Introduction

A few years ago I had a job that consumed me. I wasn't addicted to it-"addiction" suggests an irrational attachment, slightly masochistic, compulsive. My problem was that I loved my job and couldn't get enough of it. Being a member of the President's cabinet was better than any other job I'd ever had. In the morning, I couldn't wait to get to the office. At night, I left it reluctantly. Even when I was at home, part of my mind remained at work.

Not surprisingly, all other parts of my life shriveled into a dried raisin. I lost touch with my family, seeing little of my wife or my two sons. I lost contact with old friends. I even began to lose contact with myself-every aspect of myself other than what the job required. Then one evening I phoned home to tell the boys I wouldn't make it back in time to say good night. I'd already missed five bedtimes in a row. Sam, the younger of the two, said that was O.K., but asked me to wake him up whenever I got home. I explained that I'd be back so late that he would have gone to sleep long before; it was probably better if I saw him the next morning. But he insisted. I asked him why. He said he just wanted to know I was there, at home. To this day, I can't explain precisely what happened to me at that moment. Yet I suddenly knew I had to leave my job.

After I announced my resignation, I received a number of letters. Most were sympathetic, but a few of my correspondents were angry. They said my quitting sent a terrible message; it suggested that a balanced life was not compatible with a high-powered job. Many women on the fast track were already battling a culture that told them they were sa

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