So, I Quit My Job...

Yes, you read that correctly. I quit my job. A year ago.

This post feels…weird. Exposing in some ways, reflective in others. It’s been in my drafts for a long time, delayed over and over again, for one reason or another. Partially because I truly didn’t know how people would react, mostly because I thought I’d have some big reveal to couple with it. Some exciting project I’d discovered with all this free time, some big pivot that would reveal itself with all this room to think.

Alas, this is the big reveal. Just this. I quit my job a year ago and intentionally didn’t mention it.

To be fair, no one asked about my job for a long time. Even when I stopped mentioning work stress, even when I stopped linking my office OOTDs from our grubby bathroom (I was tempted more than once to reuse old pics to share some links, but didn’t—it felt dishonest!!!),there were a few comments sprinkled throughout the first eight months, but nothing substantial. One offs of curious people. That is, until I posted that we’d bought a house and were moving.

That’s when the flood gates burst wide open.

Telling you all I quit is one thing. Telling you all I quit a year ago? Feels a little more jarring.

This is the final secret I've been keeping. Not a lie, more so an omission, but nevertheless a large chunk of the puzzle that I haven’t put out on the table yet. But once I mentioned the move, the sleuths started sleuthing—and I don’t blame them! I’m just as nosy as you all, I’ve gone down many an IG rabbit hole when I need answers on someone. I’m not shocked this became something people suddenly needed to know, but I was surprised how hard it was to say it. Maybe time made it weirder, but as I settled down on the one year mark as the obvious time to mention the elephant in the room, I still struggled to write it. And I still don’t know how it’ll be received.

Does leaving my job diminish some of my relatability? Does it make it more annoying when I complain about being tired or juggling work and kids? Is it nearly as big of a deal as I’m making it?

Probably not.

I’ve stressed about all this and more for a long time, but the truth is, I have yet to regret it. Which is kind of scary in itself. I don’t know what I’m doing next, I don’t know how I’ll feel tomorrow or next month or next year, but leaving my career of almost eleven years opened a lot of doors, the most obvious being I don’t think we’d be in Kansas right now if I hadn’t and I certainly don’t think we’d be expecting our third kid—that isn’t a financial flex by the way, that’s a mental one.

I’m grateful to my job and the people who made it possible for me to be in this moment right now and I’m relieved I finally let that job go.

The rest I’m still figuring out.

In November of 2024 (yep, we’re going WAY BACK), I’d had a break through….which was the result of a break down! So fun! While visiting Bill’s family in New York for Thanksgiving, we’d had yet another round of lay offs where my bosses assured me it wouldn’t be our team. It couldn’t be. Which, for many people in this job market, is a comforting thing to hear and maybe why my reaction to it was that much more concerning—I wanted it to be me. I wanted the decision made for me, I wanted the burnout to end by someone else’s hand, for someone to disappoint me instead of the other way around. Alas, this was just another round of cuts, just another slew of changes that I knew was leading to our team taking on another load of work that I’d stopped trying to convince myself was manageable. I looked at my boss over zoom and tearfully said “this will break people”— the reality was, just the thought of it was breaking me. Whatever carrot was dangling in front of me, whatever job promotion I was still trying to prove myself for, it suddenly wasn’t worth it.

If I was being honest, it hadn’t been worth it for a while. And a lot of you had caught on to that.

I didn’t say all of that (okay, maybe I said some of it)—I cried and word vomited the typical “we can’t manage all this” bullshit I’d been saying for a while and my boss was extremely understanding (she’s a good friend and she’d seen me spiral before—I tended to spiral every six months or so which was fun for everyone involved), but even she had to wonder aloud if something might need to change here, the something being me.

And then I went on a car ride with Bill. The real truth teller in this story who, after taking me on a drive to stock his sister’s house with wine, took more of a tough love approach. Just like my boss turned friend, this old boss turned husband had seen me wrestle with this job over and over again, but he was fed up hearing about it. Sitting in the parking lot, listening to me panic yet again about how I had no more to give and did not know how I could keep up this pace and couldn’t see a path forward anymore, he cut me off and simple said “Shit or get off the pot.”

Harsh, but fair.

Something I’d known, but hadn’t fully accepted was, in all this stress, I’d become a broken record (I’d talked about quitting for years, so much so that I used to ask my friends to submit weekly million dollar ideas to get us all out of corporate America), but, even worse, I’d become a toxin to those around me. I needed to shut up or do something. Be satisfied with the status quo I knew countless other coworkers and friends felt at their own jobs or change my life. It wasn’t abnormal to have job dissatisfaction, but it was becoming an unhealthy obsession in my day to day life.

Bill was right. I needed to shit or get off the pot.

