Crying at 35,000 Feet
The moment everything changed
I was 35,000 feet in the air, staring out the airplane window as the lights of Europe faded beneath me, and I couldn’t stop the tears from falling.
I wasn’t just sad that my vacation was ending. I was dreading what came next. In just a few hours, I’d be back home, back to the routine, back to the job that—despite promotions, great pay, and solid benefits—had changed me into a defeated version of my former self.
But I wasn’t only dreading the return to the job that made me so miserable. I was also crying because I’d been happy in Paris. Truly happy. And a part of me knew that I deserved to feel that way for more than four weeks a year. I wanted that kind of joy in my life every day. I knew it was possible—other people lived this way. I wanted it for myself too.
That was the moment I knew something had to change. I didn’t know yet what that change would look like, but I knew I couldn’t keep living this way.
If you had told me just five years earlier that I’d be stuck in a job that I hated, I wouldn’t have believed you. Before stepping into corporate life, I’d spent eleven years as a travel advisor, building a business I loved. “Do what you love and love what you do, and you never work a day in your life,” I used to tell my son. I had been so happy and thankful to be working in the travel business, doing something I loved, and having the feeling of freedom.
But when the pandemic hit, everything changed overnight. Vacations got canceled one right after another and with them, my main source of income. I held out as long as I could, but as a single mom, I eventually chose the “safe” path. I made the “responsible” decision and took what I considered to be a five-letter word, even though it’s only three. I got a J.O.B. in the corporate world, believing that a steady paycheck would bring me peace of mind.
After all, that’s what my friends and family said I should do. They were all so happy for me when I got the job. So relieved that I would no longer be self-employed. And somehow, I absorbed their belief as my own, even though a part of me knew I was selling out. On a level I couldn’t yet articulate, I knew I was letting myself down.
At first, it felt good. The sense of stability was a relief after two years of unreliable travel commissions. The promotions and raises that followed felt validating. But as the months turned into years, my joy of living faded. And after only four years in the J.O.B., I barely recognized myself when I looked in the mirror. I had gained forty pounds from stress-eating. Scowl lines had formed around my mouth from all the frowning. I was depressed, stressed, and sometimes felt like I was barely hanging on.
On paper, I had everything I was supposed to want. I had a good job title, high pay that was going up steadily, and multiple promotions. But none of that mattered because I wasn’t doing work that mattered to me. I wasn’t doing work that lit me up. I’d thought about quitting a couple of times, but each time I was too afraid to step into the unknown. Even though I’d spent more than a decade navigating the ups and downs of entrepreneurship, I was afraid to return to the uncertainty of not knowing what my next paycheck would be. And so I stayed, miserable.
Until that moment on the plane, when I started crying while watching A Star is Born. And then I kept crying, and I couldn’t stop crying, and I couldn’t hold back the sobs that suddenly needed to be released. And I finally realized, I’m not crying because Jackson took his life, I’m crying because my job is taking mine. And I knew: I couldn’t do this anymore.
“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”
—Anaïs Nin
If you’re reading this, maybe you’ve felt something similar. Maybe you’re stuck in a job that looks good on the outside but feels wrong on the inside. Maybe you keep telling yourself to be grateful, that you should be happy. Maybe you’re scared to admit you want more because more feels risky, uncertain, and completely terrifying.
Those tears on the plane were the beginning of my new life—including the book I eventually wrote, You Don’t Have to Stay. I wrote it to give others the push that I needed, in hopes that they won’t stay as miserable for as long as I did. Life is too short to do work that doesn’t light you up!
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