For the last 4 years I’d been living in San Francisco and couldn’t shake this feeling I wasn’t growing. I was complacent in more areas in my life than I’d honestly like to think about. And I probably would have continued on my moderately happy trajectory if a few things hadn’t coincided.
- I had been out of the country for the first time earlier that year, and was itching to spread my wings further and leave the continent.
- A friend had just moved to Munich, and as a far off dream, I’d told her maybe I’d come visit. It came up soon after that she’d have a month free to travel. I knew I could never get the time off work, but couldn’t quite shake this idea.
- I had been unhappy at my job for a while.
- My roommate had just gotten back from 2 months in Europe.
Now if any one of these things hadn’t happened, I would still be living in San Francisco, with one passport stamp to Cancun on my passport.
But they all happened.
My roommate suggested I quit the job I hated and take my friend up on her offer I so badly wanted to take.
I wrote my resignation letter that night.
And it happened. It wasn’t just some far-off dream I’d always wished I’d done.
I had people who supported my crazy daring leap to quit my job, a roughly outlined 3-week Euro trip, and a safety net to fall back on if shit hit the fan – and honestly, I never looked back.
And now I’m sitting in a hostel bed on the other side of the world six months later, having paraglided the Swiss Alps, drank beer at Oktoberfest, gotten lost in the Lourve, abseiled down a 30 meter waterfall in Australia, and kayaked in the Indian Ocean.
I haven’t worn mascara in months, my hair’s been in a permabun for I don’t know how long, and I have new bumps, bruises, and bites each day – and I’m living life for me for the first time.
And it’s never felt so good.