What we didn’t expect (but probably should have!) was that this massive “shit” would take almost nine months of weekly therapy (truly, I barely mentioned my husband or my kids to my therapist for nine months.) From November whatever until July 14th (spoiler: there was a spurt of time in May when I almost applied for ANOTHER job within my company, but luckily I didn’t fit the bill or else we’d be spiraling for different reasons now), I spent every week walking through every possible scenario of why this was a terrible idea and kept coming back to the same conclusion: it wasn’t. I didn’t like my job, I liked my coworkers. I couldn’t picture myself in any of their roles, couldn’t imagine another rung I’d yet to climb or goal I’d yet to reach that I cared enough about to stick it out for. But I also couldn’t imagine saying goodbye. And I HATED change. Over ten years of my life had been spent there—no Bill when I started, no babies, no Lucy On the Ground—and it felt like leaving was impulsive no matter how much I planned for it.

If we’re really being honest, while I was overworked and underpaid and overstressed for a job I didn’t even like, the larger problem was I’d become very comfortable. Comfortable in doing the day to day, comfortable in complaining about it afterwards. My job and my dissatisfaction had become apart of my personality just as much as my kids or loving reality TV. Letting that go meant shining a light on all the other parts of my life that weren’t perfect. It meant exposing the truth—my job wasn’t the only flawed thing in my life and it certainly wasn’t the only thing holding me back.

I was.

Despite all the safety nets I’d been putting in place for myself, the biggest obstacle always remained—my kryptonite—the fear of failing. I rather not try than have a huge F splattered across the page. I rather dream about it than embarrass myself or, worse, my family. The dream can live on forever, can take several iterations and fuel me in many ways, but the dream also begins to take up space and take away from reality. I was walking a very fine line and, while I was definitely frustrated with the demands of my job, I was also frustrated with myself.

Quitting for me wasn’t just about leaving behind the career I’d been trying to make work for longer than I care to admit—it was about taking the side-hustle that I rarely left on the sidelines and putting all my eggs into that basket. In ten-ish years of Lucy On The Ground, the first eight weren’t lucrative so there was no basket to speak of, but the momentum had shifted in recent years and I couldn’t carry both baskets anymore. I couldn’t pretend LOTG wasn’t the lifeline I’d been begging for, wasn’t a bigger basket worth fulling. I had the answer right at my fingertips and I had to accept that wasn’t the norm.

It was the dream.

Quitting had essentially been sitting on a silver platter for years and I’d known for a while that I’d eventually have to choose—shit or get off the pot. But one still felt like a job, while the other had happened as an answer to the job—an outlet for the other side of my brain, the creative side, the rambling side, the not meant for corporate side. It balanced out the scales for a long time and, even when the gears did start churning and the money did start coming in, it never felt like a job.

The truth is, it still doesn’t. And that’s scary in itself. To put pressure on it felt like I could break it. Why risk it? Was it really that bad carrying both baskets or did I just need to adjust and find a better balance?

I was blessed to work somewhere that allowed me to constantly adjust my grip. I worked with teams made up of ninety-nine percent women, who fought for me and my goals—both at work and at home. Over and over and over and over (and ALMOST another over) again they let me pivot and met me where I was. Still, every few years, the itch started itching again, my arms started getting tired, but instead of making a big change and quitting, I’d make a less drastic one. I’d find a new role within my team or on a new team and justify it as just enough change to keep me satisfied. I’d adjust my grip on the baskets and feel comfortable again. And my bosses, again and again, would figure out how to make it work for me. Even when it didn’t behoove them, they let me try.

It’s because of their willingness to let me readjust so much that I kept pushing the inevitable off. I didn’t want to put that basket down because it felt like a failure. I didn’t want to disappoint them, but in the end me dragging it along like a ball in chain was more detrimental. The weight of both baskets wasn’t feasible, at least not for me, and I knew which one was worth letting go of.

I just had to let it go.

A lot of people, women in particular, leave the work force because of burn out. Because of priorities shifting or job titles remaining just out of reach because one or two maternity leaves put them there. I won’t say those things weren’t factors here—at times they were—but they were factors in the version of myself I kept wanting to fit into. The girl who’d worked since she was sixteen, who’d wanted a traditional job with a traditional paycheck and security and benefits. This was my career—it’s what I’d gone to school for, what kept me in Chicago, what taught me skills I couldn’t have learned elsewhere and, again, let me do my job while juggling another (most of the time during working hours.) I could push against the mold while holding onto all its perks.

But there was still a mold and there always would be. And eventually, I had to admit the mold no longer fit this version of me. Which, surprisingly, was devastating in its own way. I wanted to keep both. The burden of carrying both baskets felt necessary in chasing whatever goal I was hurling myself towards.

The thing I’ve learned is “hurling” myself at something does not seem to be a successful tactic. And I also had no idea what the goal was anymore.

Looking back, I think the years months of delaying the inevitable might have been a good thing. Talking this all through with my therapist revealed several things about myself, some I’d known and some I didn’t, but all of which explained one or several pieces of this puzzle:

1. The dream had changed. And that was ok. The truth was, what had been the dream job no longer fit in my dream life. I’d tried for far too long to make the pieces work, assuming I was wrong, that I was the problem, unwilling to admit that the job was no longer part of this updated puzzled.

