Top image: Nicholas Chang / RICE file photo
For six years, a scholarship bond bound Alan* to the civil service. It was supposed to be a golden ticket—stability, prestige, and financial security. But as the years passed, it began to feel more like a cage.
Leaving wasn’t impossible. It was just expensive. To break his bond, he had to repay thousands of dollars—a brutal price for freedom. But when the final months ticked by, an unexpected thought unsettled him: Did he even want to leave?
It wasn’t that he hated his job; it was that he didn’t love it. A 35-year-old man of contrasts—affable yet introspective, a lover of poetry and hip-hop—he found himself boxed in by a system that prized order over originality.
Alan’s quandary is a widely relatable one. Who among us hasn’t sacrificed liberty and fulfilment for financial stability?
In this respect, the public service has long occupied a paradoxical space in Singapore’s work culture. It is both revered and ridiculed—seen as the pinnacle of job security yet frequently criticised for its rigidity.
As increasing volatility in the world and global economic shifts mean layoffs and job cuts abound in the private sector, the safe harbour of the public sector seems pretty tempting. But at what cost?
Multiple Attempts To Escape
“I knew full well what I had signed up for,” admits Alan, who had accepted the bond that relieved his family of paying for his college education.
At his public agency, he served in internal and external communications departments, where he vetted speeches, updated websites and planned social media posts.
The variety of projects kept him mentally stimulated. However, every government initiative necessitates a substantial amount of paperwork, layers of approval, and endless meetings. These applied to all his projects—from responding to simple public queries to handling temporary signs that few would see.
As he watched private-sector friends get laid off, the iron rice bowl felt reassuring. Yet, the same security began to suffocate him. He was navigating outdated systems alongside risk-averse colleagues, who were more interested in maintaining the status quo than embracing innovation. This mentality had been ingrained in the system long before he arrived.
Alan wasn’t alone in his restlessness. Across the civil service, others felt the same quiet frustration—the tension between safety and ambition. Barry*, a colleague just a year older, knew that feeling all too well.
As a bright-eyed fresh graduate hunting for his first job, Barry was thrilled when a statutory board made him an offer. At the start, the communications projects he took on were invigorating. In charge of community engagement, he thrived in dynamic collaboration with equally passionate colleagues. More than anything, he took pride in contributing to his country and impacting fellow Singaporeans, a sense of purpose that kept the fire in his belly burning.
But the excitement faded. Unlike the private sector, where agility often takes precedence, government agencies place a premium on compliance. In the civil service, protocols are paramount, ensuring safety, consistency, and accountability.
Yet, when adherence to procedure becomes unwavering, rigidity inevitably follows. Exhausting layers of approvals doomed many of his new ideas to rejection or irrelevance.
As this stifling sense of constraint crept in, Barry found himself yearning for change.
“Looking back, that career stagnation I felt culminated in a pretty serious quarter-life crisis,” Barry admits.
One of his biggest grievances was the restrictive leave policies. In the civil service, leave embargos can last as long as three months. When these embargos coincided with the avid sportsman’s personal plans, he had to forgo the latter.
With each late night at the office, his frustration swelled. His inflexible supervisor refused to ease his burden, and the so-called incentives for longevity were laughable.
“If I had worked ten years in that organisation, my reward would have been three extra days of annual leave,” he chuckles dryly.
For both Alan and Barry, the slow climb up the civil service ladder wasn’t worth it after all. Long hours and uninspiring work drained their motivation.
Alan puts it this way: “My civil service life felt like an extended stint in the army—just killing time.”
Over in the military, Daniel Sim, had the same doubts. He’d sacrificed time with his loved ones to work late nights and climb the ranks to become a Major. But to what end?
The 42-year-old recalls: “I looked at my seniors and noticed that their lives were more alike than different. Was this really the future I wanted?”
His vision of providing a comfortable life for his wife and children kept him burning the midnight oil night after night, but it was sapping joy from his life.
However, leaving wasn’t an easy decision.
In Daniel’s case, having two young children raised the stakes. He couldn’t afford to be out of a job with mouths to feed.
It wasn’t a fairy-tale transition when he eventually left. He tried everything—freelance gigs, pro bono projects, industry hopping. Then, almost by accident, he landed in property investment. And for the first time in years, something clicked.
Today, Daniel enjoys more time with his children and has found fulfilment in both his work and personal growth. He not only supports his family through real estate but also teaches others how to build passive income.
The Leap and the Landing
For Barry, quitting was agonising. He even typed out his resignation letter, which sat on his desk for weeks. He admits he was “too humji” (Hokkien slang for lacking the courage) to submit it.
After all, he had never worked in the private sector before. His stable salary of $5,000 afforded him the freedom to pursue his passions on weekends. Would his skills and experience even hold the same value outside the safety of the civil service?
Alan, too, knew he needed a plan. Mastering government protocols didn’t mean he was ready for the private sector. His concerned parents tried to show their support for his decision to take the leap, but his feeling of inadequacy unsettled him nonetheless.
To bridge the gap, he upskilled relentlessly—studying UX design, networking with industry veterans, and even attending a full-time software engineering boot camp. He would learn that coding wasn’t for him, but product management was.
Rejections piled up. Then, finally, he landed a role at a startup. And he did so well at that role—he had a knack for crafting user experiences—that three years later, a prestigious tech MNC headhunted him.
Barry eventually took the plunge too.
For years, his resignation letters had languished in his ‘drafts’ folder. But once he handed in his resignation, a sense of catharsis washed over him.
“I ran my first ultra-marathon, cycled around a few rural islands, and trekked in Nepal,” he recounts, beaming.
For the first time in years, he felt truly free. In a hyper-efficient society like Singapore, where career paths are often neatly paved from scholarships to seniority, the scariest thing isn’t having no options—it’s realising you do.
