Just a few short months ago, I was living what could be viewed as a 'cool' life: a job in fashion, an office in a hip London area, fashion event invitations and a stellar salary. I worked in a place where the fridge was always stacked with free food, yoga lessons were free twice a week and the computers were sleek, brand-new Macs. Life was glossy.
But I felt hollow inside. I dragged myself out of bed in the morning and sleepwalked through the day with only the thought of my side project, Vilda, to keep me going. The hours were excruciatingly long and my head and eyes ached so bad from all that staring at a screen that I couldn't sleep well at night. The commute was a nightmare and it was the first time in my life that I'd failed to make any friends at work. Many days I thought that if I were to leave this job today, the only thing I'd miss were the two office dogs. Even so, these were just minor details compared to how devoid of meaning my job felt (to me - this is a personal reflection and other people might love doing this kind of work, in which case, more power to them). I kept pushing away the constant niggling voice that reminded me that my contribution to the company didn't really matter, and even if it did, all we were doing was sell products. Products we didn't even make. Products that weren't unique, interesting, useful or good for the planet. Call it 'luxury' (how I hate that word), but ultimately it's still just stuff, stuff we don't need.