So…back in April I quit my job.
Well, May 1st was the actual first day of my freedom, but half a dozen in one. Unknowingly, I was part of the great Covid-exodus of people who had enough. Enough of the drudgery, the stress, the anxiety of doing something day after day that I just didn’t care about.
Scratch that. I did care.
As a chronic people pleaser, it was really important to me that I did a good job. So, I woke up early, worked through lunches and breaks, and banged out tasks with the caffeinated hyperbolic speed of good ol’ Hare – aware that I was in the wrong race, but come on, it was a race.
I wanted to be indispensable at a job that hour by hour was dragging me away from the things I cared about. The dreams I’ve had since I was a kid. The things that I knew with all my heart I should be doing, no matter how much imposter system was telling me I couldn’t. That’s kind of messed up, right?
So, April 30th I walked away from the paycheck, the security, the daily pats on the back…deep breaths. To do what, you might ask? I’m writing a novel. It’s a YA thing and I think it’ll be pretty good, and I’ll be sure to tell you all about it once it’s done. But right now, my three year old is napping (thank god), and even though I have a sweet hour and a half to sit with the screaming discomfort of staring at another blank page, I’m here, waiting for that elusive pat on the back. But I guess I’m in charge of that now, right?
So yeah…I should be writing.