No Job Is Perfect
For many who leave the civil service, freedom is assumed to bring fulfilment. But as Barry would soon discover, change does not always guarantee satisfaction. His leap into the private sector—while exciting at first—came with its own set of disillusionments.
Confident in his ability to land a new job, Barry took his time.
“In retrospect, this sentiment was not fact-based, but driven by sheer optimism,” he titters.
Leaving public service, he landed what seemed like a dream job at a fitness-related startup. At first, it felt like a breath of fresh air—he was surrounded by his passions, energised by the diverse group of sports enthusiasts he rubbed shoulders with.
The red tape he had grown accustomed to had finally fallen away. Gone were the layers of bureaucracy; in their place was a dynamic, fast-paced environment where creativity reigned.
But as the weeks passed, the cracks began to show. He had escaped the confines of his greyscale cubicle, only to find himself lost in chaos.
The company lacked structure, standard operating procedures, and even basic workflow efficiency. The absence of a long-term vision created uncertainty. And because it was a startup, Barry found himself working late nights and weekends, sometimes till the early morning hours.
“It was actually worse than my previous government job,” he admits.
Barry began scouring job websites once again. To his surprise, he found an opening that perfectly matched his experience.
The catch? It was another civil service role.
Despite his initial reservations, he applied. This time, he found a role that suited him far better. His workload was manageable, his superiors supportive, and his work-life balance allowed him to run and cycle several times a week.
“Warm and welcoming colleagues made all the difference. Plus, my office is near some running routes in the city,” he laughs.
Alan, on the other hand, has no regrets about leaving his stable government job. He knows that the private sector comes with risks, but he firmly believes that young professionals should upskill while they are still relatively unencumbered by life’s heavier obligations.
Even though he returned to the fray, Barry, too, has no regrets.
“My twisting and turning journey has been exciting, and I’ve returned to the civil service a different, wiser person,” he reflects.
Both men feel a deep sense of gratitude. Alan is thankful for the scholarship that funded his overseas education, which would have otherwise been a financial burden on his family. Barry, too, appreciates the lessons he learned, saying his long journey has taught him how to work smarter.
“Be grateful for what you have, but find your balance. Do something about it, and prioritise your happiness outside of work,” he advises.
Barry’s experience highlighted an insightful lesson: a change of environment does not always equate to a change in fulfilment.
Demystifying The Iron Rice Bowl
Daniel’s career shift also gave him keen insight into Singapore’s work culture. Over countless conversations with people from different walks of life, he observed a recurring theme: Singaporeans crave stability.
In fact, a 2022 survey of 1,000 Singaporean workers noted that eight in 10 worry about job security ‘sometimes’ or ‘often’.
In Singapore, job security isn’t just about money. It’s about status. Stability wards off shame. Failure isn’t just personal—it’s familial. That’s why the iron rice bowl isn’t just an economic decision. It’s emotional.
It’s no secret that Singapore’s ‘get rich or die trying’ society prizes status above all. And one way to ensure one never loses face, is by securing an iron rice bowl.
This holy grail is more than just a bulwark against having to adapt to the ebb and flow of life; it’s a psychological anchor in a society where career defines identity and self-worth.
Perhaps the lionising of the iron rice bowl stems from the lived experiences of older generations—parents who grew up in an era of pensions and lifetime employment—instilling in their children the belief that studying hard and securing a stable job was the consummate solution to life.
“I had relatives who were firemen or teachers, and drew a reduced salary until their last day on earth. That’s a good deal! But I don’t think the iron rice bowl really exists the way it used to,” Daniel reflects.
Still, the tradition of exalting the iron rice bowl persists—along with other misconceptions. One such myth, he remarks, is the belief that the civil service will never “manage out” poor performers. He assures me that it does. The government didn’t become hyper-efficient by being lenient.
“The greatest security exists in ourselves, our skills, and our abilities—not in any job per se,” Daniel says. “That’s why the government is investing so much in helping people embrace lifelong learning and upskilling.”
Iron rice bowl or no iron rice bowl, any worker who doesn’t upskill is en route to obsolescence.
The Courage To Choose
Alan shows me an Instagram account called @governmentbyhaiku and points out a poem there that describes the world he left behind:
Mental well-being
A national priority
Got apply to me?
“I have zero regrets leaving government, and my current job gives me zero stress,” reflects Alan.
For some, success isn’t measured in promotions or pension plans, but in autonomy, excitement and meaning. Comfort can be a blessing or a slow erosion of one’s potential. Yet, it is often the discomfort of change that shapes us the most.
The sobering reality is that immense effort is necessary, not just when forcing ourselves out of our comfort zones, but also to grow and stay relevant in an ever-evolving job market.
Though Alan, Barry and Daniel each wrestled with different push and pull factors, they eventually recognised they weren’t truly letting go of anything irreplaceable—they were simply making room for something new.
Through his peregrination, Barry has come to his own realisation.
“I used to worry about how people perceive civil servants—uncool, lame, square,” he divulges. But in a country where the cost of living is a top concern, he believes such judgments are narrow-minded.
“I’m no longer bothered by these perceptions because I am not defined by my job. And neither should you.”
These journeys from suffocation to satisfaction reflect a deeper truth about career choices, one that extends beyond any single profession: When does taking the leap become the more rational choice?
“The iron rice bowl is enticing, but it’s comparatively not a very big bowl,” notes Alan.
At the heart of it, the question isn’t about leaving or staying, public or private sector—it’s about knowing when stability becomes stagnation and starts to erode ambition.
In the end, the real risk isn’t change—it’s staying in place and mistaking comfort for growth.
*Names have been changed for their privacy.
