Everyone told me I was brave. Some people told me I was stupid. Both were probably right.
I was in banking for seven years. Good salary, pension, the full package. I was also miserable in a way that was becoming impossible to manage. The anxiety before Monday was starting on Saturday. I was meticulous with everyone else's money and couldn't find five minutes for the thing I actually wanted to build.
I resigned fourteen months ago. Here is what nobody told me:
The first three months felt like freefall. The structure I had complained about was also the thing holding me up. Without it I had to build my own container from scratch.
Month four to six: the loneliness of working alone is real. The self-doubt is louder without colleagues and tasks filling the space.
Month seven onwards: something started to take shape. Not quickly, not cleanly. But it started.
I'm not saying everyone should do what I did. The financial risk is real and your circumstances are yours. I'm saying that for me, the cost of staying was becoming higher than the cost of leaving. And fourteen months in, I am still certain I made the right decision — even on the hard days.