For years I dreamed of quitting my job as a business-school professor at a small private university. The pay was decent, the schedule flexible, the colleagues kind. From the outside, it made no sense to leave. But inside, I was dying.
Then came the layoffs. Good friends and colleagues vanished overnight. My workload doubled. At the same time, my family was hit with unexpected health crises that demanded I be home more, not less. I burned out hard. The values I taught every day—organizational learning, human flourishing, meaningful work—felt like a cruel joke when measured against the institution I served.
I fantasized about dramatic escapes: hopping a plane to anywhere, riding Falkor the luckdragon into another universe, anything to get free. Instead, I did the scariest thing I could think of: I resigned without another job lined up.
The moment I hit “send” on my resignation letter, a weight I hadn’t noticed for years slid off my shoulders. It felt like breathing for the first time in a decade.
My husband and I sat down, reworked the budget, cut what we could, and gave me the gift of time—time to heal, to be with our three kids, to remember who I was when work wasn’t suffocating me.
I’m not backpacking through Bali or writing poetry in Parisian cafés. That’s not my life. My life has school drop-offs, aging parents, a husband with a 9-to-5, and a dog who thinks deadlines mean treats. But within those real constraints, I’ve built something better.
I write at the kitchen table now. I published my next book. I earned an executive-coaching certification. I teach a few adjunct classes I actually love, speak and consult on my own terms, and am slowly relaunching my business. The money isn’t what it used to be—not yet—but the energy is mine again.
We’ve road-tripped to Yellowstone using the Every Kid Outdoors pass, watched Old Faithful erupt at sunset, and hiked until our legs gave out. I helped my youngest publish his first children’s book (Tommy the Tap-Dancing T-Rex), which lit a fire under my oldest to finish his own.
Some days I still wake up terrified. Did I ruin everything? Will the next opportunity come? But then I remember the alternative: staying until I hated the person I saw in the mirror, teaching students to chase “success” while modeling a life of quiet despair.
I don’t have it all figured out. I probably never will. But I’m no longer sleepwalking through my one wild and precious life.
Success, I’ve decided, isn’t the size of the paycheck or the title on the door. It’s waking up curious about the day ahead, having time to look my kids in the eye when they talk, and doing work that doesn’t make me want to disappear.
I quit. And for the first time in years, I feel like I’m finally moving forward.