What I’ve Learned Since Leaving My Dream Job

Reflections one year into the aftermath

Last day in the office.

One year ago this week, I did something that would have once felt unthinkable: I announced to the world I had just quit my “dream job.”

Why I just quit my dream job

Just a few weeks earlier, I was meeting with my department chair—she thought we were preparing to send my tenure file out for review. Instead, I told her I was leaving.

This decision wasn’t sudden. It was three years in the making.

My partner and I had long known that Texas wouldn’t be our forever home. But as the state’s political climate grew increasingly hostile—especially toward the very people and values we hold dear—the question of whether to stay became harder to ignore. And because academics rarely get to choose where they live, my options were limited if I stayed in academia.

At first, the idea of leaving terrified me. The mere thought of it made my chest feel like a swarm of bees had taken up residence. I had worked so hard to get to where I was: at one of the top programs in the country in my field, exceeding departmental expectations, right on track for tenure. I’d followed every step. I had made it.

And still—I knew it was time to go.

It took therapy. It took research. It took a supportive partner. It took a thousand tiny moments of bravery and clarity to arrive at the decision I had eventually made by that April. By the time I left, I was at peace.

But that doesn’t mean I didn’t have lingering questions, which I am now better prepared to answer one year later.

Would I lose my scholarly identity?

This was a big one. But here's something I have become increasingly confident in: being a scholar is not about having a university email address or a departmental webpage listing your qualifications. It’s about how you move through the world—curious, critical, and committed to learning. My identity as a scholar is rooted in the questions I ask, the conversations I foster, and the writing I do to make sense of it all.

No institution can grant or take that from me.

Would my colleagues think less of me?

Honestly? They didn’t. If anything, they understood. More and more of us in higher ed are coming to terms with the fact that the academic job isn’t what it was of yore—or what we hoped it might become. When I shared my decision to leave, I was met with support, compassion, and genuine respect from colleagues.

Since then, I’ve been invited to speak at events and collaborate on new projects, a reminder that stepping away from the institution doesn’t mean completely stepping away from community or intellectual contribution. The tide of academia as the only job option is shifting—and given the current political climate, that shift may only accelerate.

Would I be taken less seriously as a writing coach because I wasn’t tenured?

What I’ve come to see is that my credibility doesn’t come from a title—it comes from being real. I’ve never hidden the truth of why I left. I talk openly about the challenges of academic life, the toll it can take, and the values that ultimately led me elsewhere. My clients value that transparency. They trust me not because I achieved my institution’s rubber stamping but because I’m honest about what that life entails and how to navigate it with more self-compassion and intention.

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Would I second-guess my decision?

This one surprised me the most.

I expected to miss it more than I do. But the truth is, I’ve never felt lighter. Moving to a new country helped—we left behind not only the university but also the rhythm and grind of what our normal life once was. My days now unfold differently. I sleep more. I work less. I live more.

More importantly, I’m building a career that aligns with my values. I’m no longer chasing external markers of success to the same degree—publications, awards, institutional clout. I measure my success in moments: in the breakthroughs my clients have, in the joy I feel creating resources that actually help people, in the ability to write when and what I want, and in the freedom to do meaningful work without compromise.

And now that I’m here, I realize something essential: it was always inevitable that I would leave. Bureaucracy and hierarchy never sat well with me. But I ignored those red flags because I loved teaching. I loved writing. I loved the scholarly community. And for a long time, I was willing to sacrifice parts of myself to do those things.

Eventually, though, the cost became too high.

Where am I going from here?

That’s the beautiful (and slightly disorienting) part: I don’t know.

For years, my life followed a well-worn path—from grad school to an academic job to tenure. Each step was mapped out in advance. But now? There’s no clear “next” path to follow.

Kate and I don’t even know how long we are going to live in the Netherlands. We’re here as long as it feels right. Everything is open to possibility.

And for once, I’m okay with that.

Photo by Lili Popper on Unsplash

Not having a multi-step career plan used to send me spiraling earlier in life. Not having a lofty goal, such as earning a degree or reaching a career milestone, felt disorienting and uncomfortable.

But now, it feels more like spaciousness. I’m rooted in the present—something I never thought I’d be able to say. I’m finding joy in the work I’m doing right now, helping people build better writing practices and more fulfilling academic lives. That feels at once grounding yet light as air.

And whither then? I cannot say. ~Bilbo Baggins

Paying attention

And now to you, dear reader.

Change—especially the kind that unmoors you from the life you built—is not for the faint of heart. Leaving a career, a professional identity, a geography, a path you worked so hard to stay on—it rattles something deep.

But if you're finding yourself drawn to other ways of living or working, even if that tug is quiet or inconvenient or arrives before you're ready, I just want to say: you're not strange for feeling that pull. You’re paying attention.

The questions might not all be answered and the next step might not be clear. But that doesn't mean you're lost. It might just mean you’re in a moment of becoming—where the measure of success is not certainty, but attentiveness.

I'm here in that space too, and while I can't offer a map, I can tell you the air is crisp and breathable.