For a long time, I kept telling myself I was fine. Not happy. Just… fine. And honestly, that felt like enough for a while.
On the outside, my life looked put together. I had a job, a routine, something stable to point to when people asked what I was doing. But internally, I felt checked out. I wasn’t miserable, but I also wasn’t excited about anything. Most days felt like I was just running on autopilot.
I noticed it in small ways. Feeling relieved when plans got canceled. Watching the clock more than my actual life. Saying “I’m tired” when what I really meant was “I don’t care anymore.” I kept waiting for motivation to magically come back. It didn’t.
Leaving wasn’t some bold, confident move. It was scary and messy and full of doubt. I didn’t have everything figured out. I didn’t even have a solid plan. All I knew was that staying meant continuing to ignore that quiet voice telling me something wasn’t right.
So I listened to it.
The day I walked away felt weirdly calm. No big emotions. No movie moment. Just a quiet sense of “okay, this is happening.” And for the first time in a long time, the choices I was making actually felt like mine.
Life didn’t suddenly turn amazing. Some days were stressful. Some days I wondered if I messed up. But slowly, things started to feel lighter. I woke up without that heavy feeling in my chest. I cared again. I felt present instead of constantly counting down the hours.
I realized courage isn’t always loud or dramatic. Sometimes it’s just admitting the truth to yourself and doing something about it, even when you’re scared.
I didn’t leave because I was brave. I left because pretending was exhausting.
And honestly, choosing myself for once felt worth the risk.