Our society sadly celebrates productivity over purpose. So, quitting a stable job can feel like betrayal — not just to your employer, but to the identity you’ve built around achievement. But for many of us, leaving wasn’t a rash decision or a luxury. It was an act of reclaiming something far more essential than a paycheck. One could say it was survival.
Catherine didn’t leave for freedom. She left for herself
When Catherine submitted her resignation, people assumed she wanted more “freedom.” The word floated through conversations like it explained everything: freedom to travel, to sleep in, to start a side hustle. But those assumptions missed the truth – by far.
Catherine wasn’t looking to escape her office; she was trying to return to herself. Years of corporate hustle had dimmed her sense of agency. She had become a performer of productivity, expertly managing deadlines, teams, and suppressing the quiet panic that she might be meant for something more.
Leaving her job wasn’t a leap into freedom — it was a quiet walk toward alignment. She started painting again, not for profit, but for pleasure. She spent mornings journaling instead of checking Slack. It wasn’t glamorous, and it definitely wasn’t easy. But it was honest.
So did Anu, and so did I
Anu didn’t have a backup plan either. What she had was a growing sense that her life was becoming smaller inside her well-paid, well-respected role. She was succeeding — by every external metric — but failing to feel present.
And me? I left not because I hated my job, but because I could no longer pretend it was enough. I felt like I was living in grayscale, ticking off tasks while ignoring the quiet grief of unlived dreams. I had ideas — messy, impractical, thrilling ideas — but no space to grow them.
Each of us walked away from “success” because we realized it was costing us our souls.
The unspoken grief and gold of quitting
Rarely anyone talks about the emotional aftermath of quitting. It’s not only relief and excitement. There’s grief — deep, disorienting grief. You mourn your old self, your routine, your colleagues. You question your worth when there’s no title to hide behind. You feel exposed.
Then there’s shame. Try explaining to someone at a party that you left your job to “figure things out” or “reconnect with your creativity.”
But there’s also gold. You begin to recognize how much of your time was spent proving, pleasing, performing. You remember what it’s like to make something just for the joy of making it. You breathe deeper. You realize you’re still in motion, just not in the direction others expected. And over time, that’s enough.
What helped us land safely on the other side
We didn’t do it recklessly. There were months of planning, hours of doubt, and spreadsheets that mapped out every financial risk. But practical steps weren’t the only things that helped.
We built community. We found each other — and others — who had also walked away. We shared job leads, creative prompts, and, most importantly, kept reminding each other that it’s okay to be terrified and still trust your gut.
We found structure in the chaos. Catherine made herself a weekly schedule that included time for both painting and freelance work. Anu created a “joy list” — things that made her feel alive — and committed to doing at least one each day. I began writing again, slowly, awkwardly, but with more heart than I had in years.
And perhaps most significantly, we redefined success. No longer tied to promotions or paychecks, success began to look like presence. Like making something we cared about. Like building a life that wasn’t always impressive, but felt undeniably ours.
