrying about where my next paycheck is coming from.
Of course, there are trade-offs. As someone who loves cooking, baking, sewing, reading, and creating a warm, cozy home, finding time for those joys amidst work, errands, and self-care is a genuine struggle. It’s a reminder that building a life—and a home—is a joint effort.
Still, my overly organized calendar keeps me sane. I’ve learned not to put the pressure of passion on my paycheck. Not everything you love has to pay your bills. Happiness can come from many corners. And yes, compartmentalizing your joy is allowed.
Back in 2014, I found a quote that has been stuck with me since:
“Maybe it’s brave to quit your job to go paint in Peru for a year, but it’s also brave to work two jobs to help pay for your mom’s medical bills. It’s smart to stay at the law firm until your loans are paid off. It’s OK to only tolerate your job but love your hobbies, because as soon as passions are turned into careers, you risk turning love into work.
So you don’t love your job — who gives a shit?
Are you happy with yourself?
Are you happy with the way you treat people?
Are you happy with your life?”
I still stand by that.
This idea that you have to "go all in" or “leap and the net will appear” is...tone-deaf. Not everyone has a safety net. Not everyone can afford to risk rent or dinner or insurance on a maybe. Romanticizing risk without acknowledging privilege is lazy and dangerous.
Sometimes, a job is just a job. And that’s more than okay. It keeps the lights on, keeps your body fed, and gives you the freedom to dream without going hungry.
Lately, I’ve come to realize that a routine doesn’t dull life’s colors—it adds contrast. There’s a quiet joy in knowing what each day holds, in the rhythm of morning commutes and evening wind-downs. Fulfillment doesn’t have to be loud or spectacular. Sometimes it’s found in the soft hum of daily life, in the slow simmer of contentment.
Maybe we don’t need to chase extraordinary. Maybe ordinary—with all its warm, worn-out edges—is enough.
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