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One bright April afternoon several years ago, I strolled to my desk at Amazon in Seattle, freshly showered and sipping the smoothie I'd grabbed after my four-mile run.
I greeted my officemate and re-reviewed the agenda for my next meeting. I already felt prepared, so I used the 20 minutes before it started to make a few thoughtful edits to a proposal due the next week and to order flowers for a friend who'd just had surgery.
Don't look too relaxed, I warned myself. Just in case anyone passed by, I frowned at my screen as though solving an intractable problem.
When it was time for the meeting, I strode in with an air of slightly harried purpose, lest anyone suspect the truth: I was coasting, and had been for months.
I hadn't planned to coast when I'd changed teams. My new role, as a member of Amazon's Executive Development faculty, was a stretch in some respects, calling on muscles I hadn't used in years.
But the pace was much slower than anything I'd seen in my eight years at Amazon, more like a university research department than the breakneck chaos I was used to. The work was predictable and drew heavily on my natural strengths and areas of expertise, like writing, research, and teaching.
Within a month, I realized I'd landed in something I hadn't known existed at Amazon: an easy job.
I also realized I liked having an easy job. The work wasn't particularly challenging, but I still found it intellectually stimulating. I slept well at night and didn't wake up in a panic. My boss had time for me when I needed it. I ate real food for lunch, not chalky protein bars.
And instead of spending all day in meetings and doing my actual work at night, now I could often do my job at work, during daylight hours -- and even slip out for the occasional run.
My husband, friends, and therapist all noted how much younger and sunnier I seemed. Still, I was secretly wracked with guilt. Amazon had trained me that I was supposed to be treading water, barely able to stay on top of everything I needed to do and know. To feel calm and confident felt almost like cheating the company.
Finally I 'fessed up over coffee with an Amazon tech VP I'd worked with in the past, someone known for fearlessly taking on projects for which there was no roadmap.
"It's easy for me to kick ass at this job," I said, lowering my voice to a whisper. "I feel bad about that."
She laughed out loud. "What? Never, ever feel bad about coasting for a bit," she said. She'd done it herself in the past, she told me, as a way to rest and prepare for the next, harder job.
I was someone who'd taken only hard jobs for my entire career. Before that, I took only hard classes. All the way since kindergarten, I'd been trying to do more, and do it faster, and do it better.
The VP was the first person to ever tell me it wasn't just acceptable, but wise to take my foot off the gas now and then.
Her advice took time to sink in. When it did, I began to see that in addition to making me a calmer person, downshifting made me a more effective worker too. I made wiser strategic decisions and saw around corners more clearly. My communication improved. And as my work got stronger, my confidence grew by leaps and bounds.
Like many tech companies, Amazon's style of performance management tended to touch briefly on our strengths and dive deeply and at length into our 'gaps.' I had to constantly chase skills I didn't yet possess, which led me to neglect and undervalue my existing strengths. In my "easy" role, I developed those core strengths even further and pursued new skills as complements.
Phrases like "quiet quitting" and "lazy-girl job" didn't exist at the time, but I don't think they would've applied even if they had. I learned new things in my coasting job, and took risks. When circumstances required, I worked hard and put in long hours.
But I didn't prioritize the job over my own basic health and happiness. I no longer assumed that hard work had to mean struggle or fear of inadequacy. I came to understand that I could work hard in a state of quiet confidence -- and that even when the work came easily to me, that didn't make it any less valuable to Amazon. The results were what mattered, not the damage I sustained delivering them.
Coasting is an art, and if you want to try it, here's my best advice:
Coasting isn't about checking out or turning off your brain. It's about turning the dials down just enough to find some breathing room. You still want to feel engaged by your work, just not overwhelmed.
After coffee with my VP friend, I stopped feeling like I should pretend to be as stressed as ever. But I also didn't go around announcing, "Wow, I could do this job in my sleep!" It's better to be low-key about it, especially if others around you are fried.
If transferring into a new role isn't practical, you can still carve out coasting space for yourself. Maybe it means saying no to the kind of side projects and ad hoc committees that offer a lot of work for little reward. (Women especially tend to get dragged into these tasks under the guise of being "helpful," and all that helpfulness costs more than you think.)
If you're a manager who struggles to give up tasks you have no business hanging onto, maybe coasting is your reward for finally learning to delegate. Or maybe it's as simple as raising your hand more selectively for a couple of quarters.
I designed my coasting role to be a rotational one, so I always knew I'd be kicked out of the nest in two years. At first, I assumed I'd go right back to my old frantic, gap-closing ways. But as I leaned into my natural talents, I decided it didn't make sense to abandon them.
When I moved on from coasting, it was for a big job in a fast-paced, futuristic part of Amazon. I had to go through the standard internal interview loop, but a former VP recruited me and there were no other candidates.
And when I met my future boss, I was able to look him in the eye and say "I'm the best person in the entire company for this role," and mean it.