The Project Was So Bad, I Tried to Leave Earth

A few years ago, in the throes of an especially cursed project cycle, I did what any burned-out, emotionally available, highly competent project manager might do:

👩🏻‍🚀I applied to become an astronaut.

🛰️Yes, like NASA.

👽Yes, space.

🚀Yes, escape velocity.

This wasn’t a metaphor. This wasn’t a joke.

This was a real, federally submitted application with a real, federal rejection letter that now lives in a folder titled:

🗃️"Career Alternatives (Non-Earth Based).”

Why?

Because at the time, floating in a tin can 250 miles above the Earth sounded easier than my inbox.

There were days when replying to a stakeholder email felt harder than reentry from low Earth orbit. Days when facilitating yet another meeting with no outcomes felt more psychologically dangerous than a malfunctioning Soyuz capsule.

I wasn’t just burnt out. I was deep-fried, freeze-dried, and ready for launch.

Come to think of it…I was a lot like that astronaut Neapolitan ice cream they used to sell at the planetarium gift shop: compressed, shelf-stable, and pretending to be something useful in space.

Not really fit for orbit — but willing to play the part if it meant escaping the mission I was already on.

What I Was Hoping For

• Silence

• Zero Wi-Fi

• A mission-critical objective that didn’t involve duplicating the same slide in six different formats for six different VPs

  
  

I fantasized about the oxygen mask dropping during launch, and thinking:

“Wow, finally someone else writing the safety plan.”

What I Got Instead

NASA said no. They were very polite about it.

In fact, the rejection letter was so well-written that it restored some of my faith in stakeholder communication.

And looking at the timeline — I applied between December 2015 and February 2016…and didn’t get the official rejection until June 2017?

I mean.

They must have considered it.

Briefly.

Right?

Like someone in Houston actually opened my file and said,

“She’s not technically qualified, but goddamn, this cover letter slaps.”

But in hindsight, they were right to turn me down because I didn’t really want to be an astronaut.

I wanted to be anywhere but where I was. I wanted escape, not purpose.

What I Really Needed

• A system I didn’t have to hold together with my emotional duct tape

• A leadership team that didn’t confuse exhaustion with excellence

• A job that didn’t make me write cover letters to the stars

But instead of blasting off…I stayed. I recalibrated. I rebuilt.

Not overnight. Not cleanly. Not without orbital debris.

What came next wasn’t an escape. It was a re-entry. A reset. A realignment. Built slowly, stubbornly, and a little ferally — from the ashes of burnout and the acronyms I used to believe in.

I Didn’t Get NASA.

But I Did Launch Something Else.

It’s called The Feral PM.

Not a job title. Not a platform. A permission slip.

To stop playing the part they wrote for me — and start leading the way I was always capable of: honest, feral, and deeply human.

If You're Reading This...

And you’ve ever searched “how to fake your own death with Photoshop,” or practiced what you’d say on Undercover Boss, or stared out a window and whispered “I could’ve been an astronaut,”

You’re not alone.

You’re not broken. You’re just not okay in a system that doesn’t want you to be.

And That’s What This Blog Is For

Not just to rant (although: yes), but to document what happens when you stop coping and start getting feral.

Welcome aboard. We won’t be leaving the planet —but we will be escaping the bullshit.