Colours of Africa: painting a new self

On the day I placed the ad, I sat diligently in my kitchen next to the white phone with a rotary dial and a clunky receiver. Nobody had mobile phones back then, so one had to stay home to receive calls from potential employers.

The first call came at eight in the morning, with someone speaking English with a strong Middle Eastern accent. He wanted to know if I could charter a ship for him in the port of St. Petersburg to transport Kurdish refugees from Iraq. While I visualized the “unofficial” logistics schemes I was supposed to create, I received another call offering me a secretary job in a bank, then another one as an interpreter for a Dutch CEO in a well-known restaurant chain (which was relatively unknown back then).

The fourth call came the following morning. On the other end of the line, I heard a confident male voice with rhythmic, military-precise English (later I could easily recognize it as a Swedish accent, but at the time, it was new to me). Each word sounded strange to me: “roof windows,” “attic,” “marketing assistant,” and finally, “Denmark.” I knew nothing about that country except that Hans Christian Andersen created his fairy tales there, and that they spoke a Germanic language called Danish. I knew even less about “roof windows” and nothing about “attics” (in fact, no one in Russia knew these terms, except for the first three local VELUX employees). But what puzzled me most was the term “marketing assistant.” I clearly didn’t qualify for such a position, and the word “marketing” was totally unknown to me. My head was filled with hundreds of doubts and questions, but they all were stuck in my throat, so I simply said I found it very interesting.

When I dressed for my first interview with that Swede, I couldn’t have guessed it would take place under extreme conditions. I wore a splendid business suit with a knee-length skirt and the sheerest of stockings. It was February, and it was -25°C outside. I had to hop over snow to reach the meeting place at a café. The conversation at the table was brief, and soon my future boss suggested we visit some construction sites. I thought of my almost bare legs, the bitter cold, and my high-heeled boots, but I agreed. We climbed up a rickety temporary staircase without handrails, higher and higher, until we found ourselves in a cluttered space beneath a sloping roof. Light poured down from above. Over my head, I noticed sloped windows through which I could see the cloudless blue sky – typical during extremely cold winter days. The Swede smiled with pride and excitement: “Do you like it?” “Beautiful, I love it,” I lied. I didn’t see anything aesthetically pleasing. What impressed me most was the person showing me this chaos. His tone, words, and gestures conveyed conviction, respect, faith, passion, and absolute honesty. “A person like this cannot be involved in something questionable. I need to figure out the meaning and beauty of these strange windows,” I thought.

That’s how my journey with the Danish company began – a journey that lasted 27 years. I found myself in a small team of pioneers who were building everything from scratch – the business, the company, and even the market itself. Before that, there had been no tradition in Russia of living and working under a sloping roof. There was no such product as a “roof window,” and its function, purpose, and benefits had to be explained to customers even five, ten, and twenty years later. It was a different story in Belgium, for example, where 4 out of 5 people grew up in houses with such windows. Russians had grown up in cubic apartments, and the idea of a bright space with windows facing the sky was just something seen in movies.

“They are a cult,” people used to say about us. Everyone was too happy, passionate, active, devoted, and always ready to help each other. They joked that all VELUX employees had a professional ailment – a sore neck because we constantly lifted our heads to scan the roofs of buildings for potential squares of attic windows. We had “systems” instead of departments – our organizational diagram resembled Swiss cheese or bubbles in an aquarium, rather than a traditional flowchart with squares and lines of authority. Each bubble reflected a function, and every employee could work in multiple “bubbles” at once, meaning their professional development was never confined to a single department.

The company’s strategy wasn’t written behind closed doors and hidden from employees. They developed the strategy themselves. Project groups with deep understanding of specific market segments conducted research, set goals, made plans, tracked outcomes, and even managed their own budgets.

