I Quit Without a Plan

Springdale, Utah. A photo I took on a roadtrip—a quiet moment that captured how uncertain and open everything felt at the time.

I didn’t quit my job because I had a brilliant new idea. I didn’t leave to launch a nonprofit or chase a business plan. I quit because I was exhausted, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually, and staying felt like the far greater risk.

For most of my life, I’ve been the kind of person who has a plan. A calendar. A backup plan. And a backup plan for that. But in the weeks leading up to my resignation, all of that structure started to collapse under the weight of something more important: my mental health. Leaving a corporate job wasn’t a calculated move but a necessary one.

I knew I wasn’t okay. I could feel it in my chest—literally. I remember visiting my sister, collapsing into tears, and feeling like I couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t burnout. It was something deeper. A reckoning. I’ve lived with bipolar disorder for decades, and I’ve learned to listen when my body says, “you’re approaching a line.” And this time, the message was clear: If I didn’t choose something different, something worse would choose me.

So I did the unthinkable—for me, anyway. I quit. No job lined up. No roadmap. Just a gut instinct that I needed to choose peace before I could ever figure out purpose.

All I knew was that I wanted the second half of my life to be grounded in service. I didn’t know what that meant yet. I didn’t know what it would look like or where it would lead me. But I was sure of one thing: the life I’d been living—however polished or impressive it looked on paper—wasn’t it.

I didn’t know what a “life of service” looked like then. I didn’t even have those words for it. I just knew I wanted to help people. I’ve volunteered since I was a kid and always found energy in giving. But for the first time, I wanted that impulse to become the center of my life, not the extra.

The hardest part wasn’t the identity shift. It wasn’t the uncertainty or even the logistics. (Though yes—there were plenty of practical realities: rent, insurance, that 401k I stopped contributing to.) The hardest part was letting go of the version of me who always had a defined purpose, a title, and a packed schedule. I wasn’t afraid of what I’d find—I just wasn’t sure how to stand still long enough to find it.

And yet, stillness became the point. I stayed home. I cooked for myself. I read. I took classes. I volunteered. I gave myself permission to wander, to wait, and to listen.

There’s a line I heard on a podcast during that time that’s never left me:

“When the student is ready, the teacher appears.”

That was it. That was the whole season I was in. And it was true—because not long after, I found myself volunteering at The Midnight Mission’s Homelight Family Living program. And everything began to change.

But that story comes later.

This one is about the moment before.

When I chose to leave without knowing what was next.

When I decided that choosing myself, my peace, my mental health, and my sense of purpose was not a reckless decision.

It was the most grounded one I’d made in a long time.

To the version of me standing on the edge of that resignation, unsure if it was okay to jump:

Do it. You’re not falling. You’re becoming.

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