I left accounting to become a writer, but at the time, I didn’t know that’s what I was doing.
What I did know was that I was stepping out of an environment that — despite being full of people I loved working with — felt misaligned and fed cyclical burnout, which was having a deep impact on my life.
I also knew that I was stepping into a life that felt more authentic, grounded, and supportive of my creative practice. Beyond that, life after the firm was unstructured and unknown.
It sounds so expansive, doesn’t it? Like a breath of fresh air.
No more tigers waiting for me in my inbox.
No more rigid adherence to a work schedule.
No more competing for working hours with my spouse (also a public accountant).
No more filling every waking minute with productivity, because deadlines are always looming and the workload never ends.
This is going to be so great.
It was. Even my kids noticed my more relaxed attitude, which they pointed out to me one morning early on. Honestly, that shattered any remaining doubt I had about the move. They were just turning 3 and 5.
But it was also a vulnerable, uncertain place to land.
Where will I funnel my energy?
What will my next thing be?
When will I have to move on?
Who am I without my career?
…Why am I doing this again?
When I left, the plan was to take a year just to create and to enjoy feeling more present at home. Then I’d start looking into the next career — or day job that could support my creative work after hours.
Enter the period of creative ambiguity — the unknowns that poke at your core and want to know what your plan is, now. The kind of discomfort that can have you reaching for the next closest thing to a solid, defensible vocation.
Luckily, I had experienced it before, twice. Once, after attaining my first accounting designation (and the next closest thing to grab was a second, more creative professional designation). Then a second time, after attaining that second designation (and the next most logical creative funnel was expanding into the career itself).
…Okay, and a secret third time when I became a freelance writer just a few months after making the leap.
I mentioned in a recent post (A Month of Subtle Milestones) that eliminating the environment and shaking up the daily routine don’t automatically eliminate the habits and mindsets that helped you survive and thrive there in the first place.
This has a lot to do with the scarcity response to creative ambiguity and the need to learn how to rest by not-doing, which I explored in The Discomfort of Having Time. It’s rooted in the new life, going from structured work to full days in the creative studio.
But this piece is more about the old tendencies that used to fan the flames of my burnout, playing their same old tricks, even in a new environment.
These ones were rooted in the old life, but followed me into the new.
My environment changed… but did I?
We tend to think burnout is the result of grind culture and overly ambitious environments, but that’s only one part of the equation. I think the other parts have a lot to do with our temperaments and our inherent belief systems.
It’s often a combination of our environments and our inner workings — which create the beliefs that we don’t even know we have — driving our habits, our pace of life, and the pressure we place on ourselves to perform: as parents, creators, and societal members at large.
Even though I meant to intentionally do nothing for a while, something in me was adamant that I had to be working toward something. I had to be skill-building, or networking, or searching.
But another part of me was fully invested in my writing and wanted to funnel the energy into it.
So, I found a compromise — freelance writing. There’s writing, creativity, income, and clients — all on your terms and within your schedule.
While my nervous system was busy working on letting go of that tiger-in-your-inbox feeling (which took four months!), I started learning all that I could about freelance writing and set myself up to start providing services. Then, it happened — I connected with my dream client in the perfect niche. I was thrilled!
But I started noticing the old habits trickling back in again. A little anxiousness. A sprinkling of overwork. The perfectionism tediously drawing out each project behind the scenes. Creative work crowded out by default, even though it still longed to be brought to life.
Suddenly, it was very clear which internal factors had actually been contributing to my previous bouts of corporate burnout. The industry was certainly a factor, but removing myself from it didn’t resolve my perfectionism, my people-pleasing tendencies, or my imposter syndrome, all of which I believe relate to a sense of self-worth constantly under the scrutiny of my inner critic.
And the critic gets very loud when faced with a period of creative ambiguity.
So, I started finding certainty in uncertainty — the critic grew quieter when I stopped fighting between my old life and my new one.
I stopped leaning on titles and job descriptions as permission to take up space. I let go of the need to try to validate my choices by making my story palatable. I stopped waffling about when people ask what I do. “Oh, I was an accountant, now I’m exploring a career pivot, we’ll see —” no.
I’m a writer.
I stopped equating my worth to my productivity — taking to heart the advice that not-doing is a vital part of the creative process, which quiets the urgency that I used to place on my creative practice and gives it space to breathe and blossom.
I stopped trying to find perfect roadmaps, business plans, and framing for my words. Instead, I’m focusing on trusting that what comes through is doing so the right way for me. I’m letting how I feel about the work lead the way, rather than trying to distill a logical answer from it.
And I play more.
Freelance writing is an amazing career opportunity, but there’s a difference between using it as a crutch for an otherwise uncertain time of exploration, and calmly, confidently engaging in it — whether as a true passion, or as a job taken intentionally to balance the books and the creative life.
Back when I started my blog, I wrote a lot of “guides” and how-to articles because that’s what I thought blogging was supposed to be. (The reflective writing on Substack has been so refreshing.) One of the first that I wrote was The Busy Season Survival Guide. I tried to put practical advice in there — I figured that was all that busy people would have time for — but I always wound up veering more introspective.
I think it’s because I knew that when dealing with chronic burnout, even when we make practical changes to our environments or remove ourselves from broken systems, we’ll still find ways to burn ourselves out.
We need to look closely at the underlying beliefs and coping mechanisms that are contributing.
Otherwise, we might find ourselves planted in our dream life, too burned out to notice.
Originally published on Substack: When You Leave the Job, But the Burnout Comes With You
Thank you for reading! I also share reflective writing like this weekly over on Substack.
If this post resonated, you may also enjoy:
The Busy Professional’s Guide to Creative Self-Care — Small acts of creativity that fit into a busy life.
The Discomfort of Having Time — Deeper exploration on navigating ambiguous creative studio time after a structured career.
The 5-Minute Reset: A Simple Routine to Declutter Your Mind and Refocus Your Day — Whether you’re kicking off a work day or a studio day, this routine can get you grounded and focused for what’s next.
