Life is too short to do something that doesn’t make you happy.
This is the phrase that I said to myself one Saturday morning, after spending the weekend fretting and crying about another “work winge” that I was going to have to front up to first thing Monday morning.
I was finally, after years of shift work, working Monday-Friday 9-5 hours.
I was finally being paid a decent wage.
But I was miserable.
Month one mark, I put my misery down to learning a new gig. “I’m just not on top of it all yet”
Month two, “It’s just taking me a while to find my flow, but I am getting there. I’ll get there!”
Month three, “What the hell am I doing”
I quit a week after my three month mark anniversary. I quit with nothing set up to jump too. I quit a high paying, senior position at a renowned Australian company full of lovely colleagues.
I was dreading every single day. I didn’t want to do even a minute over-time. Even the ‘highs’ and wins of the role, weren’t making me happy. I became a crying, miserable mess. So even on my days off, I spent them crying into my partner’s shoulder instead of grasping the weekend in a positive “yay its the weekend” type mind-frame.
Once upon a time, I would have stuck this out for way longer. I hate ‘giving up’, I am way to loyal an employee. The same can be said about my past romantic relationships. However, I am stronger and far more aware nowadays, and after travelling the world for two years it helps you to put a lot into perspective. The perspective here being, life is way too short to be hating the thing that takes up 35-40 hours of your week.
Once I’d mentally made the decision, I couldn’t wait. It had to be that next week, and I wanted to pull the pin ASAP because I would prefer to be jobless and get my mind ready for my next role, rather then jump to a new position frazzled and still in that miserable mindset.
People would look at me like I was crazy.
“But, what are you going to do? What if you don’t get another job??”
For some reason I knew I was going to be okay. I did this in England, with no experience that mattered in the country, no immediate family to fall back on, and no boyfriend to take the rent for a while should I need it.
I spent two months jobless, being rejected and picking up menial freelance work while relying on my hard earnt savings to power me through London’s high cost of living.
But I survived, and I got a job in the end, and money is just money.
So having my family home just two hours up the coast, a loving boyfriend prepared to support me should he need to, quite a bit saved up (thank you to my frugal self) and plenty of Aussie experience, it felt a lot more do-able on my home soil.
I am starting a new job next week. In fact, since quitting my job, I haven’t had a single unemployed day. I picked up some freelance work at the company I was at before I went overseas, and I managed to score a job at another reputable media company that I had lots of lovely ex colleagues at that fast tracked the process for me, thanks to their more than kind character references.
It’s all worked out, would you believe. But then what do our mums keep telling us? Everything always works out.
So, I am about to start a job on Monday that is a pay cut on my last, and is shift work unlike the regular hours of the one I’ve just left. But I already know I am going to belong. I’ll feel at home there.
Goodbye PR, Hello Journalism – my old friend, I’m back!