The Real Hierarchy of Career Needs: What I Learned Over a Lifetime of Work

As I look back across the decades of my career, I can see how much my priorities have shifted—not suddenly, but gradually, almost imperceptibly, as life unfolded and responsibilities grew. When I was young, my hierarchy of needs was predictable and straightforward. But as I gained experience, raised a family, bought a home, pursued advancement, ran a successful business, and eventually stepped into what has become one of the most fulfilling roles of my life, I learned something I wish I had understood far earlier: none of the milestones, perks, or promises matter as much as the people you work with.

In my twenties, newly married and trying to figure out what it meant to be an adult, my concerns were practical and immediate. I worried about income—nothing more. I needed a steady paycheck because that was the foundation on which everything else rested. I wasn’t thinking about passion, culture, or leadership style. I wasn’t evaluating the long-term viability of a product or the company’s upward mobility. I just needed money coming in the door so my new family could build something together.

When we had children, that hierarchy shifted almost overnight. Suddenly, income alone wasn’t enough. I cared deeply about benefits. Health insurance, childcare support, paid time off, flexibility—they became the real currency of security. I evaluated every job based on how well it protected my family. In those years, benefits sat firmly at the top of my priorities because so many other decisions depended on them.

As we bought a home and became rooted in the middle class, another shift took place. I began thinking more about long-term career advancement. Promotion opportunities mattered. I wanted to grow, be recognized, take on more responsibility, and provide a better life for my family. That phase of life was about building a trajectory—climbing, moving forward, and ensuring I didn’t stagnate. The hierarchy expanded from needs to aspirations.

Then, as I matured in my career, my focus widened again. I started to care about the potential of the product or service I was helping to build. I wanted to know whether the work I was pouring myself into had a meaningful future. I evaluated companies based on their market, innovation, sustainability, and strategic vision. I wanted to believe in what I was creating, not just in where my career might go. It felt like a natural evolution—an alignment of personal pride with professional direction.

At one point, I ran a successful business. That experience taught me more than any role before it. I saw firsthand what happens when companies face growth, friction, setbacks, successes, and tough decisions. I experienced what culture looks like not in boardroom slides or lobby décor, but in the trenches—when numbers fall short, when the market tightens, when investors grow restless, when a sale is on the table. That’s where the mythology of culture dissolves and the truth appears.

For years, like many people, I was mesmerized by the superficial markers of culture. I loved the snack bars, game rooms, fancy coffee machines, murals on the walls, and the quirky perks that made companies feel modern and fun. But I eventually learned they’re fragile. When things go south, nobody cares about the snack bar. Nobody keeps the game room open late to ease the stress. The coffee machine gets cheaper, not better. Culture isn’t what companies display when things are easy; it’s what people reveal when things are hard.

That realization shaped the most significant shift of all—one that didn’t come until much later.

After closing the chapter on running my own business and stepping back into the workforce, I accepted a role at a high-growth startup. But this time, my hierarchy of needs was something entirely different. I wasn’t evaluating salary first. I wasn’t obsessed with benefits. I didn’t care about promotions. I wasn’t dazzled by the product’s potential. All of those things mattered, of course, but they weren’t the deciding factors.

I was far more concerned with the leaders. Who were they as people? How did they work? How did they make decisions? How did they communicate when things got stressful? Would I be a good fit for how they operate—not just professionally, but personally?

And months into this role, I can say without hesitation: it is one of the most enjoyable jobs I’ve ever had. Ironically, all the practical things—income, benefits, advancement, stability—are falling into place anyway. But they weren’t the reason I chose the job. The reason was fit. The reason was people.

This has become the ultimate lesson of my career, one I hope younger professionals can understand much earlier than I did: who you work with is far more critical than any other factor.

You may not believe this at the beginning of your journey. You shouldn’t, necessarily—your hierarchy of needs will evolve as your life evolves. You’ll have seasons where income is the only thing that matters. You’ll have seasons where benefits outweigh everything else. You’ll chase advancement, prestige, exciting products, and big opportunities. And that’s normal. Those stages serve a purpose.

But eventually, with enough miles behind you, you may come to realize what I have: the people you work with determine your day-to-day happiness, your growth, your sense of belonging, and the quality of your work life. They shape your confidence, your creativity, and your ability to thrive. The right people make good jobs great. The wrong people make great jobs unbearable.

So if you’re early in your career, let my hindsight be your foresight. Pay attention to the people. Pay attention to how leaders behave under pressure, not just how they speak when times are good. Pay attention to your fit—not just culturally, but personally and professionally.

Everything else—compensation, benefits, opportunity, and even the success of the product—has a way of following when you get that part right.