We genuinely believed that the most important thing in the company was its people. Our hiring process was lengthy and took many steps because we were looking for kindred spirits who were serious about staying with us for the long haul. During the first month, newly hired employees were carefully passed through the organization, like newborn babies. They needed to be introduced not only to the strategy and processes but, most importantly, to the organization’s energy and values. Monthly dialogues and annual review meetings between employees and their managers were the norm for us. Only later did I find out that in other companies, such meetings never existed. Our philosophy could today be described by a popular new term.

In 2014, Frederic Laloux wrote a book about “teal” organizations, which resemble living organisms where employees are given great freedom in decision-making, guided by the organization’s goals and values. He called them the companies of the future. A wave of “teal” organizational reforms swept through innovative companies, including Russian ones. The topic of “teal” organizations became popular at conferences. We didn’t speak at these conferences, although we had plenty to boast about: by that time, this management philosophy had been in place at our company for 20 years. Back then, though, it did look like a cult to many.

Once, after leaving the company, I attended a seminar on the principles of building “teal” organizations. For each slide, I nodded and told myself, “Yes, I know this. And this. And this.” When I saw the organizational structure represented as a round piece of Swiss cheese (where the holes were “systems,” an alternative to departments), I even chuckled. I had drawn such circles every time I needed to rethink the functionality of marketing and projects under my supervision. I realized how advanced and progressive my ex-company’s management philosophy was, how deep, honest, and ethical its core was.

That’s probably why I worked there for so many years, never succumbing to head hunters’ offers to switch to other attractive positions with salaries at least double what I was earning. I believe it was because the company’s values resonated strongly with mine, and at some point, work ceased to be just a job for me; it became a place for connection and mutual development with like-minded people. During the first five years, I eagerly absorbed these values, tasted them, and tried to find the right words to describe them when friends asked, “Where do you work?” and “How is it?” In the last five to ten years, I was already passing these values on to new employees. I saw myself in their amazed eyes when they asked, “Can business really be like this?” Yes, it can. Believe me, it can. And once you’ve experienced the authenticity and humanity of such a workplace, adapting to anything else – rudeness, disrespect, authoritarianism, mistrust, ignorance – becomes impossible or unbearably difficult.

That’s probably why the question of values became crucial for me. Soon after my resignation, I started receiving job offers. The titles and financial conditions were sky-high. I asked what the working environment was like and how employees were treated. After hearing the answers, I didn’t even go to interviews, realizing I couldn’t betray what was important to me. I couldn’t change my true self.

The Point of No Return

How did the crisis start? I realized I was getting tired. Working in marketing was a wonderful, creative, and exploratory experience. Being a leader was an even greater joy. I loved watching my team members grow, develop, and eventually surpass me. It was satisfying to delegate a project to a colleague and see solutions I wouldn’t have thought of myself.

Every autumn, we would begin preparing the marketing plan for the next year. I knew every bit of it by heart and could fill out the document with my eyes closed. It was exhilarating in the first year, the third, the fifth, even the tenth. But when I walked the same circle for the fifteenth, seventeenth, twentieth time, it started to wear me down. The same competitors, the same distributors, the same events, and even the same topics of discussion year after year.

I wanted to change professions and try something new, but I just couldn’t bring myself to leave the company. The energy of the people, shared values, inspiration, and the feeling of being part of a team kept me there. Company loyalty is a wonderful quality, but it can also become the biggest limitation to personal growth.

One day, all the circumstances and world crises converged into one big tangle of shocking disappointments. Things changed with the arrival of a new general manager with a very different management style. The once vibrant energy of the company began to fade, giving way to hints of misunderstanding, stress, and even fear. Eventually, it dimmed entirely, replaced by a stifling atmosphere of confusion and compromise.

My professional achievements of the past years were devalued, as were the achievements of the entire team. Responsibilities and powers gradually dwindled: I was now supposed to get approval from the boss for every small decision, every detail, such as the color of stickers for envelopes. Unpredictable ideas and decisions replaced the plans we had carefully prepared.

