When quitting feels logical and hope feels reckless
I was five minutes away from deleting the email folder.
Not archiving it. Not marking it unread. Deleting. The nuclear option. Years of unanswered pitches, polite rejections, radio silence dressed up as “we’ll keep you in mind.” I hovered over the cursor like it might confess something if I stared long enough.
This was supposed to be the night I quit.
I had rehearsed it all day. The speech I’d give myself. The rational tone. The gentle disappointment instead of rage. You tried. It didn’t work. Time to be practical. Time to stop pretending grit alone could pay rent.
My apartment was quiet in that way that feels judgmental. The kind of silence that asks questions. The kind that makes you notice how thin the walls are, how old the furniture looks, how your life hasn’t changed in years except for the number on your birthday cake.
I closed my laptop and leaned back in the chair. My reflection stared at me from the dark screen. Same face I’d had at twenty-five when everyone said I had “potential.” Same eyes, just more tired. Potential is a word people use when results are inconvenient.
I opened a new document and typed a resignation letter to myself.
The Case for Quitting
I listed the facts like evidence in a courtroom.
Years invested.
Savings depleted.
Confidence bruised beyond repair.
I had done everything they say you’re supposed to do. Network. Improve. Take feedback. Swallow pride. Try again. Repeat. I’d watched peers leapfrog past me into success while I collected lessons instead of wins.
Failure teaches resilience, they say. That’s true. But resilience doesn’t look impressive on LinkedIn.
I imagined a simpler life. A stable job. Predictable evenings. Hobbies instead of hunger. I could be normal. Respectable. Done chasing something that clearly didn’t want me back.
My phone buzzed. A reminder for tomorrow’s meeting I planned to cancel. A final courtesy. One last conversation before I stepped away for good.
I turned the phone face down.
The Almost-Decision
There’s a moment before you quit that feels oddly peaceful. Like standing on a platform knowing you won’t board the train. The pressure eases. The fight drains out of you.
That’s where I was. Calm. Empty. Ready.
I stood up and went to the window. City lights blinked like they had somewhere better to be. People moving forward. People going home. People living lives that made sense.
I whispered, “I’m done,” just to hear how it sounded.
It sounded reasonable. That scared me.
The Knock That Almost Didn’t Matter
The email notification arrived so quietly I almost missed it.
One soft chime.
I didn’t turn around. I assumed it was spam. Or another automated rejection timed perfectly to mock me. The universe has a sense of humor like that.
The chime came again.
I sighed, sat back down, and opened the laptop, more out of habit than hope.
The subject line stopped me cold.
“Regarding Your Submission”
My chest tightened. I’d seen that line before. It usually meant two paragraphs of polite dismissal followed by encouragement to keep trying somewhere else.
I hovered over it, suddenly angry. How dare this arrive now. How dare hope show up late like this.
I almost deleted it unopened.
Almost.
The Sentence That Changed Everything
The first line didn’t make sense at first.
“We’d like to move forward.”
I reread it. Slowly. Carefully. As if speed might break it.
Move forward… with what?
The next line answered.
“With you.”
The room tilted. Not dramatically. Just enough to make me grab the edge of the desk. My breath went shallow. My brain searched for the trick. The catch. The follow-up sentence that would explain why this didn’t count.
It didn’t come.
They liked the work. All of it. The version I almost didn’t send. The one I debated for weeks before hitting submit on a night just like this one.
They wanted a meeting. Tomorrow. The one I was planning to cancel.
My hands started shaking. Not the cinematic kind. The quiet, uncontrollable kind that happens when your body reacts before your pride can intervene.
I laughed. Then I cried. Then I did both at the same time, which felt ridiculous and perfect.
The Weight of “If Only”
The strangest part wasn’t the joy. It was the grief that followed close behind.
Grief for how close I’d been to quitting. For how many times I’d stood on this edge before without knowing how near the door actually was.
If I’d quit last year, this email wouldn’t exist. If I’d listened to every voice telling me to be practical, this moment would belong to someone else.
Success didn’t feel like a lightning strike. It felt like barely missing a car accident.
The Longest Night
I didn’t sleep.
I replayed every doubt. Every almost. Every night I told myself tomorrow would be the day I walked away. I realized how often we quit emotionally long before we quit officially.
How many times had I shown up half-hearted, already grieving something that hadn’t died yet?
The big break didn’t feel like fireworks. It felt like relief mixed with terror. Because now there was proof. Proof that the dream wasn’t foolish. Which meant failure, if it came again, would hurt even more.
But I welcomed that fear. It meant I was still in the game.
Morning Changes Everything
The city looked different in the morning. Same streets. Same noise. But something inside me had shifted.
I noticed things I usually ignored. The warmth of coffee. The ease of my breath. The fact that my shoulders weren’t hunched like they’d been bracing for impact.
I showed up to the meeting early. Sat there, heart pounding, wondering if I was about to wake up.
I didn’t.
They shook my hand. Said my name like it mattered. Spoke about the future as if I belonged in it.
At one point, someone said, “We’ve been watching your work for a while.”
I smiled politely while my mind screamed.
A while.
The Truth No One Talks About
Here’s what they don’t tell you about big breaks.
They don’t announce themselves with confidence. They sneak in quietly, often when you’re exhausted, discouraged, and ready to surrender.
They arrive when you’re cleaning out folders. When you’re rehearsing goodbye speeches. When quitting feels smart.
Success doesn’t knock when you’re strong. It knocks when you’re human.
I Keep the Draft I Almost Deleted
I didn’t delete that resignation letter to myself. I saved it.
Not as a warning. As a reminder.
Whenever doubt creeps back, whenever momentum slows and fear whispers that this was a fluke, I reread it. I remember how close I came to walking away from something that was already walking toward me.
If you’re standing on that edge right now, convinced the silence means no one’s listening, remember this.
Sometimes the door opens at the exact moment you turn your back.
And sometimes staying one more night is the bravest thing you’ll ever do.
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