Don’t You Know That You’re Toxic?

There was a time in my career I rarely talk about. Not because it is ancient history or because I have made peace with it, but because it still sits somewhere deep in my chest—tight, unresolved, quietly burning.

It was not one moment. It was a slow build. An erosion. Things chipped away: a decision made without me, an offhand comment, the subtle shift from being in the room to being on the edge of it. The kind of environment that makes you question if what you are feeling is even real. Gaslighty? Probably. But I still ask myself: Was I being too sensitive? Did I misread it? Did I somehow let this happen?

Shame crept in before I even realised I had lost my footing. Why did I not stand up for myself sooner? Why did I silence myself? Why did I keep showing up, even when I felt myself shrinking?

I look back and I can name it now: a toxic workplace. But at the time, I did not have the language. I had fear, exhaustion, and that deep internal confusion that comes when something feels wrong but everyone is pretending it is fine. I kept going. I kept quiet. I kept believing that if I just worked harder, it would pass.

It did not pass. And it cost me.It damaged relationships I cared about.It made me doubt my own value.It left a question mark on my C.V. I still feel the need to explain.It drained the joy out of a career I had built with purpose.

Even now, most people do not know the full extent of what happened. I still carry it quietly. And maybe that is part of the residue—the worry that speaking about it will sound like bitterness. That the version I lived will not match the version others tell. Because they will tell it differently. I know that. And for a long time, that made me feel small, even foolish. It made me question my memory, my judgement, myself.

I came back to this time during a coaching timeline activity. It is something I use with clients now—to plot out the key points in their lives, the challenges, the turning points, the places where something shifted. Mine led straight back to that place. That version of me.

And I did not expect what happened next. Not grief, not anger—but a kind of steadiness. Not closure, but perspective. Coaching did not fix it. But it helped me stop hiding from it. It helped me ask different questions. What was I trying to protect? What did I learn about who I am? Where did I abandon myself in the name of keeping the peace?

It also helped me realise that what brings people to coaching is rarely what keeps them there. People come with goals—confidence, boundaries, clarity—but what unfolds is far more complex. Quiet reckonings. Small shifts. A growing capacity to look at the mess without flinching.

That experience did not define me, but understanding it did.

It made me a better coach. A better leader. Clearer. Stronger. Sharper. And fully equipped to support and guide others in doing the work—because I have done it myself.