Then the pandemic started, and lockdowns followed. Everyone shifted to remote work, striving to save sales while staring at their laptop screens. With the office closed, the marketing team’s workload didn’t decrease – it multiplied. Our field employees used to spend four out of five workdays visiting clients and construction sites, but now all their energy went into generating marketing ideas. Implementation of these ideas fell on our team. We were drowning in tasks and emails. I sat in front of my computer screen from 9 in the morning until 11 at night, with breaks only for food and tea. For two months, we had 14-hour workdays amidst a suffocating atmosphere of bureaucracy and mistrust.

My body ached from stress, and my soul howled like a wolf. Every morning, I pressed the “login” button on my computer and told myself, “Just hold on for one more day.” Each new task filled me with resentment. The job was burning me out and leaving me empty.

It wasn’t just about the workload. With all my being, I knew that I no longer wanted to do what I had been doing. Not at all, to the point of nausea and a burning in my heart. No more construction industry. No more motivational programs for partners. No more competitive analyses and product USPs. I cried for two months, realizing that I couldn’t go on like this. I just didn’t know what I was able and willing to do instead.

Somewhere deep inside me, a virus of freedom and creativity had taken root. At some point, it had spread throughout my entire being, and it was impossible to stop it. I passionately wanted change.

One night, just before going to bed, I grabbed a bright pink Post-it note, scribbled a few words on it, and went to sleep. In the morning, I folded it into quarters and tucked it into my passport. Since then, I’ve come across it many times. I would take it out, unfold it, read it, and fold it back. I couldn’t throw it away. No, not that one. Once I discovered it at the bottom of my backpack, which had traveled with me through Africa. In my flowing handwriting, blue against pink, it read:

“I want to get to live another, different life: being in a new place, doing what I love, with people who share my spirit and values.”

Time To Say Goodbye

I marched into the General Manager’s office carrying a notebook with two lists: reasons for my resignation and potential freelance projects I could pursue. The night before, I had rehearsed this conversation at least three times. In the morning, I did breathing exercises to add decisiveness and calmness.

Things went differently than planned. Instead of the prepared speech, all I managed to say was: “This year has been tough for me. Unbearable. I can’t continue working here. I want to resign by the end of this year. Let’s discuss how to do this responsibly, so that my team and the company as a whole don’t suffer.” The boss listened and remained silent for a while. Then he looked intensely into my eyes, and I… I just burst into tears. All the tension of those months and weeks poured out through these uninvited, shameful tears. I tried to hold them back with deep breaths, but they wouldn’t stop. The office we were sitting in was an aquarium-like cubicle, transparent to anyone passing by. Any colleague could see my emotional breakdown.

I must admit, my boss acted like a true man. He turned my chair away from the glass wall and fetched a stack of tissues, placing them under my rivers of tears. Twenty minutes later, I calmed down and presented my proposals. We decided to plan my departure in detail, and to break the news in about a month: first to my team, then department managers, and finally the entire staff.

I left that meeting feeling drained but relieved. I had two more months of work ahead, but they seemed manageable now. My agony had eased and found a resolution. My twenty-plus-year business career in the Danish paradise would soon end. I needed to finish it with dignity, give myself time to recover, and move forward. I didn’t know where exactly, and I didn’t want to imagine. The most important thing was to break free, I told myself. That’s how I was thinking at the time.

Newly Acquired Freedom

On my first day of official “freedom,” I woke up at nine in the morning without an alarm. There was neither euphoria nor exhilaration – more like a sense of suspension and uncertainty. I got dressed and went for a walk. I walked slowly, rhythmically along the street, inhaling and exhaling the crisp air. It felt strange to be out walking aimlessly during what would normally be a workday. I didn’t need to work – yet I couldn’t relax; turmoil was brewing inside me.

I entered a Georgian café (serving cuisine from the Caucasus). They served lunch, which I had never tried because at this time of day I was always in the office. They brought me a beetroot salad with goat cheese and chicken soup. I hardly tasted it; I mechanically chewed and listened to a playful French song. Soon I received a message from Galina, a dance therapist: she was planning a new training and needed my help with marketing it. We discussed ideas and brainstormed. All that was left was for me to do the copywriting. “I got it, Galya. Let me send you some drafts later today, OK?” I caught myself speaking with forced enthusiasm. I wasn’t myself at all.

