Dear Father,
First of all, it's great to have the chance to dedicate some quality time to writing this letter, just one week after the previous one. It's early Sunday morning, and for the second day in a row, I've slept more than seven hours—finally recovering from the fatigue of sleeping only five to six hours each night over the past week.
It’s been a week of “getting used to it.” After the disappointment of last week, I had scheduled meetings from Monday to Thursday, where I had to present various assessments. This required me to simplify tables, check with consultants, update the files, present them to stakeholders, record and archive the sessions, and document the meeting notes. After each session, I felt like a progress bar in my mind moved a little further. Completing all sessions—especially Thursday’s—without any issues was the main objective of the week. Thank God, I managed to do that.
But it wasn’t over. On Thursday afternoon, our finance director rightfully asked for a status update on the first batch by Friday. I had planned to complete many quarter-end, statutory, and ad-hoc tasks by Friday, but I had to reschedule them. I managed that too—and thankfully, I heard the words “fantastic job” as feedback.
Yesterday, I told my aunt about this appreciation, and she asked me what it meant. Clearly, “fantastic job” doesn’t hold the same recognition value in Turkish for someone in their seventies. It reminded me of my days in Romania, when I was a guest auditor—back then, it was the first time I heard “fantastic” as praise.
When I finally stepped away from my laptop on Friday evening, I had nearly ten emails I’d already read but marked as unread to revisit. Still, I had to head to the shopping mall where my son watched “A Minecraft Movie” for the second time since its release. I kept repeating to myself: “Oh my God, thank you, it’s over.”
It was a heavy week, and thankfully I won’t be in presentation mode in my upcoming meetings. That, in itself, is something I’m grateful for. I know next week won’t be light either—statutory closings, treasury activities, and ad-hoc requests will keep me busy. But, as they say, “this is the way.”
Aside from work updates, this week also marked the end of my three-month coaching journey. At the end of December 2024, our function offered me an external coaching program in recognition of my efforts in an initiative. My coach, based in Switzerland, had spent his entire career in multinational companies. One day, he lost his job and began this new path.
Whatever I shared with him about my work and interactions made complete sense to him—he had lived similar experiences. On top of that, his technical knowledge enriched our sessions, making the three months fulfilling.
In our final session last week, he left me with some warnings. When we began, I took a “saboteur assessment,” and my top saboteur was being a Pleaser. Let me share the definition:
“The Pleaser has a strong need to be liked by people and attempts to earn it by helping, pleasing, rescuing, or flattering them. The Pleaser needs frequent reassurance from others about their acceptance and affection and can’t express needs openly and directly. Instead, the Pleaser expresses needs indirectly by making people feel obligated to reciprocate care.”
You can read more or take the test here: https://www.positiveintelligence.com/blog/pleaser-saboteur/
Michael, my coach, ended the session by warning me that working so hard to please others could eventually lead to burnout—waking up one day with no motivation toward work or to-dos. This has stuck with me, and I’m doing my best to find balance. That’s partly why I’m taking the time to write. And surely, I need to make time for my daily walks and workouts when I go to the office.
Let me briefly talk about exercising. Yesterday, a rainy Saturday, I dropped my son off at his special school and then went to the office to use the gym. Normally, I prefer cardio and avoid weights. But after checking my weight and realizing I’ve gained a bit since Ramadan, I started with elliptical walking. After 30 minutes, I noticed the sandbag and boxing gloves. I geared up and started kicking the sandbag, thinking of all the emails I’d been tagged in—not about the people, but the extra tasks and requests I didn’t say no to, trying to please others.
It’s not usually my style, but it was exactly what I needed. When I removed the gloves, my hands were red. I found a disinfectant spray and applied it to the sore areas—it reminded me of the pandemic days…
Now, I hear my son and wife have woken up. That’s my cue to say goodbye—until next time.
Best wishes,
Volkan
PS. This letter is written to my "father," and there is a metaphor here; he knows himself.