Is it wrong to want to descend the corporate ladder?

^{By Kevin Koester}

I don’t want another promotion.

There, I said it. That thought has been sitting in my chest for months, but I’ve been swallowing it down every time my manager says things like, “You’re on track for big things.” I nod, smile, play along. Friends tell me, “You’re moving up so fast,” and I force a grin even though the idea of another title makes me want to crawl out of my own skin.

I don’t want up. I want out. Or at least… down.

And admitting that feels like career suicide. Like I’m spitting on every late night, every Sunday spent polishing a deck, every fake smile in rooms full of people twice my age where I pretended I knew what I was talking about.

But lately I’ve been asking myself: all of that for what? A shinier line on LinkedIn? A paycheck that disappears into rent anyway? Work that doesn’t feel like mine?

The day it really hit me was nothing special. A Tuesday. We were in yet another meeting, staring at slides that said shit like “Align on objectives and maintain synergies.” And I just thought… this is it? This is what I traded my twenties for? I used to write real things. Sentences that meant something. Now I’m arguing over whether to say “alignment” or “consensus” under fluorescent lights while my phone buzzes with texts from a friend I’m too busy to answer. I stared at that screen until the words blurred and it hit me — I don’t even recognize myself here.

And the thing is, I used to love the climb. My first “real job” felt like proof I was doing something right. I sent the offer letter to my parents like it was a trophy. I updated my email signature and stared at it like it was jewelry. I worked late because I wanted to. Every raise, every title, it was intoxicating. Until it wasn’t.

The high wore off. Titles turned into costumes. Raises turned into golden handcuffs. Every step up felt less like progress and more like a trap.

I started noticing how many people feel the same. No one says it out loud, but I’ve heard it whispered in bathroom stalls at conferences. I’ve heard it after too much wine, when coworkers finally drop the mask. Everyone pretending to love “stretch assignments,” pretending they’re energized managing bigger teams, when half of us would rather just do the work again. Nobody wants to be the one to say, I don’t want this anymore.

And then there are the paper cuts. The midnight emails asking me to “polish” something that doesn’t exist yet. The coworker calling my job “PowerPoint karaoke” and me laughing way too hard because he was right. Performance reviews full of buzzwords about “visibility” while I can’t think of one project I’m proud of. Whole folders of decks I’d never show my future kids because what would I even say? Look, sweetie, this is where I replaced ‘optimize’ with ‘streamline.’

So yeah, I think about climbing down. But it terrifies me. What if people assume I couldn’t cut it? What if my parents stop bragging about me? What if the paycheck never looks this good again? Some days I worry stepping down will look like giving up.

But maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s the only way to get myself back.

Because when I strip all the noise away, what I want is simple. I want to make things again. To finish a day with something I can point to and say, that’s mine. I want fewer meetings, less performance, more actual work. I don’t care about “visibility.” I don’t care about “executive presence.” I don’t need to prove I’m leadership material just so I can climb higher into a role that doesn’t even fit.

I want to descend. To get closer to the ground, where the real stuff happens.

So here’s my confession: I have zero interest in being a boss.

The corner office? No thanks.

Managing a team of 15 when half the time I barely know what I’m doing myself? Hard pass.

I want to shrink my job down until it feels like mine again. Smaller, simpler, closer. And for the first time, saying that doesn’t feel like weakness. It feels like relief.