I quit my job. A job that had become so much a part of my identity, and provided a great sense of security. It feels like I have removed a limb. My next paycheck is tbd. I’m terrified. I have that feeling in the gut one gets before making a huge plunge. The feeling of nerves boiling over, releasing angst as it bubbles up. I suspect we’ve all been there, stomach in knots and thinking “what the heck am I doing?” then doing it anyway.
I’ve been planning to quit my job for about one year. Though if “planning” also encompasses the dream of, the wishing for, and the desperate desire for something, then truly I’ve been plotting this since I was a young girl. Growing up on a small island, I’ve dreamed of a life filled with travel, mission work, and humanitarian initiatives (cue Moana theme song). I haven’t had the courage to do it, until now. Even now, to many, my choice may seem unwise.
It’s inadvisable to leave a fruitful job, especially the type I had. One with awesome coworkers, good compensation, a trajectory for continued growth, frequent trips to NYC, and the flexibility to travel and work remotely when needed. I had a good gig. I was petrified to relinquish that luxury.
My mission is to see as many parts of the world as my limited funds will take me, experiencing and sharing faith, hope, and love with others as I go. Though I have peace about my choice, I am also scared shitless. Fear is no stranger to me. As I stand on the precipice of a dream, in its true nature fear discouragingly screams “this is too difficult, it is too risky, you cannot do it.” Fear is a liar.
On the other side of fear is my faith. Faith whispers “this is difficult, it is risky, you can do it.” My faith is my hero. In my life the two, faith and fear, consistently battle. As quickly as faith claims victory, warmongering fear reminds me of realistic (and imagined) limitations. Nonetheless, faith persists.
I liken my faith to little arm floats, the kind you see on infants; small but efficient enough to save one from drowning. Some days I am the child that confidently wades in the water knowing her floaters have never failed before, and won’t now. Other days I’m the child who flaps incessantly, seemingly panicked and splashing about, forgetting she even has floaties. Both personas have one thing in common, they are in the deep.