Kalimba! I suddenly remembered the gift from my colleagues. I looked for online workshops on African kalimba. It turned out there were fan clubs and social media groups dedicated to this instrument in Moscow and St. Petersburg. There was an incredible variety of sizes and shapes available for sale online: kalimbas were imported from Africa and China, and some were even produced locally.

Identifying the country’s top kalimba guru was easy; his name was on all review articles, he tested newly arrived instruments in videos and commented on the nuances of their sound. I messaged him that I was looking for a kalimba masterclass. Surprisingly, he was available, so the next day I found myself on my way to meet Peter, with my wooden box. That one hour opened a new world for me: if you pluck the tongues alternately starting from the center, right and left, you get a full musical scale. And if you play on the red keys while following a special pattern, you can produce a beautiful silvery melody. Peter made me promise to practice the kalimba for at least five minutes every day. At that moment, I was sure I would do that. But I didn’t touch it for months.

In the evening of that same day, I went to rehearsal with my rock band. We had been playing together for just over a year and practiced once a week. None of us were real musicians; we were all amateurs. We met at a music school for adults, where each of us learned to play our respective instruments: I played the guitar, Max was on keyboards, the other Max played the bass, and Andrei was on drums. We were all brought together by a pro whose name was Nikita. A recognized ace in classical guitar, he decided to try himself as the leader of a rock band. Our noisy repertoire was the complete opposite of classical music. I think that’s what actually intrigued him. That day, we were working on the mystical “Aerials” by System of a Down. It had a dense, powerful sound, a strong rhythm, and two-part vocals. Something about the energy of this music usually sent me into a trance, emptied my mind, and charged my heart. But on that day, my heart wasn’t charging, and my restless mind was panicking. It was urging me to hurry and race.

What saved me from this onslaught was a live Sufi music event. It took place in a cozy teahouse, adorned with symbols of mindfulness practices: colorful scarves and pillows, Buddha and Ganesha figurines, aromatic candles, bells, and gongs. I sat directly on the floor on a silk pillow, and two meters away from me, an Indian bansuri flute played, the tabla drums rhythmically clacked, and flat bells created unpredictable musical patterns in the air. To follow them, my mind had to be “in the moment.” I finally got two hours of peace.

How the Fear Sets In

On the third day, I chose to continue my music therapy and signed up for a vocal lesson. Why that day, as I hadn’t been to a vocal lesson in over a year? What was the urgency? I couldn’t answer that question; there was an itching desire inside me to run somewhere and do something to dull the growing internal restlessness. I had to sign up with the first available teacher, a woman named Alina.

“What are we going to sing today?” she asked.

“Hallelujah” and “More than Words,” I replied.

What followed was a total failure. My voice trembled; I almost croaked. Alina was clearly disappointed, and I was even more so. There was music, there were favourite songs, but there was no joy. The therapy wasn’t working.

I rushed out onto the street. It was cold and chilly, but I had a meeting with Masha to look forward to. She had once come for an interview for a position in my department, when I was still in my Danish wonderland. She was intelligent and beautiful but clearly overqualified for that role. Since that job interview, we had been keeping in touch and gradually became friends.

“You’re doing great, aren’t you?” she smiled at me. “Feeling steady?”

“Sort of,” I replied. “I even went for a vocal lesson today.”

“You know, I remember how devastated I was when I lost my job. It was awful being without steady income for a whole year. I remember a friend once asking me to meet downtown for a cup of coffee. I silently calculated the subway fare back and forth, the cost of coffee – and realized that I needed those 300 rubles to buy food for myself and my daughter.”

“But didn’t you have online clients?”

“For quite a while, I was in a state of paralysis; I couldn’t bring myself to charge money for consultations and sessions. Clients paid whatever they could. I did several sessions for free, one brought me a thousand, and after another one, I suddenly received 5,000 in my account. Can you imagine? That was a week’s budget!”

