I was comfortable and content. I was working with the greatest group of people you could hope to be around, learn from and call your co-workers. I had financial stability.
And then I threw myself off a cliff.
My husband was in London, I told him over the phone that I was going to leave my part-time job, to pursue writing my book. “Sure,” he said.
The day he came back, I did it. I gave my notice.
“I’m leaving WiseStamp,” I told him.
He looked at me. Shocked.
“Why are you surprised? I told you.”
“On the phone, while you were in London. Remember?”
I worked on for two more months. Yesterday was my last day. And it was hard. So hard to leave a job you love and people you love working with.
Today was my first day of “freedom” as someone called it. Except that it wasn’t freedom at all. I am a slave to my dream.
(It seems like no matter what we do – we’ll always be a slave to something. Perhaps it’s an imperative of the human condition.)
“How can you be a writer?” a colleague asked, “you’re so happy. Don’t writers have to be miserable?”
I didn’t know what to say. Yeah, I’m happy. Most of the time, anyway. I’m happy because I have so much to be grateful for. And because I get to call my own shots.
But there is pain. And perhaps that’s the paradox.
The paradox is the pain; the pain to listen to your inner compass not because you want to, but because you have to.
I jumped off a cliff to finish my book and I pray that this was the right decision. But that sounds wrong. No. It is wrong.
I must write so that I will have made the right decision.