5-7 min read
I didn’t realize I was losing myself.
Not at first.
It happened slowly even quietly, in ways that didn’t feel alarming enough to act on. A little more exhaustion each day, a little less excitement about anything, a numbness that crept in so gradually I almost mistook it for stability.
Everything was just okay.
Becoming a paralegal was never in my book of things to do but my life trajectory had been shaped by circumstances that kept me moving aimless like a dandelion. Just sprouting anywhere I could find a tiny bit of beauty and room to grow.
But it wasn’t stability.
It was decay.Complacency. A life that slowly stopped feeling like mine.
It was ignoring the dreams I had, the plans that I had made when I was young and full of wonder. It was trying to be the stable person in a dying relationship. I was never meant to be the man in a relationship but that is exactly what happened and the job did not add to my happiness, it took form it.
Every day felt like dread.
I stayed longer than I should have, not because I loved the job, I did at first. It’s a normal thing when we all get our first big girl job, the prospect of something new, seeing a future you dreamed of come to life and even thinking to yourself that you are actually living in it.
But I didn’t know what was on the side of leaving it.
I told myself I needed a plan, that I had to be responsible. That I wasn’t “credentialed enough” to just walk away and figure it out later.
And in staying, I started to disappear.
Last year was the first time I can honestly say my mental health took a real hit. Not in a dramatic, visible way — but in the quiet ways that are harder to explain. I stopped caring about things that once mattered to me. I stopped dreaming. I stopped imagining a different life for myself.
Every day became about getting through the day.
The paycheck. The metrics. The expectations. The constant feeling of being evaluated, critiqued, and told I was meant for more, all while being held in the exact same place.
It was exhausting.
I felt like I couldn’t leave.
Until I couldn’t anymore.
Around that time, my best friend was also feeling the same way about her job. We were both tired. Burnt out. Looking for something, anything that felt different. So we went to a job fair together.
I told myself I wouldn’t quit without a plan.
But desperation has a way of making anything look like a plan.
That’s how I ended up accepting a teaching role.
Me. A teacher.
On paper, it sounded great. An English teacher at an all-girls academy. A fresh start. A break from everything I had been feeling. The timing felt perfect, I got the offer in May, and the school year didn’t start until August.
For the first time in a long time, I felt a sense of relief.
Like I had found my way out.
I walked into the office, sat down, and submitted my notice. I told them, plainly, that due to my mental health, I could no longer continue working under the pressure I was in.
And just like that, it was finally over.
That same day, I went home and made another decision.
One that terrified me just as much.
I told my partner I was cashing out part of my retirement to survive until my next role started. That this next step wasn’t long-term, it was a stepping stone and that, for the first time in a long time, I needed to prioritize myself.
I couldn’t do more than 50/50 anymore.
I barely had 50 to give.
Looking back now, I can see it clearly.
I wasn’t choosing my life anymore.
I was surviving it.
And that’s what scared me the most.
Dear reader never stay because it is what is expected. I left with a cardboard plan and it all blew up in my face.
Now a year later I am the happiest I have been in ten years. I have no idea what I am doing (and I’ve made many mistakes along the way) but right now, I love my current job working in nonprofit grant work. Helping my community. Starting a blog no matter how imperfect it is, tending my plants, rebuilding my life little bit little.
Not the job, not my ex, not my family, not the people I left behind and not the people who doubt me can take my life away from me.