Hello.

I quit my job last week.

It wasn’t the most opportune time to do it, either. My husband graduated from a prestigious university with his Masters less than a month ago and while I happen to find him to be incredibly gorgeous, talented, smart and funny, the working world has yet to capitalize on his prowess (World, you are going to wonder how you lived without this guy…  c’mon!).

Honestly, I was miserable and that’s saying a lot because I am a naturally HAPPY person. I’m the girl you see on the street who is walking by herself, humming a song through a Cheshire grin for no apparent reason.

I’m sure I look funny to some and I’m sure some people point and laugh. 


The truth is I don’t care.

But back to the job I quit last week. I don’t want you to think I can’t handle stress, because I have had my personal fill of it in this lifetime, and I try to deal with that little monster in the most optimistic and embracing way possible. My job was not furthering any career goals or bringing some added joy to my life; it was a vampire in every sense of the word. I took it and stayed in it to feed and house me, my love and my other love (Moe, our favorite dog in the world, naturally).

Yes, there was a catalyst for my sudden departure.

No, I am not going to (and actually, cannot) discuss it.

What I will say is the last week has been spent decompressing from this toxic job as if I am coming off of a drug. While I did feel about a million pounds lighter once I actually quit, the aftermath of the anxiety wreaked by my old work environment lingers. Like the faint smell in your fridge you were positive you scrubbed out. Physical panic washes over me at the oddest of times, and I have come to the realization that not only was it definitely the right time to leave; staying longer might have destroyed me. The smiley, humming me.

So now I’m unemployed and, honestly, kind of stuck. What is next?

I’ve focused my energy in the last three years on simply making money to further my husband’s career. I should have thought more about what “after” entailed, but this realization is a bit late.

My honey keeps hounding me with the question, “What is it you want to do with the rest of your life?” WHOA. I’m twenty-seven years old. Slow down, man! But every time I try to skirt the issue, my (maddeningly) relentless husband says, “Elizabeth! You’re skirting the issue! What is it you want to do with the rest of your life?!”

Here in lies the problem, friends, my problem: I don’t know. I have never been one of those people who have always known that they wanted to be a doctor or a teacher or a wizard or a zookeeper. I’ve kinda always been one of those people who wanted to try all four and then some. And I’m coming to the realization that while you can try it all, you certainly can’t do it all well. At the end of the day, you have to work at what satiates you as a person and makes you feel like you’re contributing to society. I envy the people who have always known; I’m just not one of them. And that’s ok, too.

So I’m getting serious. I’m making lists and talking to people and myself (and my dog!) and figuring it out… one step at a time.


Care to join me?