A Letter to the Life I Just Left

by Susannah Carver

I know why you left, and I understand why you stayed.

From the moment we are born, people start predicting what our lives will be like. Is there free will when you realize your life has been one long suggestion, spoken in warnings and expectations, dressed up as love?

In our society, there is a clear path we are expected to follow: attend school, earn your diplomas, and—if you’re smart and obedient—graduate with a respectable degree, something concrete and firm. Business. Medicine. Engineering. Something with weight.

And to drive it in deeper, these suggestions are often laced with fear.

Writing will get you nowhere.
Art will get you nowhere.
Music will get you nowhere—are you listening?
How will you pay the bills? What about a pension?

Now, there’s nothing wrong with those degrees—if that’s your true talent and calling. We need people in those roles. And yes, paying bills and saving for retirement are vital to surviving in America.

But you were not made for the concrete—though you tried.

Not only did you earn a bachelor’s degree, but you earned a master’s. And why stop at one? You earned two. Maybe you even toyed with a PhD. You pursued a career that, from the outside, looked romantic. Secure. Admired. The kind of job people make movies about.

But you were miserable.

Each day before work, you cried in your car. Sometimes, you screamed. You didn’t want to face the public. You’d just barely gotten your children to school. And you certainly didn’t want to face your manager, whose stony face and haughty presence swept dread through the building like weather.

Quick—you’d think—look busy. Stare at your screen. Don’t make eye contact.

Your workplace felt like the wild jungle, where one wrong step could mean instant trouble.

You were constantly judged.
Old men ogled you and slipped you phone numbers and notes.
Patrons barked demands across the hall, never bothering to ask kindly.
People used in the bathrooms and created chaos.
The police knew you by name.

And still, you stood there, every day, wearing a smile you learned through method acting.

Of course, it wasn’t all bad.

There were the children—the ones who made you laugh. You sang with them, made silly faces, read them stories. They hugged you, kissed you, gave you tiny offerings of joy. Somehow, even in your dire depression, you found a way to spread light.

You grew comfortable in your depression. Resigned.

The pay was good. The benefits were good. Money went into your retirement. This was responsible. This was how you survived—for yourself and your children. But still… there was that small voice.
The dream of a child.
The child who escaped to their room to write stories of mystery and murder and tucked them away in drawers.
The child who preferred to play alone because their imagination was larger than any playground.

And then—finally—it happened.

The energy had been building for months. But it took that final moment to propel you out. You couldn’t take your stony-faced manager anymore. You would never be good enough for this person. And the money, the benefits, the safety—they were no longer worth it.

Thankfully, you had a plan. You knew you’d be okay.
So, you left.

You resigned.
You sent a letter of grievance.
You called it what it was: constructive discharge.
You made it immediate.

Congratulations to you.

You will no longer ignore your inner child.
You will no longer prescribe to fear-based living.

Finally, it is time to live.

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Have you ever made a choice like this—or longed to? I’d love to hear your story too. 💬