How I Left My Dream Job To Find Myself Again
The question every little kid is asked on their first day of kindergarten:
“What do you want to be when you grow up?”
My answer was always confident, unwavering—a ballerina.
My childhood was spent in the dance studio, training in ballet, jazz, and tap. Eventually, I earned the right to be fitted for my first pair of pointe shoes—a moment that lives on in a photo tucked away in a keepsake box with a signed program of Julie Kent. That passion led me into a professional career, and by the age of 27, I found myself leading a ballet organization as its newly appointed Artistic Director.
As the company grew, so did my role. I doubled the size of our student body. Grew our audience to three times what it was when I started. I implemented inclusive dance programs, and even inaugurated a roster of professional dancers who earned a bi-weekly stipend.
The role consumed me. It crept into every inch of my life—actually, no… it became my life. And I loved it.
Until I didn’t.
At some point, my role as the creative visionary became buried under grant submissions, operational demands, donor pledges, and learning to navigate QuickBooks. I had less and less time to devote to choreography, expanding the student curriculum, and the parts of the work that brought me there in the first place—creativity.
And it was draining me.
But, I also felt like I had something to prove.
In a room full of seasoned directors, I was always the youngest—something I was deeply aware of, even when no one said it out loud. I carried this quiet pressure to validate why I was there, to prove that I deserved a seat at the table.
So I overcompensated. I said yes to everything.
I pushed myself harder than I probably should have because the last thing I wanted was to let anyone down. And if I’m being honest, I didn’t always feel supported in the ways I needed. I found myself asking—time and time again—for help, for resources, for space to do the job well… and not always receiving it.
So I carried more.
Held more.
Took more on than I should have.
And in that process, I was letting other parts of my life slip away. I was missing family milestones. Trading quality time with my partner for late nights and early mornings. Putting off vacations, telling myself I’d “have time later.”
And somewhere along the way, I started to realize—that in trying so hard to prove myself to everyone else, I was slowly losing sight of myself.
All the while my body was starting to tell me what I had been ignoring for a while.
My endometriosis was getting worse, and I was pushing through it more than I should have. I was exhausted in a way that wasn’t just emotional—it was physical. I wasn’t well, and I could feel myself reaching a point where something had to give.
So I made a decision I knew I should have made sooner. I left.
For the first time in what felt like forever, I chose me.
And it was heart wrenching.
Today, two years ago, I put in my resignation.
And now, looking back, I can see, truly see, just how much that chapter shaped me.
Being a director taught me to be fearless. To stand firmly in my convictions and pursue things from my core, even when it felt uncomfortable, uncertain, or unsupported.
It showed me just how important a team and community is. How nothing meaningful is ever built alone.
It taught me how to hold space, to build something bigger than myself, and to make room for everyone at the table.
It reminded me that creativity breathes in everything. Only if we’re willing to slow down enough to listen for it.
It also taught me how to truly believe in myself, even when it felt hard to. How to trust my instincts, and ultimately, how to bet on myself. That choice, again and again, has been—and will continue to be—the best investment I ever make.
And maybe most importantly, it allowed me to become both the best and the most stretched version of me. It revealed my edges, my limits, my patterns. And in doing so, it gave me the clarity to decide who I want to be—and how I want to intentionally lead my life moving forward.
So here we are.
Slowly, I have found my way back to creativity—but this time it feels different. It feels like something inside me was finally given permission to exhale after being held tight for so long. It wasn’t immediate. It wasn’t linear. But little by little, my soul started to feel like it was waking up again.
I found myself doing DIY projects that reminded me of bedazzling headpieces from my dance days— hands-on, detailed, expressive in a way that felt familiar in my body.
Home projects became something more than just “projects.” They felt like I was designing a set again—curating spaces, textures, and moments—but this time for something even more meaningful: my new life.
And in this new space, without forcing anything, without a plan or a timeline, I started creating again.
At first, it wasn’t “content.” It was just me sharing little pieces of my life as it was unfolding. A project here. A moment there. Things that felt beautiful, honest, and mine. There was no expectation attached to it– just expression.
But something unexpected happened: people resonated with it. They saw themselves in it. They connected to the parts I thought were too ordinary to share. And slowly, quietly, I started to realize that this wasn’t just a return to creativity. It was a new beginning. Not a reinvention of who I was, but a coming home to her.
So if there’s anything I’ve learned through all of this, it’s that life rarely unfolds the way we imagine it will. But even in the unraveling, there is direction.
Even in the pause, there is becoming.
And sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is listen when your life asks you to begin again.