On November 5th, I handed in my resignation letter. It was one of the most stressful moments of my life. I found myself in tears, struggling to explain to Leah, the human resources manager, why I had come to this decision. In truth, I had mentally resigned long before that day. Weeks of feeling unfulfilled and frustrated had taken a toll on me. I had begun sleeping in, missing pharmacy calls but reporting them anyway, and eventually, I knew she couldn’t hold on. But how had I reached this point?

Just two years earlier, I had been sitting in the parking lot of a major hospital after my last doctor’s call of the day, confiding in my friend, Sophie, about my growing discontent. I couldn’t tell whether the dissatisfaction came from the nature of the work, the work environment, or a mismatch between my personality and the job. I dismissed the personality angle as I had been reading The Introvert’s Edge: How the Quiet and Shy Can Outsell Anyone and believed that introverts could thrive in sales. I didn’t yet realize that what I was struggling with went far beyond being reserved.

So I focused on the other two possibilities.

High-pressure, competitive environments: Selling generics, especially in pain management, was cutthroat. With a molecule like diclofenac, there were dozens of competing brands, some with advanced formulations, others relying solely on low pricing, all fighting for a tiny sliver of shelf space. In such a commodified market, where most pharmacy owners prioritized mark‑up, cheaper products always had the upper hand.

The environment was also relentlessly high‑pressure. Everything revolved around numbers: sales targets, packs moved, deficits, strategies, bonuses. I worked for a generic company that, while more accommodating than most, still offered limited support. Each rep was expected to make ten calls a day, carry detailing materials, sample packs, a sales book, and personal items across a wide territory. Without a car to store everything and move efficiently, the work was exhausting.

During that conversation with Sophie, I wondered whether working for a multinational, where support systems were stronger, might help test my suspicions. And soon enough, the opportunity presented itself. A leading French pharmaceutical company was acquiring a generic line and had begun recruiting. I was one of the lucky few selected. I received the call while on my way to a doctor’s visit in my territory. I wanted to punch the air in excitement, but, sitting in a matatu (local name for public transportation), I restrained myself.

Role plays: Two weeks later, I joined a sales training program alongside representatives from four other countries. The sessions on Monday and half of Tuesday were theoretical. Then, on Tuesday afternoon, they were scheduled to begin the role plays. At random, Sherryl, the trainer, called out: “Nia, could you sell this pen to Nick?” Nick, a colleague seated to her left, looked up expectantly. All eyes turned toward me as I shifted my chair to face him. I instantly knew what question I would use to open the sale, yet in the same instant, a wave of self‑doubt swept over me. After a long pause, I raised the pen and spoke softly, almost in a whisper:

• “What features matter most to you in a pen?”

“A good grip, a fine point, something durable,” Nick replied.

• Encouraged, I continued: “What type of activities do you usually use a pen for?”

“Mostly writing out orders and notes during client calls.”

• I pressed on. “Have you ever had any issues with pens you’ve used in the past?”

“Yes, some shed ink or break apart after just a few uses.”

I listened carefully, nodding, and then proceeded to position the pen as reliable, comfortable, and built to last. I completed the sale process, but stepped away, believing my timidity and nervousness had caused Sherryl and the others to judge me as incompetent. When training ended, the team was taken to a showroom to receive a zero‑mileage Honda Ballad. It sure felt surreal.

Ambiguity: With my new car and new role, I headed to my assigned territory, which covered five major towns. The transition, however, was unsettling, as I received no orientation for the region and lacked past sales history to draw upon. Fortunately, my friend Pete, born and raised in the area, offered to travel with me and help me secure accommodation.

Persuasion skills: Once settled, I conducted a small market analysis to establish a baseline. I then began meeting procurement professionals. They were warm, welcoming, and excited to have a representative from my company. They agreed to stock my products, but when they asked about quantities, I accepted whatever they suggested. I feared that pushing for larger orders might make me seem ungrateful, pushy, or worse, prompt them to withdraw the order entirely.

