The Unexpected Order of Life

I’m Sharon, and I appear to have built an entire life out of doing things in the wrong order. I dropped out of school because of an abusive stepfather and did what a lot of us did back in the 80’s, whatever job would have me. Retail. A clothing sweatshop factory. An apprenticeship as a fitter in an arms factory, one of three girls in a room of a hundred and sixteen blokes.

I pumped petrol, scooped ice-cream, taught aerobics, and at one point sold timeshare, which should tell you everything about how persuasive I can be when I’m desperate. I met my husband on the line at a chicken processing plant, which is either the least romantic or most honest place two people can meet, depending on your view. Married too young. Kids too young. By the time I was in my late 20’s I knew I wanted more, so I went back to study undergrad at night after my three girls were in bed, and kept going all the way through a PhD, in that order, which nobody recommends.

None of it made sense at the time. Most of it still doesn’t, if I’m honest, except now I’ve stopped apologising for it.

I lived an hour from uni with three kids under five and no real plan for how any of it was supposed to work. It just had to. During my PhD, my girls would sometimes end up in the back of the lab while I taught undergrads. My eldest could manually extract DNA from a sample by the time she was twelve.

Then I built a solid corporate career in life sciences on top of all that. It was the one bit that looked like it was going the “right” way, finally. Then I ended up working for someone who used positivity as a weapon and shame as a management style, and it wrecked me. Properly wrecked me. I lost the ability to make basic decisions. Couldn’t read, stopped socialising, and started scanning every room I walked into, on high alert for a threat that wasn’t even there anymore. I had a genuine mental health injury, and it was no joke.

I resigned thinking I’d bounce back in a fortnight like I always did. Instead, months later, I went to lunch with old colleagues who genuinely love me, walked in for a hug, and had a full-blown panic attack. Turns out you can’t out-hustle a nervous system that’s done with your bullshit.

What scared me wasn’t him or the job. It was needing help. I thought saying “I can’t do this alone” out loud would prove all the wrong-order stuff had been me faking capability the whole time.  I also discovered, deeply unhelpfully, that three deep breaths do not unfuck a traumatised nervous system. Someone should update the wellness posters.  Eventually I saw a psychologist, then took it to WorkSafe. Won. I needed something on record saying this was real. I didn’t bounce back to who I was before. She wasn’t coming back, and honestly I still miss her some days. What came instead was SPG Scientific Consulting, built out of everything that happened rather than despite it. I coach women through exactly this now: the psychosocial
risk, the leaders who dress up control as culture, the moment you stop trusting your own judgement.

I used to think all that wrong-order timing meant I was behind. Turns out I was just early for a different life than the one I planned. So if you’re sitting there thinking you’re too old, too scared,
or too late, here’s what I’d tell you over coffee. Start before you’re ready. I did. Repeatedly, apparently.