I still remember November 2020 vividly. The month I finally walked away from my 9-5 lecturing job. Not out of rebellion, but out of exhaustion. The lockdown had just been lifted, and in that moment of global reset, I realized something profound, that I could survive without a 9–5. That job, though academic, had become toxicLong hours, impossible expectations, and a system that drained more than it gave. So, I quit. No backup plan. Just peace, freedom, and a bit of uncertainty sprinkled in for flavor.
Fast forward to 2022 - two years later. I was persuaded, gently but persistently, to take a new position at a young school. I agreed, not because I was desperate, but because I genuinely liked the school’s vision. My foray into freelance tutoring and web 3.0 was keeping me afloat financially. It was humble, growing, and full of promise. I didn’t even negotiate my salary.
Yes, I know. I told the owner, “Pay me whatever you’re comfortable with.” After all, the school was still finding its feet financially. The owner was even funding it personally to keep it afloat. I thought my patience and loyalty would be remembered and rewarded when the school found stability.
Well, guess who’s been waiting for that reward for three solid years?
During these years, I wore every possible hat the school could hand me. Head of Administration and Human Resources? Check. Acting Principal for an entire academic term? Check. Substitute teacher for Chemistry and Biology? Double check. Add Bursar to that list too, because I handled school finances when there was no one else to do it. Basically, I became a one-man department, carrying more weight than anyone else, yet earning a peanut.
And then, the twist. The school owner recently announced plans to hire a bursar, whose salary, shockingly, is higher than mine. Someone whom, as the head of HR, I interviewed. Let that sink in. Someone is being brought in to do just one of the many jobs I’ve been doing, and will be paid more. I sat there processing that news, a mix of amusement and disappointment simmering quietly.
That was the wake-up call.
I realized something brutally honest. People often mistake humility for weakness and generosity for endless availability. The world doesn’t always reward quiet competence, it often overlooks it. I had thought my flexibility and understanding would speak for themselves, that the school owner would see my value without me having to sell it. But the truth is, when you fail to define your worth, people will define it for you, and often, they’ll set the price lower than you deserve.
It’s not that the owner is a villain. In fact, I think he genuinely appreciates my work. But appreciation without fair compensation is just a polite form of exploitation. I had given the school my energy, my loyalty, my time; thinking we were in it together. But as the school grew, the loyalty didn’t flow both ways. And that’s the painful part of humility. It doesn’t always translate to value in other people’s eyes.
Now, before you mistake this for bitterness, it’s not. It’s a reflection. A wake-up moment wrapped in a hard-earned lesson. Humility is beautiful, but boundaries are essential. There’s nothing wrong with being humble, but humility should never come at the expense of self-respect. You can be kind and assertive. You can be understanding and still demand fairness.
If I could go back, I’d still take that job, but I’d negotiate my worth from the start. Because when you say, “Pay me whatever you’re comfortable with,” what you’re really saying is, “My value is negotiable.” And once you set that tone, it’s hard to rewrite it later.
That’s what I’m doing now. Rewriting it.
I’m drafting a letter to the school owner, not out of anger, but out of clarity. I’m going to lay out the facts. My roles, my responsibilities, my impact, and what fair compensation should look like. It’s not a favor; it’s a correction. Because if I don’t advocate for myself, who will?
This experience has taught me that humility should never mean self-erasure. It should be strength under control, not silence under pressure. Generosity should be mutual, not one-sided. The world may test your limits, but you get to decide where to draw the line.
So yes, maybe I sold myself cheap once, but not anymore. I’ve learned that being humble doesn’t mean being invisible, and being kind doesn’t mean being undervalued. The same humility that made me accept that job can also make me demand fairness, with grace and firmness.
And as I prepare to send that letter, I smile, not out of pride, but peace. Because sometimes, the most empowering thing you can do isn’t quitting a toxic job. It’s standing up for yourself in the one you love.
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