The aftermath of “I quit”

“I quit.”

These words had jousted in my head for years, but hearing them out loud felt foreign and unrehearsed.

Ten months ago, I made a commitment. I pledged to follow my passions and prove to myself that there was more to life than waiting for the weekend.

I thought about my childhood and how making art was enjoyable then. I wasn’t trying to convince a target audience to buy crap they didn’t need, or telling people to “like” me on Facebook. My childhood art never dumbed-down a concept because it didn’t appeal to the masses. It also didn’t promise to “make your life easier” or “save you money” by spending more.

No. My crayon drawings simply made me happy, and that was enough.

I was unprepared for what happened after quitting my job. People started sharing with me their biggest dreams and grand plans for the future. It blew me away that these passionate people were hidden behind masks of obedient worker bees. But, then again, I had been one of them.

Imagine stumbling through a dense forest, and suddenly realizing you’re lost. Every direction looks the same; dark and tangled. You could wait for someone to rescue you. You could climb a tree and get a better look. You could even light a match and burn the entire forest down.

Sometimes it feels like every option is a bad option. You could regret “I quit.” You could also regret not saying it.

After listening to my coworkers’ hopes and dreams, I felt sad. Somehow our society has convinced us that “safe” is the best option. You should sit and wait for someone to rescue you and a guaranteed paycheck is always better than a question mark.

My solution? I climbed to the top of a tree and paraglided the hell out of there.