For those who didn't

Thirty days ago, when I quit my job, I became a new person.

Maybe other people couldn't see it. Maybe they could. But I changed.

When I was in 10th grade, I had one of those teachers you'd think only exists in the movies. And I don't mean like Ezra Fitz from Pretty Little Liars. I'm talking about a teacher so awful you'd think she couldn't possibly exist in anything other than a work of fiction. More like Mrs. Trunchbull from Matilda. (Yeah, two very different things.)

One day she called my parents in for a meeting after school to - in short - tell them how much she despised me. "Caroline is a butterfly," she said. "She needs to get her wings clipped off."

Ok, first of all - slow your roll, lady. That is some animal cruelty right there, don't make me call PETA. Second of all, what!?!?! Don't we all aspire to be butterflies? Happy and free and joyful and beautiful? What does this even mean?

My parents are amazing and not only didn't listen to her weird rant, but my dad legit stood up and stormed out of the room - and they also reported her to the principal.

(Side note: My parents are total superheroes when it comes to standing up against bad teachers. Once, the most horrible man in the world who also happened to be my AP English teacher kept me after class to ask me, "Are you in the right course? To be honest you don't look like an AP student." Ohhhh, you messed with the wrong kid, Mr. Lang. You won't know what hit you when Jeff and Suze hear about this one.)

Anyway - back to a butterfly without wings. That's exactly what I felt like stuck at my old job. That terrible teacher didn't know her bizarre - not to mention rude - comment would be the perfect expression of my state of soul-sucking-sadness a decade later.

When I walked out those office doors for the last time a month ago, I got my wings back. Big time.

It was one of the best feelings I've ever had. (That time I found three dollars on the sidewalk is a close second.)

But I also felt a tinge of heartbreak. Sadness. Even... anger.

For those who didn't.

For those who didn't leave, too.

I knew other people in my office felt the exact same way I did. Stifled. Stuck. Burned out. Beat down. Disrespected. Under-appreciated. Abused. Hurt. Empty. Hollow. Dying. Dead.

But they didn't leave.

All I wanted to do was turn around, run back into the office, grab them by the shoulders, and shake them. "You are better than this! You are worth so much more! You are talented, bright, smart, and beautiful! You are a butterfly! Don't let them clip your wings!"

I broke free, why couldn't they? I'm no more special or brave or spontaneous or talented than anyone else. I got out, and I so badly wanted them to, too.

I felt genuinely upset by my coworkers choosing to wallow in the toxicity. Deciding not to fulfill their insane potential. Refusing to resist the cycle of abuse and start fresh.

But guess what? That's. Not. Fair.

I can hope and pray and wish the absolute best for the talented people I love and admire. But that's all I can do. And - aside from reminding them often how amazing and wonderful and talented they are - that's all I should do.

Pressuring someone else to follow my lead - to unconventionally quit their job, with no follow-up position ready - doesn't help them or encourage them or inspire them. It makes you look like a real jerk, flapping your new butterfly wings all up in their face while they continue to do what's best for them. (Which may not always look like we think it should. But that's not our place to say - we're not in charge of anyone else.)

True support is unconditional. It's not, "I think you're worth more than this. I will be so proud of you if you stand up for yourself and leave." It's, "I am so proud of you no matter what. And I'm here if you ever want to talk about exploring other options." That's it. No more.

I haven't been so great at this true, unconditional support. And seeing the look on a friend's face as I go on and on and on and on about how liberated and invigorated and exhilirated I feel, while she's chosen to stay - it isn't the type of look you ever want to cause a friend to have on her face.

So I'm sorry, for those who didn't. No, no, I'm not sorry for you. I'm sorry for the way I pressured you. Nagged you. Bothered you. And tried to persuade you.

This life is mine. And your life is yours. I can - and should - love my life, but that doesn't make it any more wonderful or beautiful or successful or better than yours.

And I'm sorry if I ever made you feel that way.

So for those who didn't: You are strong. You are mighty. You are worthy. You are a warrior, fighting - and conquering - a battle I couldn't. And I admire you.