They Went Quiet. I Went Walking
This past week didn’t unravel in any dramatic way.
I didn’t get fired.
I didn’t burn out.
There was no spectacular implosion or existential epiphany.
Just… a long, slow ghosting.
The truth is, the contract had been wobbling for a while.
Not because of anything I did—if anything, I held the line while everything around me felt disorganised, unstructured, and just messy.
It was like trying to build a house on shifting sand—no foundations, no feedback, just the constant stress of second-guessing what was needed in the silence.
And let’s be honest: they were probably struggling behind the scenes. Financially. Strategically.
You can feel that kind of tension, even when no one names it out loud.
So yes, they ended the contract.
But I’d already handed in my notice.
They negotiated hard to keep me. I stayed—on my terms—and kept showing up until the end.
Still, being met with silence right up to the final days? That’s a special kind of erasure.
It made me re-evaluate everything.
For a long time, I told myself my side projects—the list is very very very long —would take off… if only I had the time.
That was the story: “Once I get through this contract,” “Once I’ve cleared my plate,” “Once I’m not so tired…”
But when the contract disappeared, so did the excuse.
Suddenly, it wasn’t about time or energy anymore.
It was about facing the reality that maybe these side hustles wouldn’t work.
That maybe I’d poured energy into something that would never return the favour.
And weirdly? That was freeing.
Because instead of chasing outcomes, I started looking inward.
Instead of asking “Will this make money?”, I started asking “Will this make me proud?”
Would I publish those books just for me?
Would I call it a win even if no one buys them, but I finished them?
It was a paradigm shift—uncomfortable, but honest.
I haven’t given up. I’ve just changed the lens.
And then, like magic wrapped in a voice note, came my bestie.
B. My human lighthouse in the fog.
We didn’t talk about deliverables or next steps.
We talked about nothing and everything in the way only best friends can—jumping from existential dread to inappropriate jokes with zero warning.
No fixing. Just presence.
At some point in the chaos, we created a ridiculous, brilliant “missing person” ad—searching for our male equivalent (which, frankly, may not exist). I told her to print it out and post it in every bus shelter near her flat so she could finally exit her “hypogamy phase“.
Bestie WLTM
A rare specimen required: the male version of a brilliant woman—borderline mystical, outrageously funny, and just a touch too perceptive for this world.
WANTED PROFILE:
– Able to debate the meaning of life and the correct cheese order on a charcuterie board
– Knows Mercury in retrograde isn’t a valid excuse… but also, kind of is
– Reads the energy in a room like a pro, but absolutely fine with shared silence under a blanket
– Responds to “I want to quit everything and open a cheese shop in the Cévennes” with “Cool, but we’re taking the cats”
BONUS SKILLS:
– Makes coffee strong enough to seal a Faustian pact
– Doesn’t panic when she goes from laughing to crying in 0.6 seconds
– Manages a post-brunch existential crisis with grace (or at least chocolate)
– Has strong, unshakable opinions on the best biscuit for tea-dunking
MISSION:
Be her equal, her ally, her mirror—sometimes foggy, but always faithful.
Kitchen dance partner.
Witness to her brilliance, supporter of her doubt, and official cheerleader when she dares, creates, or burns it all down to start again.
ABSOLUTELY NO:
Bland men. Lukewarm hearts. Floppy minds.
If your bio starts with “I’m a nice guy if you give me a chance,” kindly keep walking.
Because when the universe is ridiculous, laughter is defiance.
And being seen—truly seen—by your best person? That’s a better reset than any morning routine.
And despite it all—despite the meh, the bruised ego, the early-morning doubt—I kept showing up for me.
I walked every single day, even when I didn’t want to.
I fed myself well, even when I was tempted to sink into sugar and distraction.
I ticked two ISO policies off my list before 8am—not to impress anyone, but to leave clean footprints behind me.
I still don’t know if any of this will “work.”
But I do know this:
I kept walking. I kept working. I kept nourishing my body and holding my boundaries.
I did the right thing—not because someone told me to, not because it looked good on paper, but because I could look myself in the mirror and say:
“That was the right way to leave.”
So no tears.
No epic farewell emails full of promises to stay in touch foreverrrr.
Just a quiet, thoughtful Thanks for all the fish… and don’t forget your towel.
(Not that I’d ever actually send that to them. That kind of gold? Not available for free.)