At the end of June I voluntarily left the only “real” job I’ve ever held.
I know that I was very lucky to have the secure well-paying job with full benefits in the Publishing industry. And yet, I was not happy. I could not sleep, I gained weight, my anxiety was off the charts, I was always sick, and every morning I dreaded the day ahead of me. When I was not working, I mostly thought about the work I should be doing. During low moments, I fantasized about walking out the door, but I could never muster the courage to actually do it. Then a number of events and discussions made me realize that I had to leave. The specifics are not really important, except that when I told my boss I would be giving my two weeks’ notice I knew I had to follow through on that promise.
During the two weeks between giving my notice and working my last day, I cried a lot. I was scared of my uncertain future; angry at the perceived unfairness of how I’d been treated at the hands of the “man”; frustrated with myself for being so loyal to a job that did not return my devotion; and genuinely sad that I was severing my ties with the coworkers who had become friends. I kept telling myself that my job was not the problem with my life, but I could not make the life changes I wanted to make with that job. The real change I needed to make was making my health my number one priority, and the first step was to start sleeping.
I tried to remember the person I was when I started my job seven and half years ago. My first day was two days before my 22nd birthday. I remember everything about that day down to my outfit and how excited I felt to be at my first real job. I planned to work for a few years, save all my money, and then travel the world until I ran out of money. Somewhere between the business trips, sleepless nights, and constant deadlines, I gave up on myself and my dreams. It has not been all doom and gloom and I feel very fortunate to lead the life I do, but I do not know what makes me truly happy.
On my last day, there was a party with two cakes, hugs, and well wishes. When I walked out of the building for the last time, I felt free. The last time I remembered feeling that way was when I was 18. I was starting my second year of college and my parents let me bring my Volvo station wagon back to school. Driving back to my new apartment alone after dropping my mom off at the train station, I realized that I could do whatever and go anywhere I wanted. I had never felt so empowered. So I drove around my small college town for a bit before going home to nap. It was an awesome day!
In Line for Popcorn with Jessica Mosby is a column about film, literature, culture, initiating change, living a life of “yes,” and everything in between.
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