I have something to confess.

I like my boss.
I like my colleagues.
I've even grown accustomed to the bloody commute.

My job isn't making me miserable (and it's the first job I've ever had where I can say that).

And yet I know I have to leave.

Something is pulling me toward the exit regardless.​
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I can't not go.

Why good enough is the real trap

Bad jobs are easy to leave.

You hate the monotony.
You can't stand how your boss talks to you.
You can't stop daydreaming about getting the hell out.
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Your own bodily disgust mechanism is forcing you toward the door.

Like thick green mucus stuck in your nasal cavity, you will get out, one way or another. You might even go "F*ck it" and quit with no plan B, because surely nothing could be worse than this?

But when you have the fortune of finding a job where your boss high fives you for things you did well, some of your colleagues gradually feel almost like friends, and you get to develop skills you actually care about...

Add what Nassim Taleb calls one of the three most harmful addictions — the monthly paycheck — and the door is slowly closing on you.

It's good.
It's comfortable.
But you know you have more than that in you.

And staying means playing smaller than you know you're capable of.

The strongest bears aren't at the zoo

I feel a lot like a caged bear.

They give me food, shelter, entertainment.

But no real freedom. No potential to win beyond all expectation.

The me I see in my head is so much more.

He walks into a room and his posture says something before he does.

He's the kind of physically strong that you notice — the kind that looks like it was built in the dark, before anyone was watching.

When he picks up a guitar at a gathering, the conversation doesn't stop. It just finds a new center.

He's the one behind the camera who notices the light before anyone else does. Who sees something in you that you didn't know was there, and finds a way to show it to you.

He challenges you to chess and somehow makes losing feel like a good conversation.

He'll invite you to a game of tennis like it's nothing, but you can't help but feel "this isn't nothing."

When he speaks, people lean in slightly. Not because he's quiet. Because he's thought about what he's saying before he says it, and you can feel the difference.

He's financially free enough that money is no longer a daily anxiety but a tool he points at things that matter.

He has a mission that makes ordinary ambition look small, and the freedom to pursue it without asking anyone's permission. He sees the full board. And the people he loves always end up exactly where they need to be.

I know that man. I can feel exactly how close he is.

That's why I can't stay.

Some of that is possible to build inside employment. But it's always built on the edges of your life, in the few hours left after long workdays and commutes.

That will never compare to using most of your hours to actually becoming who you are.

The 9-to-5, however good, swallows most of your time and energy for goals that are only tangentially yours at best.

It doesn't necessarily make you miserable. It just makes you less.

Good people make it harder

Despite knowing all of this, I delay.

Because I like the people around me. And I feel guilty about wanting to leave when we have something good together.

There's no villain here. No dramatic grievance. No moment I can point to and say "that's why I'm going."

Just a slow withering of my soul, not through anyone's malice, but through the structure of employment itself. The quiet suffocation of a life spent mostly on someone else's agenda.

That's harder to explain than a bad boss. And harder to act on.

My commitment

I'm not leaving because it's bad.

I'm leaving because I know what I could be on the other side. And I'm drawn like a moth to a flame toward that version of me.

What's standing in my way isn't an obstacle. It's a clear, comfortable, well-lit path to a lesser version of myself.

And that's not good enough anymore.

Warmly,

Bjorn