This story goes back to my years at Samsung Electro-Mechanics.
I was working in import purchasing, responsible for bringing materials in from overseas. It was the kind of job where you constantly had to think months ahead. At the time, I kept detailed spreadsheets tracking inventory, work-in-progress materials, letters of credit, and shipping schedules. Today, that sounds normal. Back then, it wasn’t.
By organizing everything in one place, I could often spot problems long before they became emergencies. Sometimes I noticed potential shortages months in advance and took action before anyone else realized there was a risk. As a result, production problems rarely reached my desk; they were usually solved before they happened.
Unfortunately, that efficiency created a different problem. From the outside, I looked completely relaxed. Because I was preventing crises instead of reacting to them, people rarely saw me rushing around or putting out fires. What they saw was someone who always seemed to have things under control.
Gradually, more work started finding its way to me. At first, it was manageable. Then it wasn’t. One task became two, and two became three. Before long, I was carrying responsibilities that had little to do with my original job.
I was never very good at refusing requests. Whenever someone asked for help, my usual response was simple: “I’ll take care of it.”
For a while, that felt like the right attitude. Then the workload crossed a line. I started leaving the office later and later, and the fatigue became constant. On my commute, I often had nosebleeds from pure exhaustion. Back then, a six-day workweek was the norm, so Saturdays disappeared into work as well. By Sunday, I was usually too tired to do much of anything except recover.
Looking back, I was not really working anymore. I was surviving.
At one point, I carefully explained the situation to my manager. The biggest issue was not even the core work itself; a surprising amount of time was being consumed by repetitive administrative tasks—sorting faxes, making copies, and handling endless paperwork. I suggested that even a small amount of support would make a huge difference. He listened, then said, “Give me a little time.”
I believed him. But nothing changed.
The amount of work stopped growing, but the nature of the work changed instead. The forward-looking planning that I truly enjoyed was gradually replaced by emergency tasks and last-minute fixes. The more fires I put out, the less time I had to prevent new ones. It became a vicious cycle. Eventually, I realized something uncomfortable: I was no longer managing my work. My work was managing me.
Physically and mentally, I was running out of fuel. So, I resigned.
The company did not accept my resignation immediately. For more than a month, senior colleagues took turns buying me meals and drinks, trying to convince me to stay. I am still grateful for that warmth. Then a new department manager arrived. He knew me well and understood how I worked. One day he called me into his office.
“I heard you submitted your resignation.”
I nodded. He looked at me and said only two words: “No way.”
Under different circumstances, that conversation might have changed my mind. But by then, my energy was completely gone. I had already traveled too far down that road.
As I prepared to leave, my responsibilities were divided among three different people. Half went to one colleague, and the rest was split between two others. Only then did I fully understand what had happened. I had been carrying far more than one person’s workload.
Oddly enough, that realization did not make me feel better. At the time, leaving felt like failure. Samsung was considered one of the best companies in Korea, and walking away felt like quitting.
Years later, I see it differently. There is nothing wrong with being good at your job. In fact, it is usually a compliment when people trust you with important work. The real problem begins when organizations keep adding responsibilities simply because someone is handling them without complaint.
People are not machines. A swan may look calm on the surface, but beneath the water, its feet are moving furiously. Back then, I learned that lesson later than I should have. And it came at a cost.