So...I finally quit my job.
What they say about burnout is true. You don’t realize you are burnt out until one day it hits you like a truck.
On the morning of Wednesday, May 31st, after a long holiday weekend and nature reset, I realized I couldn’t do it anymore.
It started off like any work day. I dragged myself outta bed, put on clothes that made me feel like a person, grabbed a cup of coffee, and began checking off tasks on my to-do list. After a couple hours of sitting at my desk editing some graphic on Photoshop, I without warning found myself looking at me from my office doorway. I was staring at this girl tapping away at the keys on her laptop and it dawned on me: She doesn’t belong here. This isn’t what she’s meant to do anymore.
This sudden out-of-body experience had shown me the truth about my feelings and I shut down. I spent the rest of my work day tearfully pushing pixels trying to deny the realization that had boiled inside. I knew something needed to change; that “something” was my job.
When my partner came home, he knew something was wrong but I still couldn’t conjure up the right words out of my mouth. Quitting felt like giving up and giving up made me a failure. In our silence, he patiently sat on the living room couch watching me rifle through my children’s books. With teary eyes, I sniffled through pages of Courage by Bernard Waber, The Curiosities by Zana Fraillon, and Trying by Kobi Yamada. As I turned the last page, I looked up, walked into his arms, and finally admitted “I need to quit my job.”
A week later—with no plan or new job lined up—I told my boss I needed to go; I needed to get outta there; I needed to leave the job. Despite the dread, I knew my boss was going to be more than receptive to me leaving. If anything, he’s been waiting for the day I realized I’m meant for way more than my job. (Shoutout Pedro, you a real one! <3) It was during our conversation when I realized that my heart had finally caught up to what my brain and body had been telling me for years.
Quitting my job and the lead up to my last day of work had me emotionally bouncing back and forth between excitement and regret. It’s like that scene from Tangled where Rapunzel finally leaves her tower in search of the floating lights but is guilt-ridden about abandoning everything her mother had taught her about the outside world.
Whenever regret hits me, I recall the heaviness I used to wake up with every morning; I remind myself that I quit my job in pursuit of joy. I recognize now that I was too comfortable and stopped learning. My troubles manifested as severe depression, anxiety, and, in the case of my health, severe eczema flare-ups and surprise asthma attacks. Because I stopped progressing, I stopped truly living.
You might ask, why go on a sabbatical instead of finding a more fulfilling job? It boils down to not knowing what I want next. Since graduating college—hell, since graduating high school—I have non-stop been working towards the next objective without ever considering if they sincerely aligned with my dreams. Sabbatical will serve as a time where I can be open to and reflect on the dreams I’ve buried deep.
So here I am three months after quitting and a week after my last day of work finally on sabbatical feeling free—albeit a little nervous. I never thought I’d be here, but I’m so thankful I have people in my corner cheering me on. I may not know what’s next, but that’s the exciting part. I plan on hiking around the Bay Area, reading all the books on my TBR, throwing pottery, drinking tea, finishing up all my abandoned sewing projects…the list is endless.
Here’s to learning more about myself, gaining clarity on what I want, and rekindling my creative spirit.
Until next time,
Marj ✨