So… what do you do all day?

There’s a lovely children’s book by Richard Scarry called What Do People Do All Day? Everyone has a job. Everyone’s busy. It all makes comforting sense. The baker bakes, the postman delivers, the builder builds.

Then you grow up, get a real job, and realise none of that applies anymore.

Ask an adult what they do, and you’ll get a title: Senior Associate, Programme Lead, Solutions Partner. Ask what they actually do all day and suddenly there’s a pause. A cough. A vague hand gesture. “You know… emails.”

This matters more than people admit – especially if you’re new, or trying to get on.

Job titles aren’t designed to explain work. They exist to organise payroll, reporting lines, and org charts. They’re filing cabinets, not inspiration. They don’t tell you that the chef mostly schedules staff, the tech person mostly talks, or the “creative” role involves a shocking amount of spreadsheets.

So here’s the quiet trick: create a short, human description of what you actually do.

Not corporate. Not clever. Something your mum, your mate, or the person next to you in a café would understand.

“I calm anxious people and stop projects going off the rails.”
“I translate complicated stuff into decisions people can live with.”
“I spend my day stopping small problems becoming expensive ones.”

This isn’t about dumbing things down. It’s about sense‑making – yours and everyone else’s.

For new starters especially, this helps in three ways. First, it stops imposter syndrome spiralling when your title doesn’t match reality (it rarely does). Second, it helps colleagues remember what you’re for, not just where you sit. Third, it makes you visible in the right way – useful, grounded, human.

Most jobs look mysterious from the outside. Most of them are far less glamorous – and far more interesting – up close. The people who get ahead aren’t always the ones with the fanciest titles. They’re the ones who can answer, calmly and clearly:

“This is what I do all day. This is how I help.”

That’s not branding. That’s survival.

And it fits neatly into a coffee break.