I Need to Admit Something[edit]
The coffee’s cold. My hands are steady now, but they used to shake like a leaf in a gale when I’d lie. Not about the big things – the pills, the empty bank accounts, the way I left my first wife and son in the dust. No. I’m talking about the small, daily betrayals. The ones that felt like stealing pennies but added up to a life I didn’t recognize. I need to admit it: for twenty years, I didn’t live my values at work. Not really. I played the part. And it cost me more than I ever thought possible.
Here’s what I know after 78 years: You learn to play the rest notes too. The silence between the beats. The space where you don’t play. That’s where the real courage lives. I spent decades avoiding that silence. I was terrified of the quiet space where my values might be heard, or worse, questioned.
What I Hid (And Why It Was Easier to Lie)
I worked in corporate marketing for a big tech firm. My actual values? Integrity. Respect. Creating something that actually helped people, not just sold them something they didn’t need. But the company’s value? "Growth. Always growth. At all costs." So, I hid. I’d nod along when they pushed for a campaign targeting vulnerable seniors with predatory "health" apps. I’d say, "Great idea, let’s make it feel ethical," while knowing it was pure exploitation. I’d skip the team lunch where we’d dissect the real impact of our last campaign on a community we’d disrupted, choosing instead to talk about the weather. I’d tell myself, This is just business. You’re just a cog. It’s not who you are.
Why was it so hard to face? Because I’d spent my 40s living a lie that was far bigger. Addiction taught me the seductive power of the easy lie. The lie that got you through the next hour, the next day. The lie that said, This isn’t me. It’s just the job. I was so used to hiding my own truth, I didn’t even recognize the truth I was hiding at work. It felt like the same old pattern: avoid the discomfort, keep the peace, keep the paycheck. The fear wasn’t just about getting fired. It was the deeper, older fear: What if they see the real me? What if I’m not good enough? That fear, born in the darkest days of my addiction, had become my default setting at work. I was still running from the same ghost.
The Moment of Honesty (It Wasn’t a Big Speech)
It wasn’t a dramatic boardroom confrontation. It was a Tuesday afternoon, 3 PM, the kind of day where the fluorescent lights hum a low, depressing drone. We were finalizing the "WellnessWave" campaign – another app promising "stress relief" for seniors, with a hidden subscription model that would trap them. My manager, Brenda, was all smiles, "This is going to be our biggest launch yet, Roger! Think of the growth!"
I looked at the data sheet. The user retention rate for similar apps was less than 10% after 30 days. The testimonials were clearly faked. The real cost? Seniors getting confused, frustrated, maybe even losing money they couldn’t afford to lose. It didn’t align with anything I believed in. Not the jazz I played, not the man I’d tried to become after the wreckage.
My throat felt like it was full of sand. The old fear screamed: Don’t rock the boat. Don’t be the problem. Just sign off. But the silence I’d been hiding in – the rest note – suddenly felt like a physical weight. It wasn’t just about the app. It was about the next time I’d hide. The next time I’d let the lie become my reality.
I took a breath. Not a big one. Just a slow, deliberate one. "Brenda," I said, my voice rough but clear, "I can’t sign off on this. The data shows a high likelihood of user frustration and financial harm. It doesn’t align with our stated commitment to responsible tech. I can’t be part of that."
Silence. Thick, heavy silence. Brenda blinked. The other two people in the room stopped typing. I braced for the explosion, the dismissal, the "Roger, you’re not cut out for this."
She didn’t explode. She just looked at me, really looked, for the first time I could remember. "Huh," she said finally. "I didn’t expect that." Then, quietly, "Okay. Let’s talk about how we can make it responsible. What’s the real user need here?"
What Changed (It Wasn’t Instant, But It Was Real)
That moment didn’t get me a promotion. It didn’t make me the new hero. But it changed the space around me. The silence I’d been hiding in? I started playing it. I started saying, "I need to think about that," instead of just nodding. I started asking, "How does this align with our core values?" instead of just chasing the next metric.
It was messy. There were times I still felt the old fear, the urge to retreat. But now, I had a new tool: the rest note. I learned that you learn to play the rest notes too. The silence before speaking isn’t emptiness; it’s the space where truth can land. It’s where you choose to be present, not just present in the room.
The biggest change? I stopped hiding from myself. Every time I said "no" to a lie, even a small one, I felt a tiny bit more like the man I’d been trying to rebuild. It wasn’t about being perfect. It was about being real. I started looking for work that fit my values, not just trying to fit into work. I found a small, ethical design firm that actually cared about user well-being. It paid less. But the coffee was hot, the team was honest, and the work felt like it mattered. I wasn’t just a cog anymore; I was part of the rhythm.
Kid, Let Me Tell You Something (Practical Stuff)
You don’t need to quit your job tomorrow to live your values. Start small. Start with one value. Is it honesty? Respect? Quality? Find one tiny thing you can do differently today that aligns with it, even if it feels uncomfortable.
The "Rest Note" Practice: Before you speak up in a meeting, or before you sign off on something you know is off, pause. Take that breath. Feel the silence. That is the rest note. It’s not waiting; it’s choosing* to be present in the space where your value lives. It’s the hardest part, but it’s the most powerful.
- Start with "I": Instead of "This is wrong," try "I feel uncomfortable with this approach because it doesn’t align with my belief in [value]." It’s harder to argue with a personal truth.
Find Your Tribe (Even If It’s Small): You don’t need everyone to get it. Find one* person in your workplace who also values integrity. Share the rest note with them. You’ll feel less alone. Embrace the Missed Beat: You will slip up. You’ll say the easy thing. Don’t beat yourself up. Just notice it. Then, in the next moment, choose the rest note again. That’s the work. That’s the long game*.
Living your values at work isn’t about being a saint. It’s about being a human. It’s about not letting the fear of the rest note make you play the wrong notes for the rest of your life. It’s about realizing that the most important rhythm isn’t the one you play for the audience, but the one you play with yourself.
Here’s what I know after 78 years: The work you do matters more than the paycheck you get. Not because of the title, but because of the space you fill with your presence. When you stop hiding in the rest notes and start playing them, you don’t just change your work. You change the very sound of your life. You stop being a ghost in the machine. You become the drummer. You become the one who knows when to play, and when to let the silence speak.
It’s never too late to find your rhythm. Even if you’ve been playing the wrong song for decades. Even if your hands shake a little. Especially then.
— Roger Jackson, still playing