2. Not only had this job stopped being the end goal, the entire career path I’d built for myself had hit a giant fork in the road—quit and find a new job or stay—and I realized I wanted off that road entirely. What I wanted wasn’t ahead of me anymore. It wasn’t even a short ride away, something I could see on the horizon. It was down some dirt path, miles away, layered with debris, not even visible most of the time and leading somewhere I wasn’t even sure of. I wasn’t going to ever see it staying on this road, no matter how far I hurled myself down it.

3. I am not a risk taker, at least not like I used to be. I wait for the Universe to tell me what to do and if they don’t…I do nothing. Quitting required me to take a leap of faith without any idea where it would lead. And leaps of faith are a lot harder with bills and kids. Hence why it took nine months to convince myself to do it.

4. I’d lost the ability to trust my gut which, so far in life, had served me pretty well. I’d developed the unhealthy habit of asking everyone around me if this (and many other things) was a bad idea. Not one person thought it was and yet…I still couldn’t do it. I cried and stressed and hoarded my money like never before (I’ve always had a bit of a scarcity complex when it comes to money), and continued to ask new people every day what they thought. Again, everyone said I was foolish to keep sticking it out, I had the answer right in front of me, the other basket already in my hand, but it took nine months for me to finally come to the conclusion myself…and even then, there were doubts.

5. I need deadlines (even if I don’t always use them). I waffled for a while. I HAD waffled for a while. Finally, we set my birthday (May 21st) as the “shit or get off the pot” deadline…which I did blow passed (this is when I randomly decided to interview for another job inside my company and I thought Bill and my therapist would have me committed) in favor of a new one mid July, after a family trip and after my boss/friend’s vacation (I could not in good faith ruin her trip!), but I did it. To everyone’s surprise (remember, I’d told everyone), I actually ripped the bandaid off and told them I was done.

I still don’t have the answers I thought would reveal themselves immediately. That’s really been the hardest part. The relief was instant, the money continued to be enough, but the itch is still there and I’m still trying desperately to scratch it. I don’t want to just be yapping on Instagram, sprinkling in some links. I don’t want to just be posting random rambling thoughts here, again, sprinkling in some links.

I want to want something badly again. I want to challenge myself and try. And, while it doesn’t necessarily feel good, I’m prepared to fail while I do it.

My fear in announcing this has always been the backlash that might come with it. Many of you have found my life updates “relatable”, my chaos “charming”. Those things aren’t gone, but it is different and I can admit that. I’ve seen people on social media make this change, leaving their job for their social media one that was created as an escape, and seen the backlash. The loss of that relatability piece, the one that weighed them down with a traditional job, changed people’s views of them. I am in many ways living the dream while also holding onto some of the perks I had before. I have more time for my kids and I’m still burnt out, but not in the say way. My kids have remained in daycare (there was never a moment where we considered they wouldn’t be) while my schedule has become insanely more flexible. It’s not the norm and admitting that might change things for people.

My corporate job didn’t just provide me with the things we’ve come to expect from a career—it was a shield. I was a working mom, someone who loved to watch reality TV, but needed to make time for bedtime and maybe sign back on after they went to sleep. Now, I’m just an influencer, a negative word in some people’s ethos, one I don’t fully identify with, but, then again, I don’t really have another label to wear right now.

And I’ve learned to be okay with that. For now.

I still don’t know what I am or what I want to be when I grow up. It’s something I’ve struggled with since that first career day when everyone was picking teacher or ballerina or astronaut—it doesn’t matter that those dreams didn’t come true, it matters that they had them. For me, the vision is still blurry, which is something my therapist identified as a sticking point of mine. I want my job to be apart of my identity. I want to immerse myself in it, to feel it and enjoy it and believe in it even when it’s hard. I can admit that feeling was never there during all those years at my corporate job, but it taught me a lot and it’s made me want more for whatever this next iteration is.

What “it” is…that’s the tricky part, but I’m grateful for the space I’ve earned myself to think about it once again. Daily and sometimes excessively so, but that’s to be expected. The sameness of my day-to-days that I complained about is something I’m trying to bring back slightly. The deadlines I dreaded are something I’ve found to be more than necessary. And the juices…well, they might be flowing, but it’s a trickle most days. I blame baby brain and moving so I’m trying not to hold my lack of inspiration or productivity against myself, but I’m desperate to feel that inspiration again. To crave something for myself.

Whatever that is, you’ll have a front row seat to.

If you’ve read this far, thank you. If you’ve supported me this long, thank you even more. I don’t think anything changes for me with this revelation, but maybe it does for you and that’s okay. This is possible because what I’ve shared thus far resonated at one point or another and hopefully still does. It’s because of the links and the follows and the likes and the comments so that’s not changing. We’ll see if anything really does.

So to those who have cheered me on…thank you for believing in me enough that I have the opportunity to take this chance on myself.

Side Story (I couldn’t fit it in anywhere but it was how the Universe let me know I was right!!!): The day I quit, I cried on the way to the office and, as I was pulling in, Unwritten by Natasha Bedingfield started playing. Then, AFTER I quit, it came on AGAIN while I was in the office and I swore my coworkers were pranking me but I hadn’t mentioned the story so it was just a crazy coincidence.

And when I left work? Came on the radio for a third time. I think I called Bill or my mom at this point and screamed.