Late last year, I quit my dream job. I was the digital editor of two glossy women’s titles and while I loved the work I was doing, I was so burnt out from years of hustling in a very demanding industry that I just couldn’t deal anymore.
The pivot to working from home during COVID lockdowns also brought this realisation into my life that, actually, I really liked cooking dinner and going for silly little lunchtime walks and actually having time to exercise that didn’t involve getting up at the godforsaken hour of 5am.
I wanted more of that, and less of the grind.
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I decided to quit and enter the freelance writing world and after a rocky start; I found my rhythm. I work less but make a similar amount of money, and I can have all the silly little walks and half-arsed home Pilates sessions I like. Great! Yay! Right?
Hmm. Not quite. After a few months I was like, why am I not... blindingly, heart-burstingly happy? Filled with drive and purpose? Thriving – live, laugh, love personified?
This yawning big hole of emptiness became more and more apparent inside me. It was like I’d sailed out into the high seas but then lost my compass. I finally had the beautiful work/life balance I’d craved, and while I felt healthier and had more time for family and friends... as a person, I felt adrift.
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