I listened to Masha, trying to understand. I had never experienced a situation in my life where I had no money. And really, were 5,000 rubles even considered money? I could afford to spend that amount any time on a Thai oil massage or on a pair of red pants just to boost my mood. Financial stability had been part of my corporate job. In all my years of work, my salary had never been delayed. I knew that on the 1st and 15th of every month, money would drop into my account. No matter what I did during the day or what the results were (didn’t I have unsuccessful days or uneventful meetings?), I would still receive my salary.

I wasn’t even prepared for the possibility of having no money and needing to earn and save money daily, hourly. What if one day I would agonize over spending 300 rubles? What if I had no clients, orders, or projects? What if I didn’t have the energy or health to seek clients? While working in the office, I never had to think about whether I wanted to go to work or not – it was a daily given.

I cringed. I was scared. At home, I opened my laptop and created a simple spreadsheet to track expenses. From that moment on, I began recording all my expenses from the day I resigned. The fear of being left without money (despite having good savings) paralyzed me. I had an overwhelming desire to save on everything, to the point where I preferred a shawarma at the nearest fast-food joint over a proper lunch. I stopped buying new clothes or shoes.

After a couple of months, I analysed the structure of my expenses. It turned out that I needed exactly half of the amount I used to spend before. However, the lion’s share of these expenses went toward workshops, courses, books, and various forms of education. In other words, I could survive on one-sixth of my previous income. This was a shocking discovery – in the past, I found it challenging to save even 20% of my salary!

Now I understand that the survival and extreme saving mode I had chosen was a mistake. Instead of replenishing my strength, joy, and peace, I was filling my internal vessel with a toxic panic potion. Looking back, I would do the exact opposite – allow myself better food, praise myself for having created a solid safety net, and celebrate my “time for me.” I would take care of myself instead of suffocating myself with artificial limitations. Back then, I didn’t know what I know now.

Black Void

And here I am, curled up under the blanket. All my attention is on my breath. When I push my abdomen and diaphragm outward, I feel the air rushing inside. So much air. So much that it hurts my ribs and, for some reason, my shoulder blades. Blowing away these cobwebs, I send the wave into my hands, right down to the fingertips, into my feet, all the way to the heels, and the tremor in my body subsides slightly. I know it won’t last long.

I’m shrinking into a tiny grey dot. This dot trembles and feels like sticky viscous jelly. Panic, a thirst for immediate frantic activity, and powerlessness are dissolved within this jelly. I am bursting with the desire to run, search, discover, learn, work, resolve something. It doesn’t matter exactly what, but it feels urgent. My body refuses to obey these impulses and even sabotages food and sleep. Instead of thinking “I am free and capable of so much,” the thought that revolves is “I am lonely, I don’t want anything, I can’t even gather the will to do something for my future.” I want to grasp someone’s hand, a straw, a branch – but there’s no one. Inside, there’s just emptiness.

The first time I felt that nervous grey jelly inside me, my brain began to burn with insatiable curiosity. I opened my PC. Within a couple of hours of searching online, I registered for dozens of webinars on radically unrelated topics – from video editing secrets to belting vocal techniques. The crowning achievement of my panic-driven quest was the purchase of two courses – one on creative photography and another on social media marketing.

On the same day, homemade paper dashboards appeared on my wall. I used to create these in the office for visualizing website stats. On these home dashboards, I listed all the courses and webinars I had registered for. Separately, I compiled a list of useful books on business and personal development. Ten books to read within two months – after all, I had plenty of free time, didn’t I?

I am looking at these dashboards now. The red lines indicate progress in completing the task, from 0 to 100%. The graphs show that I had taken on 15 sources of self-education simultaneously. After 2 weeks of monitoring, only in three of them had the red thread moved slightly to the right. The rest mockingly stood at zero, vividly showing how far I was from expertise in any direction. It looks like the dashboard of a loser with a complete lack of focus and priorities.