The day I thought I’d made it was the day my life began to unravel

I sat in my corner office on the top floor of one of the most beautiful office buildings in Sydney, staring out over the Sydney Harbour Bridge and Opera House. My assistant handed me a stunning black lace Collette Dinnigan cocktail dress and strappy Jimmy Choo shoes to get changed into.

I rode down the lift and slid into a black limousine that was waiting in front for me and was whisked off to Bondi Beach. There, I was welcomed into James Packer’s magnificent beachfront apartment, where I joined my male colleagues for a welcome cocktail party. James sat on the board of our company, and at the time he and Kerry Packer were major shareholders in the business I worked for, as well as one of the wealthiest families in Australia.

To the outside world, even to my family and close friends, it still looked like I was thriving. But underneath, I was barely staying afloat.

I was 32 years old, the youngest on the team by some years, and the only female on the executive leadership team. We were a top ASX 200-listed financial services company in the middle of a merger. I had spent the afternoon arguing with investment bankers and lawyers about how we were going to communicate the merger to our staff and clients. I had some good wins and was feeling pumped.

It was a heady experience being surrounded by so much masculine intellectual horsepower. I had always been both attracted to and intimidated by intellect — especially intellectual men. And with that, I often underestimated and undervalued my own skills, talents and intellectual capacity. The men I was working with were, unquestionably, some of the brightest around.

I was also attracted to power and, unconsciously, I associated male intellect and success with that power. And I wanted some. I found it exciting to both be a part of it and, at times, to go up against it – ultimately (and I say this with great self-compassion and no awareness of it back then) – to try to manipulate them and, in some way, take my power back.

I would tell myself I had to toughen up and hide my feelings. I would often stay silent about things that really mattered to me.

I was desperate to feel safe, to feel equal, to not feel powerless. To feel seen and acknowledged, to belong, to feel enough. Alternatively, I would try to compete with them, try to be like them — just one of the boys, living my masculine traits of doing, striving, achieving, competing. I would tell myself I had to toughen up and hide my feelings. I would often stay silent about things that really mattered to me. I vacillated back and forth between what I would call my “immature feminine” and my overly identified, extreme “immature masculine”. It didn’t help that I had no qualifications, which meant I spent my working life feeling like an imposter.

And yet here I was, in the financial services industry, which was arguably one of the most male-dominated and intellectually challenging at the time. I had made my way to the top echelon by the age of thirty-two.

I remember how awe-struck I felt as James took me for a tour of his home. I had made it.

I had a husband who had been a vet and was now an investment banker — what a combo! A gorgeous, healthy, 14-month-old son. We were building a beautiful, big home on the leafy, lower north shore. I had all the material things I could want. I drove a brand-new BMW, for which I had paid cash with my latest bonus. I wore all the designer labels and sat at the front of the plane when I travelled. Finally, I had everything that I believed I needed to be happy, to thrive, to feel important and powerful.

I vividly remember excusing myself from the group, walking past a huge, stunning fish tank and entering the powder room. I looked at myself in the mirror, but this time was different. It wasn’t a superficial glance to check if I looked attractive enough. I looked deep into my own eyes, and said out loud, “You’ve made it honey. You did what you set out to do. You showed them.”

But looking back at me were the saddest, loneliest eyes I had ever seen. In that moment, while I was not yet ready to admit it to myself, I saw the truth. I had dishonoured and abandoned myself in my need to feel liked, loved, important, successful, powerful and, ultimately, safe, particularly in a very male-dominated world. It had been a high price to pay.

That was the day it all began to unravel.

That year, my marriage ended, and my dad got sick and died of cancer. I found new ways to numb my grief — both the grief of the present and the past. I worked harder. I drank more. I used drugs for the first time. I spent a small fortune as a way of pretending I was thriving. I found the most dysfunctional relationship I could as an unconscious way of punishing myself and replaying my attachment pattern, which had been established in my childhood.

To the outside world, even to my family and close friends, it still looked like I was thriving. I was so high-functioning. I was the consummate swan, looking like I was gracefully gliding across the pond to the outside world. But underneath, I was flapping my feet a hundred miles an hour and barely staying afloat. Living on adrenalin and high-functioning anxiety.

I was the consummate swan, looking like I was gliding across the pond to the outside world. But underneath, I was flapping my feet a hundred miles an hour.

And the “universe”, for want of a better word, knew that. As long as I stayed busy and used money and “success” to avoid myself, I was never going to stop and face what I needed to face. Myself. My truth. My needs and wants. My dreams.

A couple of years later, after being offered a lucrative voluntary redundancy and walking away from my corporate career thinking I was financially secure and needed a “bit of a break”, I spent a week at a health retreat. They had a labyrinth, and while I was not particularly spiritual at the time, I decided to do a bit of a ceremony for myself. Late at night, under a full moon, I walked the labyrinth, which slowly wound its way to the top of a small hill.

At the top, I got down on my knees and prayed. This was not something I had ever done much of, and I had no real sense of what to pray to, so I prayed to the moon. In that prayer, I surrendered. I turned my life and will over to a power greater than myself. I said, “I am all yours. I don’t know what I want or need. I don’t know what is wrong with me. I just know I am deeply unhappy, and I am tired. Oh, so tired. Please show me the way. I surrender.”

In hindsight, I love that I prayed to the moon, as it is said to be a feminine symbol. Ultimately, that is what I had lost touch with: my feminine nature.

Within weeks of my surrender, the sharemarket crashed, and with it, the second tranche of the options I had received disappeared. They had been considered a “sure thing” and, given this, I had bought a home in Balmoral Beach, one of Sydney’s most expensive beachside suburbs, in advance of them vesting.

Outside of my son, the most important thing to me, the only way I truly felt safe in the world, was by having money. It gave me the illusion of control. Having a home was also super important as I craved the stability I had not had as a child.

In a moment, both my home and much of my money vanished. The rug was pulled out from under me. I was fully on my knees, with nowhere to go. And in hindsight, thank god!

I had spent much of my life searching. When I look back now, I am not even sure what I thought I was searching for. At different times: money, control, validation, success, excitement, freedom, power, safety, family, love. But most of the time, what I was really doing was running away from myself: from my feelings, my fears, my hurts, my reality, my deep sense of unworthiness. I was also often denying my true self, including my own values, dreams, purpose, femininity, strengths and talents.

Now it was time to come face-to-face with it all. I had worked so hard to earn my worth and self-esteem – and it hadn’t worked.

As a woman living in a patriarchal culture, and as a female leader working in a patriarchal culture and industry, there were so many ways I had abandoned myself and been silent. I had lost my way, which is so hard when you think you are meant to know your path and be perfect within it.

I spent the decade following my surrender coming home to myself. Reclaiming my strong feminine. Rediscovering the love and life I needed to truly thrive, rather than barely survive. Learning how to live, love, lead and succeed true to myself.

This is the story of me realising my intrinsic worth; of learning I am enough. You are enough. We are enough. Just as we are.

Edited extract from Lead Like You (Wiley) by Jo Wagstaff, out now.

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