Quitting
I Quit My Job at the Height of My Career With No Plan. Here Are the Most Surprising Things I Learned.
It took nine months—yes, nine months—to regulate my nervous system and move out of chronic stress. It took nine months for the holding on—to tension, to cortisol, to weight, to fight-or-flight—to leave me. It took nine months to learn how to take a full, deep breath again and release it slowly. And there are still days, and moments, when I slip back into the holding. I have to remind myself that it is safe to live in this space. That I am, truly, safe here.
I had to redefine what success meant to me. There were no more accolades, no more recognition, no more moments of nailing it at work. My worth could no longer be determined by the amount of money I was making or by who thought I was doing an amazing job. I no longer knew if I was doing a good job at all. What were my metrics now? It turns out I had to define success in a completely different way: by how full my days felt with things that mattered to me, by how aligned I was, and by how well I listened to that quiet voice inside telling me what I wanted to do—and what I didn't. It was really, really hard.
There were a lot of emotions: shame, guilt, embarrassment. What do I tell people? Why did I do this? How am I so fortunate that I could? But there was also joy. There was gratitude. And I tucked myself into those spaces whenever I could. Seeking them out has become both a habit and a comfort. There are now many moments throughout the day that bring me to tears simply because I am fortunate enough to witness them.
Who I was became a really hard thing for me to figure out. I had always been a teacher, it was who I was deep down, but now I wasn’t that. So then…who was I? Really and truly? And the hardest question of all was–what do you do? I didn’t know what to say when people asked
My to-do list remained just as long as it had always been. I found ways to fill the space, even when the main reason I left was because I was, in fact, searching for more…space.
I read more–WIN! But I also scrolled far more. This was the habit I could not seem to let go of, despite desperately wanting to. I tried everything: app limits, deleting apps, logging out. It turns out we are incredibly clever when we want to be, and we can find our way around almost any boundary we set for ourselves. Without the structure of work in place, scrolling sometimes felt limitless. Thumbs down.
I spent more time in nature—in the garden, with horses, sitting beneath trees and looking through the leaves. I allowed space for this. Eventually, these moments began finding me. Between errands, I discovered a small trail to walk. I created a sacred space beside a tree in the woods behind my house, and I visited it often. I began craving those moments and missing them like an old friend whenever several days passed without seeing them. I watched a horse being born and was fully present for it. I witnessed the changing shape of the moon and looked at it with awe and surprise most evenings.
I checked in on my friends more, but I also let some friendships go. The people who aligned with the truest version of myself—I made sure they knew how grateful I was for their presence, their laughter, and their warmth. Those who no longer aligned seemed to drift away naturally. When I finally released the gripping and the holding on, it was almost magical to discover who remained.
I lived the life I wanted—but only moments at a time. Sometimes I was lucky enough to spend hours, or even entire days, living that way. But it required constant effort, and it still does. The life I wanted to create didn't simply appear, and it still hasn't. If I stop practicing, stop being present, or stop prioritizing what matters, I can easily return to the same life I had before. Creating a meaningful life requires more than free time. It requires intention. It requires discipline.
And perhaps the most surprising lesson of all: My house isn't any cleaner. My meals aren't any healthier. The projects still aren't finished. Dinner time is still stressful. This is the lesson I still struggle to understand. Nothing magical happened when I stopped working full time that suddenly made these tasks easier or made me more likely to accomplish them. I still don't entirely understand why. But perhaps that, too, is part of the lesson.
Year two is about to begin. I am more comfortable in my skin now. More aligned with my true self. More certain about the way I want to show up in this world.
But this year taught me that life does not reveal itself all at once. It unfolds slowly—in deep breaths, changing moons, old trees, trusted friends, and moments we almost miss.
I don't know what year two will bring. And perhaps that is the gift.
For the first time in a very long time, not knowing feels less like fear and more like possibility. I am simply here, breathing deeply, waiting to see what unfolds.