I didn't realise something was wrong straight away. It kind of crept up on me.
The moment that really stuck, though, was during a private equity diligence I was working on. It was for a ~$300m asset. Two intense weeks. Long days, late nights, constant pressure. We produced close to a hundred slides, had senior calls every day, and everything felt very high-stakes.
The day before the final readout, the deal was dropped.
And what surprised me wasn't that I wasn't upset- it was that I genuinely didn't care. I remember feeling relieved more than anything. Not because the work didn't matter, but because it was done, and the people internally had seen how hard I'd worked.
That reaction bothered me.
It made me realise that I wasn't really motivated by the outcome of the work. I was motivated by how the work made me look. By being responsive. By being seen as reliable. By doing a "good job" in the eyes of the right people.
And I think that's where prestige can quietly mislead you.
When you're in a place with a strong brand, it's easy to confuse momentum with meaning. The name carries weight. People respect it. Doors open. But the day-to-day work still has to matter to you- and for me, I slowly realised it didn't, at least not in the way I wanted it to.
Another signal, looking back, was that I didn't really look at people more senior than me and think, I want that life. The hours got longer. The pressure increased. And while everyone was incredibly capable, it wasn't obvious that they loved the actual work they were doing. Many people loved the prestige. Fewer people loved the day-to-day.
None of this is a criticism of consulting. It's just a realisation I had about myself.
A question I wish I'd asked earlier is a simple one:
If this project succeeds or fails, do I actually care?
Because if the answer is no, prestige can keep you going for a while- but it can't make the work fulfilling.
Once I accepted that I wanted to leave consulting, the next question felt harder: where do I go instead?
From the outside, startups can feel noisy. Everyone has a story. Everyone has a vision. So I tried to slow myself down and treat it less like an emotional leap and more like a diligence exercise.
I focused on three things.
First, I wanted external proof that the company was real. I spoke to customers- people at companies like Ramp and Browserbase who were actually using Incident day to day. I also spoke to investors. I wasn't looking for hype or excitement. I was looking for consistency. The same story, told by different people, without being prompted.
Second, I paid a lot of attention to the founders. Not just their backgrounds, but their behaviour. Founders repeat themselves. Their values show up in small details.
One story that really stayed with me was how they built Incident while still working at Monzo. They ran two completely separate laptops- Monzo during work hours, Incident early mornings and evenings. It sounded exhausting, but what stood out to me was the integrity. No shortcuts. No grey areas. Just a very clear sense of what was right and what wasn't.
Finally, I asked whether this was actually right for me. Even a great startup can be the wrong environment. I wanted ownership. I wanted a steep learning curve. I wanted to be close to real decisions and real outcomes, not just observing from a distance.
A "good startup" isn't enough. It has to be a good fit.
None of this felt particularly clever at the time. It just felt like taking the decision seriously.
The final push didn't come from a framework. It came from a conversation.
I remember my first call with Stephen, Incident's CEO. I was on a project I really wasn't enjoying, sitting in a coffee shop near the client site early in the morning. It was meant to be a short introductory chat.
After the call, I remember feeling lighter than I had in months.
At one point he said something like, "It feels like you're a founder who got stuck in consulting." And it wasn't flattering- it was accurate. I felt understood in a way I hadn't expected.
That feeling kept coming back as I met more of the team. It wasn't just about the founders. It was the environment. Working alongside Oni, the other Founder's Associate, made a huge difference. The role is ambiguous, fast-moving, and sometimes overwhelming. Having someone next to you who genuinely understands the ups and downs of it isn't a nice-to-have- it's essential.
What surprised me most was that I felt energised despite not knowing exactly what the future looked like. I didn't have a perfectly mapped plan anymore, but I had something better: people I respected, work I cared about, and a place where outcomes mattered more than optics.
I don't know exactly where I'll be in ten years. But I do know that I'm done choosing paths because they look impressive on paper.
From now on, I want to choose people I respect, work I genuinely care about, and environments that allow me to show up fully- with confidence, humility, and a willingness to learn.