My 35th Birthday Made Me Quit My Job and Finally Live

The day I quit my tech job was the first day I’d felt like myself in five years. I was 35, and I’d spent 13 years, three or four too long, doing something I didn’t love.

It came easy to me; I could run a computer from the age of four. But I never loved it, and that knowledge festered inside me for years.

The early 2020s, in isolation, changed everything. I hated who I’d let myself become. Gone was the man I was proud of, the lifelong cerebral palsy sufferer who was brave enough to live and travel alone.

In his place was someone terrified. My mobility had reduced, as a few years of inactivity took their toll. I’d lost a lot of my social circle as they started families, got new jobs, and moved out of the city.. Without that network, I lost hope. I didn’t love my job or wish for more; I just existed. My world was one deep shade of gray. I was chained to stability and the fear of an emptying bank account.

It wasn’t easy, but I eventually broke that cycle, thanks to the love of the woman who became my soulmate. She had everything I wanted: happiness in her job, a genuine zest for life, all the things I’d lost. She made me believe that anything was possible.

So now, those late nights of insomnia became my search to become a person she and I would be proud of. I Googled outlets to write for and finally reached a place where I was talking about doing things I loved. People saw that and gave this neophyte a chance.

I volunteered with a couple of music publications and was suddenly interviewing acts like the Pixies. I turned my Twitter rants about the San Francisco 49ers into published essays. Being able to share my thoughts and opinions, with my name up there for millions to see, gave me more happiness in a week than years in tech ever did.

The fear stayed, though. I kept a double life. I had a mortgage to pay, and I still had that mobility problem. I couldn’t let myself believe it was viable to commit fully to my dreams. My physical health still declined, as did I, mentally. Eighteen months later, I was still in purgatory.

Then, the moment that changed everything arrived — my 35th birthday. I was surrounded by friends, and I should’ve gone to bed that night delighted. I didn’t. I spent the night crying, and the next few weeks in a deep depression. I know now it’s because I had finally acknowledged I knew already: it was now or never.

A month later, I quit.

I finally realized what mattered. The next five years had to be different from the last. I had to live. Now. The world seemed to tell me the same; tomorrow wasn’t promised. Plus, if I let myself get sicker and sadder, that tomorrow was even less likely. So I took the plunge, and I said goodbye.

I cried the day I left, not out of sadness, but out of relief. My real life was beginning.

Another 18 months on, I’ve never looked back. Maybe some say the writing industry is dying, but for me, it’s never felt more alive. Neither have I. My life has color, possibilities, and vibrancy again. I want to live it. Most importantly, I want to write about it.