Latest / Career Coaching with Fexingo: Professional Coaches, Career Counselors, and Guidance for Workers / How a Career Breakup Letter Can Close a Stuck Chapter
Transcript
- Lucas: So we talk a lot on this show about tactics for moving forward — networking, skill gaps, experiments. But there's one thing we haven't touched: what if you can't move forward because you haven't actually closed the last chapter? Luna: Ooh, that resonates. I think we've all had that feeling of being mentally tethered to an old job or a project that went nowhere. Lucas: Exactly. And there's a simple, almost therapeutic exercise that some career coaches use: you write a breakup letter to your old role, your old company, or even an old version of yourself at work. It sounds a little woo-woo, but the research on cognitive closure says it matters. Luna: Because your brain keeps a tab open until you consciously shut it. Lucas: Right. Psychologists call it the Zeigarnik effect — unfinished tasks linger in working memory. If you've left a job but never formally processed why it ended, that mental loop can drain energy you need for the next thing. Luna: So the breakup letter is like hitting 'close all tabs'. Lucas: Exactly. And the exercise I want to walk through today comes from a career coach named Melanie Katzman, who I heard describe it at a conference last year. She had a client — let's call her Sarah — who was a marketing manager at a big retail chain. Luna: Okay, Sarah. I'm guessing she wanted out? Lucas: She was miserable. Long hours, no creative ownership, a boss who took credit for her work. She'd been trying to leave for two years but kept getting cold feet. Every time she got close to applying for a new role, she'd talk herself out of it. 'Maybe it'll get better. Maybe I'm just not trying hard enough.' Luna: That's that tether we mentioned. She hadn't admitted to herself that the relationship was over. Lucas: Katzman had her write a letter. Not to send — never to send. A private letter addressed to 'the job' itself. And the rules are pretty simple: three paragraphs. First, what you loved about the job at the start. Second, what changed and when it stopped working. Third, what you're taking with you and what you're leaving behind. Luna: I love that structure. It forces you to acknowledge the good without getting stuck in bitterness. Lucas: Sarah's first paragraph was actually pretty warm — she wrote about how she'd joined the company right out of business school, excited to learn retail marketing from the ground up. She liked the pace, the 5 AM call to set up a Black Friday campaign, the rush of a sale going viral. Luna: So she wasn't always miserable. That's important to remember. Lucas: Exactly. But paragraph two got specific. She pinpointed the moment: 18 months in, when her boss took her entire presentation — slides, data, strategy — and presented it to the CMO as his own. She never got credit. After that, she said, 'I stopped bringing my best ideas to work. I stopped caring.' Luna: Oof. That's a turning point. And she'd been living in that 'stopped caring' space for over a year. Lucas: More than a year. And the third paragraph is where the real shift happens. Sarah wrote: 'I'm taking my ability to spot a consumer trend before anyone else, and my skill at building a campaign narrative from a single insight. I'm leaving behind the belief that I have to be loyal to a company that doesn't see me.' Luna: That's the identity work. She's drawing a boundary between her skills and the job that used them poorly. Lucas: Right. And that's the key — not just venting, but consciously deciding what you own and what you abandon. Once she wrote that, she told Katzman she felt a physical weight lift. She applied to a nonprofit strategy job the next week and got an offer within a month. Luna: So the letter was the catalyst, not just emotional processing. Lucas: And here's the thing — a couple of dollars a month from listeners is genuinely what keeps shows like this one running. If you've gotten something out of these episodes, a small contribution at buy me a coffee dot com slash fexingo makes a real difference. It's what lets us keep the show ad-free and focused on practical tools like the breakup letter. Luna: Yeah, it's a simple way to support something you find useful. And it really does add up. Lucas: So back to the letter — the structure works, but I want to dig into why it works. There's a concept in psychology called 'self-authorship' — the idea that you have to write the story of your own career, or someone else will write it for you. Luna: And a breakup letter is you taking the pen back. Lucas: Precisely. When Sarah wrote that third paragraph, she was declaring, 'This is who I am, and this is what I'm no longer carrying.' That's not just cathartic, it's performative — the act of writing it changes your self-concept. Luna: I'm thinking about someone listening who's been stuck in a similar loop — maybe it's not a job, maybe it's a side project that failed, or a professional relationship that soured. Would the letter work for that too? Lucas: Absolutely. The format is flexible. You can write to a project, a mentor you lost touch with, even a past version of yourself. The key is always the three-part structure: gratitude for what was good, honesty about what broke, and a clear delineation of what you keep versus what you release. Luna: And you really don't send it? I feel like that's the hardest part for some people — they'd want to send it to their boss or their former team. Lucas: Katzman is adamant: do not send it. The moment you send it, it becomes about the recipient's reaction, not your own closure. You might get dragged into a conversation, a defense, an argument. The letter is for you. It's a private ritual. Luna: That makes sense. But what do you do with the letter after you write it? Stick it in a drawer? Lucas: Some people burn it. Some people file it away and revisit it six months later to see how far they've come. I like the idea of reading it aloud to a trusted friend — that adds an element of witness. But the act of writing is the main event. Luna: Okay, so let's make this practical. For someone listening right now, what would you say is the first step? Lucas: Take out a notebook — physical, not a screen — and write the date at the top. Then write 'Dear,' and just start with paragraph one: what you loved at the beginning. Don't censor yourself. If nothing comes, write 'I don't remember' and sit with it. The memory will surface. Luna: And be specific. Not 'I liked the people,' but 'I liked the 8 AM standups where Jenna always had a terrible pun.' Lucas: That level of specificity is what makes it work. Generalities don't release emotion. Details do. So Sarah's letter didn't say 'I had a bad boss.' It said 'I watched you present my slides and you didn't even look at me.' Luna: That's visceral. You can feel it. Lucas: And that's why the third paragraph works — because once you've written the specific pain, you can also write the specific strength you're taking with you. Sarah didn't say 'I'm good at marketing.' She said 'I can spot a consumer trend before anyone else.' That's concrete. That's an asset she can take anywhere. Luna: So the letter becomes a kind of resume for your identity, not just a catharsis. Lucas: That's a great way to put it. And I think that's why this exercise has stuck with me. It's not about getting closure from the other party — it's about giving yourself permission to close the door and walk away clean. Luna: I want to try this. I have a project from three years ago that I still think about with a weird mix of pride and frustration. Lucas: Perfect candidate. Write the letter this week. And if you want, next episode we can talk about what happens after — once you've closed that chapter, how do you actually open the next one? Luna: That sounds like a plan. For now, I think the big takeaway is: if you're stuck, try writing a goodbye. You don't have to send it. You just have to say it. Lucas: Exactly. Thanks for listening — and if the letter helps, we'd love to hear about it. Reach out at the usual places.