When I joined Apple as a software engineer in 2020, I was thrilled. The pace was intense, but I was eager to prove myself and grow. I was all in.
Then, less than six weeks after I started, the pandemic shifted everything to remote work. Paradoxically, that isolation became an advantage: without a commute or office distractions, I poured myself into my craft. I learned faster, delivered consistently, and in just over two years, I was promoted to engineering manager.
On paper, it was a win. In reality, it was the beginning of a slow unraveling.
The Promotion That Changed Everything
The new role came with a team to lead—but not the bandwidth to lead them well. I was still expected to handle much of my individual contributor work while training reports who weren't yet ready to own those responsibilities. I hoped for team growth to ease the load, but instead, the work kept multiplying with no relief in sight.
I was managing up, managing down, and still doing the work myself. Something had to give.
The Commute That Broke Me
In March 2022, I was promoted. By September, Apple required three days a week in the office. For the first two years, my commute was under 30 minutes. Then, in 2024, my living situation changed: my roommates and I had to move, and the only affordable option was an hour away.
Suddenly, on days with no meetings and no clear reason to be on-site, I was adding two hours of commuting to my day. I'd proven I could deliver remotely—yet the policy didn't bend.
Adding to the strain: I'd adopted a dog during the pandemic. Leaving him alone for long stretches weighed on me. Over time, the commute didn't just drain my time—it drained my mental health.
Remote work had also meant I never built the in-person relationships that create workplace support systems. I felt isolated, like I was missing the connective tissue that makes tough days manageable.
The Breaking Point
Burnout didn't hit all at once. It crept in: the constant context-switching, the guilt of leaving my dog, the frustration of commuting for empty office days. I started to feel unfulfilled, then exhausted, then detached.
I realized something important: no amount of compensation was worth the stress seeping into my personal life. My health, my happiness, my relationships—they mattered more.
So last October, I left Apple.
Choosing Rest Over Rush
My plan was simple: take at least six months off. I've always been financially conservative—I saved aggressively even as my salary grew—so while I'm mindful of my budget, I'm not anxious. The value of this time outweighs the cost.
I've used these months to reclaim my life: skiing whenever possible, traveling, seeing friends, and checking off bucket-list items. I've noticed something powerful: I enjoy my hobbies more when I'm not carrying work stress in the background. Before, I was just going through the motions.
What I've Learned—and What I'd Tell Others
As I approach the six-month mark, I'm beginning to explore what's next. I'm open to hybrid roles, but flexibility matters. When I return to work, I want it to be because I'm genuinely excited—not because I feel I need a job.
If you're navigating your own career crossroads, here's what I'd share:
🔹 **Your career is a marathon, not a sprint.** You have time to move at a pace that sustains you. One reason I became overwhelmed at Apple was that my strong performance made it seem like I could handle more than I actually could. Don't let momentum override your limits.
🔹 **Work is part of life—not the whole thing.** What matters most, at least for me, happens outside the office: relationships, health, joy, peace. Protect those fiercely.
🔹 **It's okay to pause.** Stepping back isn't failure. Sometimes the bravest career move is to stop, breathe, and remember who you are beyond your title.
I don't know exactly what my next role will be. But I do know this: when I go back, I'll choose a path that aligns with the life I want to live—not just the resume I want to build.
And that, for me, is progress.