Surrendering the letters behind my name
Owning my career choices as I step into the uncertainty of what's next
Your Five-Year Plan is a newsletter about embracing life’s profound uncertainty.
Maybe your own plans went up in flames; maybe you’re considering a big, scary leap. This is your trusty companion while you’re writing the next life chapter.
Welcome to the conversation—and to the adventure that unfolds when your plans go sideways. This is letter #29. ✨
☀️ How was your week?
Last week, paid subscribers received a special edition of the newsletter. We talked about the gifts we gave our Present and Future Selves in October. As for mine:
Extra storage, and a Korean spa day. I bought self-care and peace of mind in two (wildly different) formats.
Professional photos of yours truly. Finally investing in headshots may not have been fun, per se, but it was certainly an act of career self-advocacy.
On to today’s letter!
Surrendering the letters behind my name
As a seven-year resident of the Pacific Northwest, I’ve learned a thing or two about building campfires.
First, of course, your firewood should be bone-dry; I’ve definitely been burned, so to speak, by wood that isn’t seasoned.
You need a mix of different-sized logs for best results, which is where your ax comes in handy (you own one, right?). The largest logs won’t catch fire right away, so you need smaller sticks of kindling to get things started.
And plenty of oxygen needs to flow through the system, which impacts how you arrange your firewood: in a log-cabin style stack or a teetering teepee—but never a tight, airless pile.
Get any of this wrong, and you might be left cold—no matter how much combustible matter you appear to be working with.
Get all of this right, and you build a durable flame that transforms a cord of firewood into a pile of white-hot embers. Those embers will accept all newly-proffered logs, lighting your campsite well into the evening.
Eventually, though, even the strongest fire runs out of fuel.
Each November, I have a $455 decision to make: do I renew my CERTIFIED FINANCIAL PLANNER™ certification or not?
That decision used to be an easy yes, and not just because I was still practicing. The CFP® marks symbolize competence, diligence, and integrity. They represent a career path I chose, very deliberately, to help other people.
But perhaps most importantly, renewal was an easy yes because my fires of professional motivation were burning brightly. There was latent energy stored in the three letters parked behind my last name: Maddie Burton, CFP®.
I spent my free time reading about issues facing the profession. I considered, thoughtfully and at length, which far-flung financial planning conferences I might attend.
When I catch up with financial-planner colleagues now, that spark is still visible in their eyes—and with excellent reason. Many of them are now running firms they launched themselves, so even the driest compliance and regulatory issues have become interesting entrepreneurial puzzles.
Launching a financial planning firm is a daunting project. But, like building a campfire, I do understand the basic formula. The building blocks required to start my own firm—or return to someone else’s as an employee—are available to me.
There’s just one problem.
I can select the perfect cord of firewood, place each log just so, and crumple sheets of day-old newspaper to serve as firestarter. But without a matchbook, even the most artfully-crafted structure won’t ignite.
No spark, no flame.
The flame of my ambition as a financial planner had been dimming for some time—slowly enough, though, that it took a full-on crisis to notice.
By the beginning of 2023, I was coordinating my mom’s end-of-life care. This highlighted how draining my day job had become; the growing weight of all my responsibilities now threatened to crush me.
Leading financial planning relationships isn’t an easy undertaking, even under the sunniest circumstances. It requires understanding (and keeping track of) countless nuances of your clients’ financial lives, and advising on their most consequential money decisions.
In a rare quiet moment, I looked out the frostbitten window in my mom’s kitchen, heart racing as I counted the increasing number of people relying on me.
On the surface, renewing my CFP® certification would be the conservative choice. $455, one could argue, is a small price to pay for a year of observing my career trajectory, wherever its arc might bend.
When I wrote this piece on the subject of quitting, I debated leaving out the last sentence of the Oliver Burkeman quote. Frankly, I wasn’t sure that I agreed with it.
“Don’t worry about burning bridges,” he said. “Irreversible decisions tend to be more satisfying, because now there’s only one direction to travel – forward into whatever choice you made.”
Three months later, I see the wisdom in it.
It would be easy—perhaps even advisable—to hedge. Renewing my certification means retaining optionality. For someone else, that might be the exact right choice.
But I know what it feels like when the heat’s gone out of something.
Being an effective self-advocate, in your career and elsewhere, requires taking ownership of your situation. To me, Step One of owning my choices means admitting when I know something is over, rather than passively letting the clock run out.
Snuff out one option decisively, and you can focus on nursing another flame—the fledgling kind that requires coaxing and tending—into something self-sustaining.
My years as a CFP® professional are coming to an end, which brings me back to memories of the beginning.
Earning this professional designation required passing a formidable test. So for the first four months after my ex and I moved to Seattle, I was in full-on exam prep mode: firmly planted at my desk, reviewing flashcards about estate planning.
When I passed the test, we celebrated my success by finally getting outside and exploring our new surroundings. We ferried over to Orcas Island, and on our last morning there, opted for a cold, drizzly run at Moran State Park.
We chose a loop trail circling a lake, and settled into an easy rhythm on the rolling hills. Pine needles blanketed the dirt beneath us; fog hung heavy in the air.
As we banked left, a new pocket of shoreline came into view, and we realized that we weren’t alone. Early-season campers had staked out a site—and somehow managed to get a campfire going in the damp March air. It flickered like a candle across the water.
We kept running, quietly tending to our own thoughts. I considered the new professional adventure that lay ahead of me, not knowing exactly what it would look like, only that it was about to happen.
💬 What do you think?
I’m curious to hear from you. Tell me about a time you made a decisive pivot—in your career or otherwise—or a time you took ownership of a momentous choice.
Had your own plan-in-flames experience? Taking a leap into the unknown? I’d love to hear more. Just hit “reply” to get in touch, or introduce yourself here.
Warmly,
Maddie
Okay, friends: here's your opportunity to share! Tell me about a time you made a decisive pivot—in your career or otherwise—or a time you took ownership of a momentous choice.
I'm in the middle of a transition myself, and boy is it hard to have one foot still in the door of your own identity! I remember when I transitioned to full-time writing and I was still a substitute teacher (my former career was an elementary school teacher). When I finally let go of the teaching aspect, I was able to devote more of my energy to writing. I haven't looked back.