What Uber Did To Me

An elegy

I’m reeling. I’m struggling.

Maybe it’s the hangover from the disability document party. Maybe it’s the PTSD that I am getting more frequently now, flashbacks to the moment of the accident. Maybe it’s having to return to rehab for my vision and back to the difficult daily exercises I have to do.

Maybe it’s the time of year when there’s more time to think.

But I’m struggling. This is the first time in my adult life when work hasn’t been central to my life. It was never the only thing of course - my kids, my family and my friends have always been the pillars of my life - but it was always what anchored me. Work determined where we lived, what we could spend, how we could live. Work was always independence and freedom, connections and respect. Work was exciting, at times even death-defying. Work was salvation.

I loved to work - truly. Whether it was ghostwriting presentations and speeches for a boss early in my career or tackling a thorny strategic problem or navigating a political minefield. I threw myself into all of it. I worked hard, but not always. An old friend from Grey Advertising who I met early on told me “You’re like me. Smart, but lazy.” There was a lot of truth to that statement. I worked as hard as necessary, but there were times I coasted. Of course. Just like I did throughout school.

I could sit in a meeting, listen to a bunch of people talk and without writing a note say to everyone “Ok, I’m hearing 5 or 6 themes here.” Not anymore. I could walk into a room of people (all men in those days) arguing and at loggerheads. I’d sit myself down, look at them all and say “what’s the bidding?” and get the meeting back on track. I’d be invited to help cut some Gordian knot (there was always a Gordian knot) and I’d figure out what to do. It always felt like there was nothing I couldn’t do. Everything could be figured out.

Not anymore.

You may recall, beloved readers, that once something in my life is a project it gets the best of me, in the best way.

Work was always a project, and a project that was central to who I was.

There were few things more satisfying than seeing the results of the work. I remember walking through an agency one evening and seeing teams working because of new business I’d helped steer in. I remember the feeling of mentoring teammates and young talent and the incredible feeling you get when you see them grow and develop. I remember the feeling of accomplishment when I helped build something, or solve something, or turn something around, or create something out of thin air.

(It wasn’t always great, don’t get me wrong. No rose-colored glasses here. My career was marked by incredible highs and devastating lows. More on that in a later post, or maybe that’s part of the podcast. Still thinking.) There was the amazing travel that work enabled, and the security and joy of being part of a well-working team. There were the incredible bosses who believed in me and let us have the kinds of relationships where we made each other better.

I remember what it felt to lead, after having learned so much about leadership (good and bad) from prior bosses (good and bad.)

I met extraordinary people. Brilliant, funny, complicated, interesting people. I experienced working in incredibly diverse environments. There was diversity of age, of race, of background, of gender, of perspective.

Some of these people became lifelong friends. Others remain attached to happy memories. Still others are attached to unhappy memories, but that’s ok. That’s the price of a long, complex career. Somedays you eat the bear…

But every single one of those people made me smarter and better. There was something to learn from everyone.

I learned a ton. And kept learning. I was introduced to new fields and industries and ways of thinking. I was a direct marketer, then a brand marketer. I was in account management, then in business development, then in leadership. I was a healthcare marketer. I was a tech marketer. I was always a quick study, and got a lot of juice from learning anything new.

And I was challenged - sometimes in a way meant to push my thinking, other times as a way to minimize or humiliate me.

It didn’t matter. Whatever the motivation each challenge helped me learn and get stronger. And smarter.

And now that part of my life is over.

Because of Uber.

Because of fucking Uber who caused this and is trying to buck responsibility. My lawyer says they’re trying to just get out of the case. I’m not a lawyer but how do you do that? It’s their fault. Their fucking fault.

It’s not that I can’t work at all. It’s that I can’t work in the way I always worked: with focus, ferocity and fearlessness. With limitless energy (brought to you by the holy trinity of nicotine, caffeine and water.) With a deeply-held belief that anything was possible. Hey everybody, let’s put on a show! That’s how I looked at things. Let’s get in a room and figure it out. Let’s put our heads together and solve this.

I can still write (obviously.) I can think. I can solve problems. I just can’t do the kinds of work in the way I did, in the way that defined me. If any work comes my way it’ll have to be in the form of limited-time projects with enough flexibility to accommodate my disability.

To accommodate my disability. That’s a phrase I never thought I’d use about myself.

I’m not the same person anymore.

Because of Uber.

Because of fucking Uber.

That’s why this is an elegy. It’s an elegy to the career I had, with thanks to everyone who made it possible, but with the understanding that I can never go back. I feel deep appreciation for everyone I worked with, learned from, teamed with, even argued with (I’ve never shied away from argument when it’s in service of better work. As long as it’s not personal.)

That part of my life is over. And I’m mourning it - that’s the struggle.

Because of Uber.

Because of fucking Uber.

Fuck you, Uber.