They Said 'People Would Kill for Your Job'—So I Quit

The Day I Quit and Found My Way Back to Myself

Okay… so I’ve never actually told this story out loud like this, but I think it’s time.

If you and I were sitting on the floor with takeout off my coffee table, most likely Italian, and you asked me what really happened the first time I quit what was supposed to be my dream job (without a back-up plan)—I’d tell you this:

At some point, I stopped listening to music with lyrics. Well, to be specific—indie music became my safe zone. The more poetic and vague, the better. If the artist was moaning about fog or fruit or heartbreak I couldn’t quite piece together? Even better. No storyline, no emotions attached, just background noise that sounded cool but didn’t actually ask me to feel anything.

Looking back, that was one of the first signs that something was off. But it came after another red flag I couldn’t ignore: I realized I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember what I had done over the past three years. Like, truly—could not recall a single specific season of my life. Just this blur of waking up, going to work, staying too late, and doing it all over again.

My entire identity had been reduced to one title, one office, one loop.

Not the dramatic kind of depression you see in movies, but the quiet kind. The slow fade of color. The soft hum of, just get through the day.

Me in NYC just when I changed my style to fit my dream job, and right before I lost all my sparkle.

When I first moved to New York, I was full of bounce—literally. My hair was long and wavy, and I walked like I was the main character. Bright outfits. Patterns. Playfulness. I made small talk with baristas. I complimented strangers on their earrings. I actually liked people. And I really, really liked myself.

Fast forward a few years? Sharp black bob. Black-on-black wardrobe. Head down, walking fast. Straight from point A to point B. I didn’t want to be seen because deep down, I was scared someone might actually see me—and I didn’t know what version of me was left.

I didn’t know I was depressed. Not then. I just thought I was... disciplined. Focused. Doing the adult thing.

That realization came later. If you want the full breakdown of the moment I finally realized, Oh no—I’m depressed, you can read that story here.

In the meantime, I kept up the performance. I was the employee who skipped lunch. The one who worked until the cleaning crew showed up. I came in early to show I cared. Stayed late to prove it again. I thought I was setting the bar. Turns out I was just showing everyone how to quietly burn out and live with functional depression.

Then came the flight delay.

I had gone home for the weekend to visit family. I often went back, but this trip felt different. The night before my flight, I found myself sitting on the floor of my grandma’s bedroom while she got ready for bed, absolutely sobbing. Not a cute tear sliding down the cheek—no, I was ugly crying. I could pretend I knew exactly why—loneliness, missing my family, bad boys I’d wasted too much time on—but truthfully, I wasn’t sure. Maybe it was a little bit of everything. All I remember is her looking at me and with that sweet, loving voice saying, "Come home." Then me looking back at her, wiping my face, saying, "I can’t. I’m living my dream."

Except… was I?

I had gone home for the weekend and was flying back to New York early Monday morning. The plan was to go straight to the office. But my flight got delayed by one hour. Just one. I texted my manager to give her a heads-up before I took off and thought, no big deal. I had never been late before. Not once. I actually prided myself on over-communicating—I was that person who’d let you know I’d be five minutes late to a Zoom I wasn’t even hosting. So this? This felt like nothing. And my manager even responded with, "No problem!"—which put me completely at ease. I figured we were good. Nothing to stress about.

The moment I walked into the office, someone intercepted me. “Hey… they want to see you upstairs.”

“Wait, what?” I half-laughed. “Like now?”

“Yeah.” They looked at me like I had just been called to the principal’s office. “It seemed… important.”

Cue dramatic walk through two floors of open office space with coworkers watching like I’d committed corporate treason. And let me paint the picture here: the upstairs of our office? That was sacred territory. Reserved for executive leadership, important design meetings, and the kind of hush-hush conversations that shaped the future of the company. It also had the lunchroom, which meant I was highly visible to any coworkers grabbing a coffee. So when someone from my level got called up there, it was... a moment.

As I was being ushered through the hallway toward the glass-walled conference room—the conference room, the one that practically screams: something is going down—people started whispering.

Coworkers were stopping me on the way, asking softly, "Hey, are you okay?" or giving me that look like something must be seriously wrong. I kept saying, "I have no idea what’s happening," because I didn’t.

When I walked into the room, I instantly felt the air shift. Inside were both of my managers, sitting stiffly at the far end of the long conference table like they were prepping for a press conference. Once I sat down, it got even colder. Serious faces. Arms crossed. No small talk. No casual, 'How was the flight?' Just silence and judgment waiting to pounce. The energy was ice cold, and I immediately felt like I had walked into a courtroom instead of a Monday morning meeting.

“You know… people would kill for this job.”

That was the opening line.

I blinked and was speechless. I can’t even remember if I said any of this out loud or just thought it in a panic spiral, but I do remember gushing—either in my head or to them—about how grateful I was. I knew it was a privilege to have this job. I knew it was a big deal to get my foot in the door in fashion. I told them how much I’d learned and how lucky I felt. I meant it, too. But even as I tried to express my appreciation, I could feel myself shrinking. 

They launched into a whole performance about dedication and “tone-setting” for the team. What I found out later was that they had been dealing with a wave of resignations—millennial team members who were done putting up with the unfair treatment and impossible expectations. Five people had already quit, and not quietly either. So they assumed I was part of that club. That I was next. That I had already mentally checked out, and they were trying to get ahead of it with fear. Then—dramatically—they slid a piece of paper across the table looked me dead in the eye and told me "Sign it". A formal write-up. For being late. Because of a flight delay. That I told them about. For the first time ever.

I stared at the paper. Then looked up at them.

