By Joost Narraina, Strategic Creative Director
It was 11:47 PM on a Tuesday in Brussels when I finally admitted the truth to myself.
I was sitting in my Ixelles apartment, laptop open, reviewing campaign performance metrics for Philip Morris. The numbers were good. Revenue targets exceeded. KPIs all green. My manager would be happy tomorrow.
But I felt empty.
I'd spent four years climbing the corporate ladder, from Sales Executive to Digital Lead for Reduced Risk Products. Good salary, company car, expense account, colleagues who respected my work. Everything I thought I wanted when I graduated from London South Bank University.
Yet here I was, past midnight, wondering what the hell I was doing with my life.
Earlier that week, I'd presented a creative campaign I'd been developing for months. I was proud of it. The strategy was solid, the creative direction distinctive, the business case clear. I could see it working across markets.
The meeting lasted thirty-seven minutes. I remember exactly because I kept checking my watch, watching my idea get systematically dismantled by people who'd never created anything themselves.
"It doesn't fit our brand guidelines." "Too risky for the current market climate." "Legal needs to review every claim." "Maybe we can revisit this next quarter."
By the end, nothing remained of what I'd envisioned. Just another generic campaign that would blend into the background noise.
Walking back to my desk, I felt something break inside me.
That night, staring at my laptop screen, I started connecting dots I'd been ignoring.
The best parts of my job happened when processes didn't exist yet. Launching the new affiliate in Curaçao from scratch. Building digital strategies for emerging markets. Creating something where nothing existed before.
The worst parts involved optimizing existing systems, following established protocols, getting approval for ideas that had already been approved by committees.
I thrived when building. I died slowly when maintaining.
Three weeks later, I was having drinks with Tom, a colleague who'd been at PMI for twelve years. Smart guy, good at his job, well-respected.
"You know what I realized?" he said, halfway through his second beer. "I've become really good at playing the game. Knowing what to say in meetings, which projects to support, how to advance without making enemies."
He paused, staring into his glass.
"Problem is, I can't remember what I actually believe anymore."
I went home that night terrified I was looking at my future.
Two months later, I was in Overijse having Sunday dinner with my parents. My mom asked how work was going.
"Good," I said automatically. "Busy, but good."
My dad looked at me the way only parents can. "You haven't talked about loving your work in over a year."
He was right. I'd been talking about targets, achievements, promotions, challenges. But never about loving what I did.
That night, driving back to Brussels, I made a decision that terrified me: I was going to leave.
I spent six months preparing in secret. Saving money, building relationships, developing what would become Majortale. Every evening after work, every weekend, building something that might replace my steady income.
My friends thought I was crazy. "You have a great job at an international company. Why would you risk that?"
My banker was less diplomatic: "You're giving up security for uncertainty. That's not rational."
Even I wasn't sure it was rational. But I knew staying wasn't sustainable.
I'll never forget my manager's face when I handed in my notice. Confusion, then disappointment, then something that looked like envy.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"I'm starting my own agency."
"Doing what?"
"Strategic creative direction. Helping companies connect creativity with business results."
He leaned back in his chair. "That's not a real job description, Joost."
Maybe not. But it was my job description.
Leaving was terrifying. No guaranteed income, no company car, no expense account. Just me, a laptop, and the belief that I could create something valuable.
The first client came through a former colleague who'd seen my work at PMI. A small tech company needing recruitment videos. €8,000 project. I spent three weeks on it like it was a million-euro campaign.
They loved it. More importantly, it worked. They hired four people directly from that campaign.
Word spread. More projects came. Not all of them worked, but enough did to keep going.
The corporate job taught me systems, processes, and how to work within constraints. Valuable skills, but not where I belonged.
Building Majortale taught me who I actually am: someone who sees connections others miss, who can translate business objectives into creative strategy, who thrives when creating solutions from nothing.
I'm not built for maintaining other people's visions. I'm built for creating new ones.
That apartment in Ixelles where I made the decision to leave feels like a different lifetime. I'm writing this from Antwerp, where Majortale is based, having just finished a strategy session for a manufacturing client who wants to revolutionize how their industry thinks about talent attraction.
Tomorrow I'm talking with a regulated industry executive about building authentic thought leadership. Next week I'm in a planning session for wildlife expeditions that combine my love for the ocean with meaningful experiences for others.
This isn't the life I planned. It's better.
People warned me about giving up security for uncertainty. What they didn't mention is that corporate security is also uncertain. Companies restructure, markets shift, strategies change. The only real security is knowing you can create value regardless of circumstances.
The €80,000 salary felt secure until I realized it was actually limiting my potential. Now I earn more, work with people I choose, and spend my time creating instead of maintaining.
Most importantly, I sleep well knowing that every project makes the world slightly better and teaches me something new.
That Tuesday night in Brussels, staring at performance metrics that felt meaningless, I thought I was having a career crisis.
Turns out I was having a breakthrough.
Stay great,
Joost
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