Small‑talk: The quarterly review meetings always began with clusters of sales reps filling the hotel lobby, laughing loudly, greeting each other with hugs, and swapping stories about clients and targets. Because the routine never changed, I always knew what to expect, but that didn’t make it easier. As I walked toward the venue, my mind would spiral with the same worry every time: I won’t have anything to say. I felt a wave of relief once the meetings officially started, as I could slip into a seat at the back, focus on the slides, and take notes. I felt safe in that structured environment until tea and lunch breaks. To avoid the small talk, I would take long bathroom breaks, emerging only when most people had already served their snacks. By then, it was usually time to return to the presentations.

The after‑meeting gatherings were the hardest. Managers encouraged out‑of‑town reps to join, insisting it was a good chance to bond with colleagues. I always sat tucked at the far end of the table, as far from the managers as possible. Occasionally, someone would comment on how quiet I had been. I would smile politely, unsure how else to respond. Later, when I was finally alone, the rumination would begin. I replayed every small interaction, every awkward moment, every silence I wished I had filled differently. And then, my mind would offer the perfect response, the perfect joke, the perfect reaction I should have given hours earlier. I often wondered why these thoughts only came when the moment had already passed.

Presentations: The firm had several teams, each marketing different product lines. On the afternoon before the review meeting, teams would gather to prepare their presentations of targets versus performance to date, successes, challenges, and the way forward. A different representative was always nominated to present on behalf of the team, but my name never came up. I believed my colleagues and managers saw me as incapable of making a strong impression. In the usual team meetings, I was soft‑spoken, sometimes losing my train of thought, filling pauses with “ummm…”, and struggling to articulate my ideas. The entire situation was a paradox. I felt relieved at not being chosen, since it spared me the dread of standing before the group, yet at the same time, I felt excluded. Over time, these feelings of exclusion chipped away at my self‑esteem and sense of confidence.

Performance evaluations: After the review meetings, managers sat down with each representative to discuss individual progress. The evaluations considered both performance and character. My reluctance to push for larger orders meant my sales numbers often lagged behind those of my peers. In addition, I was perceived as too quiet, reserved, and timid for the demands of a sales role. Over time, the weight of poor evaluations combined with low self‑esteem, diminished confidence, and persistent feelings of exclusion left me feeling inadequate and demotivated. The frustration gradually deepened into disengagement and eventually resignation.

After resigning, I took a one‑year gap to redesign my life. During that time, I enrolled in a master’s programme in project planning and management. I resonated deeply with the field of monitoring and evaluation, and soon decided to seek paid opportunities in M&E.

Networking: Paul, a friend from church, reminded me of a simple truth: “Your network is your net worth.” He advised me to talk to as many people as possible, since opportunities often came through connections. But there was one problem, my professional network was almost non‑existent because my skill set was still developing, and I had never fully appreciated the importance of networking. Carol, another friend from church, overheard the conversation and recommended that I reach out to a youth organization that specialized in linking young professionals with industry opportunities. By chance, the organization was in the process of forming a partnership with another group to execute a project in urban farming. They needed an M&E assistant, and I was brought in to fill the gap.

One of the most fulfilling chapters of my professional journey began here. Going to the field, recruiting beneficiaries, collecting and analyzing data, and developing reports gave me a sense of purpose and joy. The satisfaction I drew from these experiences more than compensated for the meagre pay. In any case, my priority was the chance to build my skill set and gain experience.

Authority figures: Everything was going well until the education officer resigned. Management asked me to step in in an acting capacity, effectively holding two positions at once. Accepting the request would make me indispensable to the team, but it would also place me in a dilemma. On one hand, it offered an opportunity for growth and the possibility of promotion. On the other hand, it left me feeling exposed. In this role, I would be expected to interact frequently with authority figures, heads of training institutions, and international donors. Once again, I became fixated on the idea that I would have nothing meaningful to say to them and that I would be judged as incompetent.

Rather than wait for what I imagined would be an embarrassing situation, I chose to resign…again.

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For those who’ve walked this path, what helped you hold your job?