Almost Quit

I stood one step away from giving up.

Not dramatically.

Not with tears or a speech prepared.

Just quietly—like someone pausing at the edge of a sidewalk, unsure whether to cross or turn back.

There was no applause behind me.

No one shouting my name.

No reassuring hand on my shoulder saying, “You’re almost there.”

Just silence.

The kind that doesn’t echo.

The kind that absorbs sound until even your thoughts feel embarrassed to exist.

This wasn’t the cinematic version of struggle.

There was no villain to defeat, no sudden breakthrough montage.

Just me, exhausted by effort that hadn’t paid rent yet.

Effort that hadn’t proven itself useful.

Effort that kept asking for faith without offering receipts.

I had done everything they say you’re supposed to do.

Show up.

Stay consistent.

Believe in the process.

But belief is expensive when results are late.

And consistency feels foolish when no one’s watching.

That’s when quitting began to look… reasonable.

Not as failure—but as relief.

Quitting promised rest.

It promised closure.

It promised an ending where I didn’t have to keep explaining why I was still trying.

Because continuing required something heavier than motivation.

It required endurance without witnesses.

I realized then that nobody was coming to stop me from quitting.

No alarm would sound.

No door would slam shut behind me.

The world would not pause to ask why.

It would simply adjust—quietly—like it always does.

And that’s when the thought hit me, sharp and unwelcome:

Quitting would be louder than continuing.

Quitting would make noise.

It would announce itself in conversations where I’d say,

“Yeah, I used to do that.”

In the way my voice would soften when I talked about the dream, like it belonged to someone younger, more naive.

Quitting would echo every time I passed someone who didn’t.

Every time I saw proof that staying—however messy—was possible.

Continuing, on the other hand, made no sound at all.

Continuing meant waking up unnoticed.

Working without validation.

Failing privately.

Continuing was invisible labor.

And invisibility is dangerous—not because others don’t see you, but because you start to forget you’re still here.

I stood there longer than I’d like to admit.

Arguing with myself in sentences that sounded logical enough to surrender to.

You’ve tried long enough.

You deserve peace.

There’s no shame in walking away.

All true.

But incomplete.

Because there was another sentence—quieter, less polished—that refused to leave:

What if this silence isn’t rejection?

What if it’s just the price of becoming someone who doesn’t need permission anymore?

That question didn’t inspire me.

It didn’t light a fire.

It didn’t magically make things easier.

It just made quitting feel dishonest.

So I stayed.

Not bravely.

Not confidently.

I stayed the way people stay in empty rooms—unsure if they’re waiting for someone else or learning how to sit with themselves.

I stayed knowing nothing would change overnight.

I stayed knowing tomorrow might look exactly like today.

I stayed knowing that no one would congratulate me for it.

Because sometimes staying isn’t about hope.

Sometimes staying is about refusing to let silence make your decisions for you.

I didn’t suddenly win.

I didn’t suddenly get seen.

I didn’t suddenly feel proud.

But something subtle shifted.

The silence lost its authority.

It stopped feeling like judgment and started feeling like space.

Space to fail without spectacle.

Space to grow without interruption.

Space to continue—not because it was loud, but because it was mine.

I still almost quit sometimes.

That step never disappears.

It just moves closer or farther depending on the day.

But now I know this:

The loudest thing I ever did wasn’t staying.

It was realizing that walking away would echo longer than the quiet work of becoming.

And so, even now—

Especially now—

I stay.