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Photo by Bench Accounting, via Stocksnap. The day I woke up praying I had contracted some type of illness so I could avoid another soul-sucking day in my cubicle was the day I knew I needed to leave my job. It had been a full year where simply stepping into the office gave me an overwhelming feeling of heaviness and all-consuming dread. Monday through Friday, between the hours of 7 am and 4 pm, I felt completely dead inside. Suddenly, staying put for health insurance and a steady paycheck seemed like an entirely uneven exchange. So on that day, I set my quit date. I frantically texted the most trusted members of my inner circle, divulging my plan before I could grasp what a hugely challenging endeavor I had just committed myself to.

I didn’t have another job lined up or even a position I hoped I might be qualified for. I simply had an unavoidable need for freedom and a few freelance writing gigs with potential. Saying them to my superiors felt childish and naive. I didn’t have a business name or any legitimate paperwork.

I only had the intention to figure it out along the way. When I was confined by the walls of my cubicle and churning away at work I couldn’t muster up much excitement for, earning a certain amount of money was essential. After all, it was my compensation for turning over precious brainpower and the most substantial chunk of my waking hours. Even when I first thought about starting a business, my mind immediately went to the income potential for such an endeavor. I crunched numbers and visualized cashing checks bigger than the ones I was currently cashing. Then, as I dove deeper into establishing a life based on enjoyment rather than obligation, something strange happened: Money didn’t matter as much. I’m so lucky I get paid to do this.

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