Somewhere on a two-hour Monday commute, I decided the next year would not look like this.

You know this life.

You look around, baking under the fluorescent lights. Your coworker is asleep at his desk at 2pm because honestly, what’s the point. You could leave, but there goes the insurance, the 401k, the safe predictable everything.

And still, somewhere underneath all that, you know a better life is waiting for you somewhere else.

You sit in your cube. Check the clock. Open a flight tab. Close it. Open it again.

You tell yourself “next year.” You always tell yourself next year.

Monday morning, sitting in traffic, another two-hour commute. The thought of one more week on autopilot turned my stomach. Somewhere about halfway over the Howard Franklin Bridge, I decided to quit.

The decision took years. The moment took half a bridge.

I had no idea if I would like Thailand, or traveling for that matter. I hedged the bet and Airbnbed my house instead of selling, knowing I had a place to come back to.

I didn't need it. I loved every beautiful, chaotic, humid minute. I knew this was the life I was meant to live.

8 months later, I flew back and went all in. I sold everything I owned. House, clothes, cars, all of it. I picked a date and started counting down.

The week I was supposed to fly, the world shut down. Borders closed, the dream evaporated overnight, and the house was gone.

I had sold my way into homelessness for a trip that no longer existed.

Then I lost my license. My own fault, and a story for another day.

And then I drifted. Four years on autopilot, walking the same five blocks, going to the same places, living the same day on repeat.

Six years is how long the second leap took. Six years of knowing exactly what I wanted and watching the window close.

Here’s what nobody tells you:

The leap isn’t one jump. Sometimes you land back where you started and have to climb again.

I left anyway. Slower the second time, smarter, but I left.