"Can I ask… what exactly did I do to deserve a formal warning?" I asked. I was genuinely trying to understand. People in the office were constantly pushing the limits—taking long breaks, showing up late, ducking out early. So why was I suddenly on the chopping block?

That’s when my direct manager leaned in and said—no hesitation—"You’ve checked out. I can tell. You had a doctor’s appointment last week, and you used half a sick day. We assumed you were interviewing. It couldn't be more obvious."

I remember blinking so hard it felt like my brain was buffering. Wait, what? That was her evidence? A doctor’s appointment?

I sat there thinking, This is ridiculous. Like, actually absurd. I had given my all—lost years of memory, missed moments with loved ones, skipped dinners and birthdays—all in the name of being amazing at what I did. I showed up early, stayed late, barely took lunch.

And now, because I finally took a sliver of time to see a doctor, they decided to create a narrative for me? Speak for me?

I had had enough.

That’s when something in me snapped back into place.

I don’t know where it came from, but I was filled with confidence and certainty. I looked them straight in the eye, sat a little taller, and for the first time in a long time, I advocated for myself. I said: “Yeah… I’m not signing that and I want to talk to HR.”

You would’ve thought I flipped the table. Their faces dropped. “Uh… okay. Go back to your desk. HR will call you in.”

I walked back, sat down, opened Google and typed:How to professionally resign from a toxic job.

Typed the letter. Printed it. Held it in my hand like it was a golden ticket.

HR called me in. I explained everything. Their faces? Blank. Like, short-circuited robot energy. And in that moment, I learned what office politics really looked like. There was no shock. No questions. Just… frozen stillness. That’s when it hit me—there was no saving this. No recovering. No version of this experience where I could go back to pretending everything was fine.

“So… what would you like to do?” the woman asked.

“I want to resign,” I said. “I’ll give my two weeks.”

She nodded, slowly. “Okay. I’ll call in your managers.”

I handed them the letter. They completely zoned out—like their minds just shut down. It looked like they were about to have a full-on mental breakdown. The plan they had so carefully set in motion—to scare me into respecting them, to shake me enough to cling to the job—had just backfired spectacularly. And now? They were left with two team members.

“You’re… quitting?” one said.

“Yes,” I said. “Respectfully.” That was all I wanted. To leave with dignity.

Because of security reasons (luxury jewelry = paranoia), I had to leave that day. No notice. No goodbyes.

But this time?

I wasn’t embarrassed. I was free.

Before I even walked out of the building, I messaged my best friend—also my coworker—and told her everything. The flight delay. The write-up. The HR meeting. The resignation. I needed her to know I was okay, and also… what just happened?!

Escorted out by a security guard, I left that building with my little cardboard box and the biggest smile on my face. I wanted to skip down the streets of Tribeca and sing, “I’m FREEEEEE!” like I had just escaped prison.

I didn’t do it. But I felt it in every cell of my body. Walking down the streets of Tribeca and sitting on the train heading uptown, I very much imagined an entire musical number. Full choreography, spontaneous backup dancers, dramatic spotlight. In my head, I was mid-spin belting out a high note with confetti flying. It was that kind of joy—the internal celebration you carry even when no one else sees it.

When I got to my girl’s apartment, she flung the door open like we were reuniting after a decade apart. "Come in, sit down, take your shoes off—we’re having a night," she said, already pulling garlic knots out of the takeout bag.

She had Italian food spread out on the coffee table like a buffet of emotional support carbs.

Pasta, bread, tiramisu, all of it. There was music playing, candles lit, the whole cozy scene set up like she knew I needed it before I even asked.

We sat on her floor, surrounded by pasta and bread, laughing until we cried and crying until we laughed.

A week later, they let her go too. She’d been next. And the worst part? She genuinely loved her job. She tried to save it. She tried to keep her head down and prove she was still in it—but it was hopeless. It was clear they wanted to start fresh with a whole new team, and no matter how loyal or hardworking she was, they had already made their decision.

Looking back, that moment changed everything for me.

I learned you can love your job and still need to leave it.

I learned being the “perfect employee” is not worth trading your peace, your joy, or your health.

And I learned what it feels like to choose myself. Even when it’s scary.

I still think about those managers sometimes.

Not with resentment, oddly enough with gratitude. Sometimes I even think about messaging them on LinkedIn—just to say thanks. For giving me my start and taking me under their wing.

But then I remember—some stories don’t need an epilogue.

What matters most is what came after.

The woman who walked out of that building smiling? She’s still here. And she’s the one running the show now.

These days, I live by three rules:

1. Never sacrifice yourself to prove your worth. Not to a job, a person, or a title. You are worthy even when you're resting.

2. If it costs you your peace, it’s too expensive. Stress isn’t a status symbol. Joy is your actual currency.

3. Always leave when you start to disappear. If you can’t recognize yourself anymore, it’s time to go.

   
   

If you’ve ever found yourself shrinking in a space you once dreamed of…If you’ve looked in the mirror and barely recognized the person staring back…If you’ve stayed somewhere too long because you didn’t want to disappoint anyone but yourself—Then I hope this story reminds you: you are not alone.

Leaving that job wasn’t just about quitting. It was about coming home to myself. And if you’re reading this and feeling that same nudge—that whisper that says, there has to be more—I want you to know that it’s okay to listen. You deserve a life that feels like you. A life where you aren’t just surviving, but actually living.

My hope is that this story gave you permission to question what you’ve been taught about success, and what you might be sacrificing in its name. And if you’re in the middle of your own turning point, I want to cheer you on every step of the way.

Let’s keep the conversation going. Comment below or Email me!

I’d genuinely love to hear your story—what you’ve walked away from, what you’ve reclaimed, or what you’re dreaming about now.

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With love,