Some of us are happily at home in the buzz and chaos of an office environment. Some of us are much, much happier when we’re working in a home of our own. What’s the big difference? Former office-worker Stuart Thomas tells all.
For five years, I had the kind of job most geeks would die for. I reviewed, reported on, and shared my opinions about the latest developments in tech. It took me around the world and allowed me to experience the kind of lifestyle I’d only ever seen on TV. I was good at it too. I won an award, and was shortlisted for a couple of others. The job gave me a lot, but it wasn’t until I left that I realised how much it had taken from me.
Most of the stresses were the same faced by any contemporary journalist. An overloaded inbox, demanding PRs, and an unceasing demand for stories. Most of them I could live with. I was threatened with legal action once too. That was awful, but it passed. The thing that came closest to breaking me was the office.
Open plan offices are hard enough for reclusive introverts to deal with at the best of times, but sharing your space with an advertising agency dials the sensory overload up to 11. Between the shouting matches, the people determined to share their music with the whole office (even while wearing headphones), and the incessant phone calls, I needed 20 minutes of silence at the end of the day just to unwind.
I knew I needed to get out, but I didn’t know how. I let a few people know I was looking, applied where I could, and got a few interviews. For the best part of year, I went nowhere. Just psyching myself up to make the walk from my car to the office took energy I no longer had.
Then out of the blue, an email. It led to an interview, which led to an offer. I took it. It was nothing like the work I’d been doing for the past five years. That was part of the attraction. A higher salary only sweetened the deal.
Because the company is headquartered in Dubai, I’ve had to work remotely. My new boss apologised for the lack of an office. He shouldn’t have. It’s been a blessing.
Aside from the fact that my commute now consists of a 10 metre walk from my bed to my desk, I’ve rediscovered something I’d quite forgotten. I can be myself and still be good at my job. In fact, I’m better at it. I may not be exposing dodgy numbers at leading tech companies, or revealing which global holding company has bought which digital agency, but the quality of the work is still higher.
With time on my side and no one tapping me on the shoulder or (shudder) yelling my name every five minutes, I can get on with the stuff I’m paid to do. I’ve interviewed more people in a wider variety of fields in eight months at this job than I did in five years at my last job.
And because I no longer make the mistakes of the continually harried, I’m freer to experiment and play around with the language I’ve loved my whole life.
Maybe it’s because of where I’ve come from, but I feel like the stuff I’m writing about matters more too. Essentially, I cover the workplace and how to make it more pleasant and productive. Perhaps more importantly though, I get to tell stories about ordinary people who do extraordinary things in their working lives.
Of course I miss the gadgets and the international travel. But all of that pales when I think about an office manager reading one of my articles, and telling that team member who looks genuinely relieved every time they get to leave the office to work from home for the week.
Letting someone be themselves and work from a place of comfort makes all the difference. Trust me, I know.
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