I Rejected a Lucrative Job in Silicon Valley, Divorced, and Moved Out of the Country

21 years later, I have no regrets

The year was 2001. The San Francisco Bay Area bustled with wide-eyed hopefuls vying for a piece of The Gold Rush pie, the likes of Google, eBay and Yahoo.

The average 20-something yuppies wanted nothing more than that one call: “Hi, I’m a hiring manager at Google.”

Well, I got that call.

I was 27, married for three years to a wonderful man and a mom to a feisty two-year-old Rottweiler.

Our first buy, a three-bedroom bungalow nestled in a cul-de-sac in Campbell, an hour away from San Francisco, wasn’t an eye-catcher but we bought it to sell it down the road for a hefty profit.

Everybody was doing it.

Ralph, my husband’s best friend, and his wife, Deena, had flipped houses twice and were swimming in money.

Their friends, in turn, had invested in some stocks and were flying high on cruises and touring Europe.

We were a tad bit late in joining these urban elites with their SUVs, gold platinum credit cards and crisp business cards.

As predicted, my husband Brandon was ecstatic. Congrats! We have to celebrate!

Well, it’s not really a full-time job. It’s just contracting.

Still, maybe you’ll get hired down the line. When do you start?

I haven’t accepted the job yet.

Why?

Ahh…I don’t know if I want it.

Whaaat? Babe, this is Google.

I know, I know, but customer service is not my thing. And I’m soooo not technical.

But, you’ll learn as you go.

I don’t know.

It’s just for six months, right? Try it out and see?

I guess…

Brandon and his friends loved money. Who doesn’t? But, they loooved money. Every single one of them, including their girlfriends or wives, worked in sales, marketing or business development.

My ears would ache listening to them chatter about the next cool car, profitable stocks, real estate and up-and-coming companies to work for.

They bragged about their wives as well. Deena made $400k last year.

Their neighbours. The Wilsons are investing in xyz.

And their future children. My children are going to ABC Preparatory College one day.

My children wouldn’t. I wanted to be a journalist and nothing about that screams rich.

In 8th grade, I founded the The Kirri Times, a monthly family newspaper created from cut-out pictures and markers.

In school, I won writing and poem competitions. My first ever article made it into a national newspaper.

In college, I stayed up past midnight for days to lay out the school newspaper.

Then I graduated, married, and bought a house.

Brandon tolerated my low-paying job as a journalist at a small, local newspaper.

As a sales rep for pharmaceuticals, he made enough for both of us. But, even if he didn’t say it, I knew he loathed having to shoulder most of the financial burden.

Reality check — a journalist becomes one for the passion, not the money — well, that didn’t bode well with my money-loving hubby. So, I took the Google job.

I t was my first day at work and an HR guy from Google escorted us newbies outside. “This is the cafeteria. The food’s on us.”

Tents of various sizes lined up the lawn and the place buzzed with back and forth chitter-chatter. As we neared one of the tents, an older man wearing a white coat and a chef’s hat tossed and flipped pieces of meat into the air as if he was at Benihana’s.

“We also have vegan selections,” the HR guy pointed to a small booth, “And there’s Mexican, Japanese, of course, hamburgers and such.”

Along with free lunches, Google offered other perks — coffee pods in a variety of flavors you pop into a coffee machine; a break room with fitness balls, hammocks, and bean bags in bright colors; e-scooters, and did I mention free lunches?

The work — engaging with and solving inquiries from customers.

The team — mostly fresh Ivy League graduates. How did I know? They dropped it in between sentences.

The vibe — college campus meets teen spirit.

I didn’t belong.

Something had shifted, though. My husband’s friends looked at me differently, awe sprinkled with curiosity, perhaps a tinge of jealousy.

His dad grinned from ear-to-ear, his eyes twinkling, awwww come here and a big hug. I guess he could finally write his daughter-in-law into his Asian success story.

All the while, my insides were screaming, I. Don’t. Belong. But, for the next six months, I klikatty klackided day after day until, one day, I was offered to stay on.

Have you ever had that moment when you had to choose between your heart’s desire and society’s expectations?

Well, this was that moment.

So…they asked me to stay on for another six months. I plopped on the couch.

Seriously? That’s awesome, babe. Congrats!

I don’t really know if I wanna take it.

Babe. Look. This is Google. It doesn’t get better than this. Imagine when they go public.

Yeah, but for how long? I hate this job, it’s not my thing.

Let’s do this. Stay there another six months and if you don’t want to stay after that, then quit.

I don’t know. I let out a deep sigh.

He gathered his thoughts. Babe, if you quit now, you may regret it.

The next day, I quit.

To his friends and family, I went back to being the old June with her childish dreams. To Brandon, I don’t know what I was anymore. A let-down?

In 2004, Google went public and we, coincidentally, divorced the same year.

I left the Bay Area and moved to Kathmandu to live with my parents.

I was initiated as a disciple of Osho, moved into the ashram and thrown out within three months.

I started an online magazine that sprouted into a media collective.

I fractured my hip and shattered my elbow tumbling off a cliff on a motorbike.

My mom died from pancreatic cancer.

My ailing dad and I moved to Thailand where I taught English at a language school until he died from complications of Alzheimer's and Parkinson’s.

I moved into a wildlife sanctuary taking care of rescued wild animals.

I met a guy there and we moved to Myanmar. He drove me to attempted suicide until I finally managed to break up.

I got a dream job as a chief editor to launch a lifestyle magazine.

I met a guy at a rooftop bar and did the long-distance thing before moving to Europe.

We married and had a son a year later.

Regrets?

You tell me.