Leaving the City Helped Me Rebuild My Life and Rediscover What Truly Matters
There’s a strange kind of “heartbreak” that comes when you wake up one morning and realize you no longer love the life you’ve built for years. No big disaster, no dramatic fallout—not even my hormones kicking in (LOL)—just this quiet ache that whispers… something isn’t right anymore.
That’s exactly how I felt a year ago.
I had a really good job in tech—the kind of role that felt impressive “and proud” when people asked, “So, what do you do?” My days were packed with meetings, deadlines, and endless emails. I was always “on,” always reachable, always chasing the next task. I wore my exhaustion like it’s a badge of honor, convincing myself that being tired just meant I was doing something right.
For a while, I believed I was thriving. I told myself this was what success looked like—long hours, big paychecks, and barely enough time to breathe. But beneath all of that, something had started to shift. I thought I could “handle it all.”
One day, I woke up and I just… couldn’t.
The burnout and my toxic positivity hit me like a brick wall—except instead of knocking me down, it left me standing still, too numb to feel… and care. The city I once adored began to wear me down. What used to feel electric now felt exhausting. I’d walk past my favorite coffee shop and wonder why I didn’t feel connected to it anymore. The life that I built—the one I was SO proud of—no longer felt like mine.
I was heartbroken, not over a person, but over the fact that I didn’t recognize myself and the life I had spent years chasing. I know I wasn’t just tired; I was disconnected—and that terrified me.
And so, I made the difficult but necessary decision… I quit.
For the first time, I didn’t have a grand plan. I just knew I couldn’t keep going the way I had been. So I packed my things, left the city, and moved back to my parents’ house—a place I once swore I’d never return except for holidays and quick weekend visits.
Returning felt like stepping into an old version of myself, one I wasn’t sure I even recognized anymore. More than that, it felt like failure. A 28-year-old adult who’s supposed to be climbing higher on the career ladder is back in her childhood bedroom, ashamed. I promised myself I’d just stay long enough to figure out what came next.
But something unexpected happened.
In those first few weeks, when I had nothing but time and silence, I found comfort in things I hadn’t appreciated before.
I found myself spending my morning with my mom—just the two of us sitting at the kitchen table with mugs of freshly brewed coffee (no longer instant), talking about everything and nothing. For the longest time, I’d been too busy—too important—to sit still with her like that. But now? Those quiet conversations became the thing I looked forward to most every day. I got to know her in a way I never had before—not just as my mom, but as a person with her own stories and opinions—that I don’t always concur (LOL)—and the warmth that felt like a soft place to land.
Then there was my sister.
When I left home to study college in another state, she was just six years old—this little kid with pigtails who still believed in Santa. I blinked, and suddenly she was 15, in her last year of junior high, and full of teenage energy I don’t know how to keep up with.
Our 14-year gap always made me feel more like a third parent than a sister, but this time was different.
We started bonding over makeup—endless hours spent swiping swatches of lipstick on our wrists and laughing when her winged eyeliner turned into a full smoky eye (her word, not mine). I started taking her shopping, letting her pick up outfits while I hyped her up like a personal stylist. For the first time, I wasn’t just her older sibling—I was her friend.
And then there were the faces I didn’t expect—old friends I hadn’t seen in years and new ones I never thought I’d meet. In this quiet town I once outgrew, I found people who brought a different kind of joy—the kind that doesn’t come from big night outs or networking events, but from moments that feel real.
My new remote job—the one I took mostly to keep some structure in my life—felt empty at first. Sitting alone at my childhood desk, I’d catch myself scrolling through social media, wondering if I’d made a mistake by leaving the city and my career behind.
But little by little, I started caring about my work again. Not because I was chasing promotions or impressing anyone (like I used to do), but because I let myself slow down. Instead of rushing to finish things, I took my time writing pieces that felt honest, shaping stories that meant something to me. I stopped thinking about work as something to get through and started treating it like something I could actually love again.
It didn’t happen overnight. There was no big moment where everything clicked back into place. Instead, it was a series of small, ordinary wins—a morning spent laughing with my mom, and an afternoon makeup session with my sister, a piece of writing that actually felt right.
I still have days when I feel stuck—like I’m standing in the middle of two lives: the one I left behind and the one I’m still trying to build. But what I’ve realized is that rebuilding yourself isn’t about sprinting toward something new or figuring out what’s next. Sometimes, it’s about slowing down long enough to notice what’s already there—the people, the memories, the quiet moments that remind you who you are.
Rebuilding yourself after burnout, a breakup with your old life, and all the curveballs in between isn’t about returning to who you were—it’s about redefining what comes next. As for me, I’m still figuring things out. But for now, I’m learning to love what I have—a life that’s slower, simpler, and somehow more mine than anything I left behind.
And honestly? That’s starting to feel like enough.
