The Day I Almost Gave Up

I’m not someone who usually cries in public. I hold it together pretty well, most of the time. But I’ll never forget the day I stood outside a coffee shop—one I used to love—and cried into my scarf like a toddler because I thought I had failed. Completely, embarrassingly, irrevocably failed.

I’ll tell you what happened. But first, let me back up.

I used to have this idea that success followed a straight line. You go to school, you get good grades, you pick a job, you climb the ladder, and eventually, you “make it.” That’s what I believed growing up. It felt logical. Safe. Predictable. And it worked for a while.

I landed a decent job after college at a marketing firm. I was proud of myself, and to be honest, I was kind of smug. I worked hard, said yes to everything, and spent years hustling for promotions, praise, and perfect projects.

But at some point—quietly, almost imperceptibly—I stopped loving what I was doing. It wasn’t that the work was bad. It just didn’t feel like me anymore. I found myself staring at spreadsheets or campaign briefs and feeling... blank. Not frustrated. Not stressed. Just hollow.

I ignored it for as long as I could. I told myself I was lucky to even have a job, that passion was a luxury, and that everyone felt this way sometimes.

Then came the day I almost gave up.

It was a Thursday. I remember because I had a 9 a.m. meeting that I walked out of halfway through. Not in a dramatic, storming-out way. I just couldn’t sit there any longer pretending to care about bounce rates and Q2 projections when I felt like I was slowly unraveling from the inside.

I left the building, walked three blocks, and sat on a bench outside a coffee shop I used to frequent back when I was a student—back when I still sketched ideas for fun and wrote stories in the margins of my notebooks.

And I cried.

Because I felt like I had wasted years. Because I didn’t know who I was anymore without that title. Because all the effort I’d put in didn’t seem to amount to anything. I thought about quitting everything—my job, my apartment, my dreams. Just disappearing for a while.

It sounds dramatic now, but in that moment, it felt real. Crushingly real.

But here's the twist: something shifted that day—not because of some big revelation or inspiring talk, but because of a stranger.

An older woman, maybe in her 60s, sat down next to me on the bench. She didn’t ask if I was okay. She didn’t give me a tissue or offer a motivational quote. She just sat there, sipping her tea, completely unbothered by my emotional implosion.

After a minute or two, she said, “Feels like the end of the world, huh?”

I blinked at her, startled.

She smiled, not unkindly. “I remember that feeling. You think it’ll break you. But it won’t. Sometimes it’s just clearing space for something else.”

We talked for maybe ten minutes. She told me how she had started over in her 40s after a divorce and a job loss. “The best part,” she said, “was realizing I didn’t have to pretend anymore. I could finally just be honest—with myself most of all.”

She left before I could even ask her name. But I think about her all the time. That conversation planted a seed I didn’t recognize at the time. It didn’t solve everything, but it gave me permission to rethink the narrative I had been clinging to so tightly.

What I Did Next

It wasn’t overnight. I didn’t quit my job and move to Bali. But I did start listening to myself.

I began journaling again. Not fancy “dear diary” entries, but simple check-ins: What drained me today? What lit me up? When did I feel most like myself?

I also talked to people—real conversations, not surface-level stuff. I asked colleagues what they really wanted to do. I joined a creative writing group, even though I hadn’t written anything in years. Slowly, I started noticing patterns.

And one day, about six months later, I finally did it: I handed in my resignation. Not because I hated my job, but because I realized I was meant to build something of my own.

I didn’t have a full plan. Just a handful of freelance clients, a modest savings account, and a deep, stubborn belief that I could figure it out.

And you know what? I did.

Was it easy? Not even close. There were lean months, awkward pitches, projects that bombed. But there were also days when I looked around and thought, This is it. This is what I was meant to do.

I now run a small content strategy studio. I get to work with clients I genuinely care about, and I make time for personal writing projects that feed my soul. I’m not rich. I’m not famous. But I’m aligned. I wake up most mornings excited to start the day, and that’s worth more than any job title I used to cling to.

What I’ve Learned (That Might Help You Too)

If you’re reading this and feel even a little bit like past-me—lost, stuck, burned out, unsure—here’s what I want to tell you:

1. You’re not behind.

Life doesn’t have a master schedule. The pressure to “figure it all out” by a certain age is fake. Some people bloom at 22, others at 52. You’re on time. I promise.

2. Rock bottom can be a turning point.

It’s cliché, but true: sometimes things have to fall apart to make room for something better. That doesn’t mean you have to be grateful for the hard stuff. Just know that struggle isn’t the end of your story.

3. Identity is fluid.

You’re allowed to evolve. Who you were five years ago doesn’t have to define you now. Let yourself grow without guilt.

4. Start small.

You don’t have to overhaul your whole life to make a change. Ten minutes of honest reflection. One brave conversation. A single step in a new direction—that’s all it takes to shift your course.

5. Don’t underestimate the power of strangers.

That woman on the bench will never know how much she changed my life. But she reminded me of something vital: human connection is magic. Sometimes the right words, at the right moment, are all we need.

Final Thoughts

I almost gave up. Truly. I was this close to walking away from everything.

But I’m so glad I didn’t.

I’m glad I cried on that bench. I’m glad I talked to a stranger. I’m glad I allowed myself to start over, even when I didn’t have all the answers.

Because here’s what I know now: We’re all allowed to rewrite our story. Even in the middle of the chapter. Even when the ink is smudged and the plot feels lost.

If you’re in a dark place right now, hold on. Keep writing. Keep going.

The next chapter might just be your best one yet.