There is a particular kind of confusion that arrives when you spend your twenties collecting degrees, internships, impressive job titles and LinkedIn connections, only to eventually look at the whole collection and think: “Actually, I would quite like to sleep.” Welcome to the great career downsizing.

For years, we were taught that careers move in one direction: up. Junior becomes senior. Senior becomes manager. Manager becomes director. Director becomes someone who says “let’s circle back” in meetings and somehow owns six different notebooks, all dedicated to different kinds of productivity. The ladder is presented as a fact of life. Keep climbing, keep progressing, keep adding another rung.

But what happens when you don’t actually want to keep climbing? What if you look at the next rung and think, “That looks exhausting.” Maybe you take the assistant position. Maybe you accept the job with the less glamorous title, the shorter commute, the smaller team and, crucially, fewer meetings about meetings. People may look at you slightly strangely. “After two master’s degrees?” Yes. “An assistant?” Yes. “Are you okay?” More okay than I was when I was answering 125 emails per day, actually.

Because somewhere along the way, we started confusing career progression with life progression. We assumed that moving forward professionally automatically meant moving forward personally. The bigger the title, the better the life. The larger the salary, the greater the success. The fuller the calendar, the more important you must be. A bigger title sounds wonderful until you realise it comes with a bigger inbox, a bigger workload, a bigger calendar and the exciting new responsibility of having absolutely no idea what day it is.

And perhaps you don’t want that. Perhaps you want to be very good at your job and then go home. Perhaps you want enough energy left to work on the novel, launch the side project, learn pottery, see your friends or simply stare into the middle distance without someone asking whether you’ve “had a chance to look at that email.” Perhaps you want to be an excellent assistant who leaves the office at five. And honestly? Good for you.

There is something strangely rebellious about wanting to be competent without being consumed. Zillennials were raised with a very specific idea of success. Study hard. Get the degree. Get the impressive job. Get promoted. Keep going. Optimise everything. Build the career. Build the personal brand. Build the LinkedIn profile. Build, build, build. Nobody really mentioned the part where you are supposed to have enough energy left to actually enjoy the life you were building.

Burnout has become something of a generational houseguest. It arrives uninvited, stays far too long and somehow eats everything in the fridge. Eventually, you stop finding “busy” particularly impressive. In fact, you start to wonder why we ever treated exhaustion as a status symbol. Because what is the point of having the beautiful apartment if you’re never home? What is the point of earning more if every weekend is spent recovering from earning it? What is the point of having an impressive title if you have become too tired to answer your friends’ messages? At some point, the maths stops maths-ing. And this doesn’t mean ambition has disappeared. Quite the opposite. Maybe we’re simply becoming more ambitious about our actual lives.

We want time, energy, and friendships that don’t require a six-week booking window. We want to have dinner with our parents while we still can. We want to go for a walk on a Tuesday because the weather is nice, rather than waiting for Saturday when it will inevitably rain. We want side projects that might become something, or might simply be fun. And maybe getting all of that requires making a career choice that looks slightly less impressive from the outside.

There is, of course, privilege in being able to make these choices. Not everyone can afford to take a lower-paid position, work fewer hours or slow down their career progression. Bills remain remarkably uninterested in our personal philosophies. Rent, unfortunately, has never accepted “but I’m prioritising my wellbeing” as a valid payment method. But for those who can choose differently, there is something quietly radical about doing so. Because perhaps success doesn’t only move up. Perhaps sometimes it moves sideways.

What if a smaller title gives you a larger life? What if “junior” at work means senior in your own happiness? What if leaving the office at five isn’t laziness, but excellent time management with a very good PR team? Because honestly, what is the point of being the most impressive person at the office if your friends have started referring to you as “that person who is always busy”?

There is a peculiar moment when the career ladder starts looking suspiciously like a treadmill. You are technically moving. Your fitness tracker is thrilled. Everyone else is impressed. And yet, somehow, you are still standing in the same place. Perhaps getting off it isn’t giving up. Perhaps it’s noticing that you’ve been running in one direction for years without checking whether you actually like where you’re going. We don’t necessarily want less ambition. We want ambition that belongs to us. That distinction matters.

Because there is a difference between wanting a bigger career and wanting a bigger life. Sometimes they overlap beautifully. Sometimes they don’t. And there is no universal prize for choosing the option that looks most impressive on paper. We want a career that pays the bills, yes. But also one that leaves enough of us left over to enjoy the things the bills are supposedly paying for. Because a promotion is nice. But so is having the energy to flirt with someone at dinner.

There is a particular kind of wealth in having somewhere to be and not constantly wishing you were somewhere else. Maybe that’s the real career upgrade: not having the most impressive job in the room, but having a life you’re actually awake for. Maybe we don’t need to downgrade our careers. Maybe we’re finally upgrading our definition of success. And honestly, if that comes with a smaller title, fewer meetings and the radical luxury of logging off on time? Put it on LinkedIn. Actually, don’t. Go home.

With love, chaos, and jazz. Always.