The Sayonara Month

It’s funny how quitting is often framed as defeat, as giving up. But in that month, you don’t feel defeated. You feel, inexplicably, stronger than ever. It’s as though shedding the weight of a job that drained you reveals a core of steel beneath. Suddenly, nothing matters the way it used to. Deadlines? Gone. Office politics? A memory. The email pings that used to dictate your every move? Silent.

You also realize just how much of your time and energy had been spent propping up other people’s grandiosity and stupidity. Covering for their mistakes. Managing their egos. Shouldering their burdens. It’s exhausting work, and the relief of stepping away from it is profound. You’re no longer the backstop for someone else’s chaos. You’re free to focus on yourself, and that freedom feels revolutionary.

What fills the space is surprising. Productivity, yes, but a different kind of productivity. Not the treadmill of tasks and to-dos, but the satisfying work of rebuilding. Cleaning out the something you’ve ignored for years. Reading the books that once piled up next to your bed. Fixing things — literal and figurative — that fell into disrepair when your energy was depleted. Each small act feels monumental. You’re not just tidying or reading or mending; you’re reclaiming. Reclaiming your time, and your sense of control.

And then there’s the confidence. It sneaks up on you, first showing itself in tiny moments. In the boldness of saying “no” to something that doesn’t align with your goals. In the unapologetic way, you take your mornings, lunches, coffees, and cigarettes slowly. In the way you look in the mirror and recognize yourself again. This isn’t bravado; it’s deeper than that. It’s a quiet, unshakable belief that you’re capable. That you’re enough.

Love shows up. The people around you seem to rally. It turns out your colleagues like you regardless. People encourage you, not in the patronizing “you’ll land on your feet” way, but in genuine acts of care. They listen. They help. They remind you of who you are, even when you’ve forgotten. And somehow, their love amplifies your own love towards yourself.

What’s most remarkable, though, is the way the world seems to soften during this time. Without the constant noise of work, you notice things. The way the light filters through your curtains when you wake up. The rhythm of your breath during a walk. The taste of a meal cooked slowly and savored. These small joys feel bigger, brighter, and more meaningful. You’re present in a way you haven’t been for years.

The sayonara month doesn’t last forever. Bills need paying. But even when the pace of life picks up again, something lingers. A memory of strength, of clarity, of love. It’s a touchstone, a reminder of what you’re capable of when you’re forced to start over.

Remember that confidence. Revisit this sometimes.

Not for work reasons.