Approaching the end of my job was a heavy feeling. Like a breakup, the anticipation of leaving cast a cloud over the future I’d imagined for myself. I couldn’t see the horizon and had to keep moving forward, trusting I’d set myself on the right course.

When I left my marriage, I wept while packing. I listened to emotional music and replayed good times we shared over and over in my head. I didn’t think of drunkenly falling to the ground while he stood over me with rage in his eyes. I thought of holding hands on long drives and sipping chocolate on the banks of the Rhein. I didn’t look at our separate beds or text message fights or the fact of my affair. I looked at our cats and the god-awful-but-wonderful armchair we rescued from a church basement one Sunday afternoon.

Hugging him goodbye in that kitchen we shared, I felt crushed under the weight of my decision. How can something this painful be right?

In my new apartment, as I unpacked my belongings and made a space for myself, I began to once again see the future I’d chosen. I felt free, not only to be who I wanted, but from the anguish of staying.

Now, as I pack (throw into a large pile near my door) more and more of this apartment, I’m feeling that same sense of freedom. I’m through the fog and looking back on the unhappiness I felt every day in that cubicle, the way my life had become one big rut, and seeing with new clarity the future before me. For the first time in years—maybe ever—I feel excited about the possibilities at my fingertips and poised, ready, to succeed or fail. No matter what happens next, I know I couldn’t stay a moment longer. Nothing could make this the wrong choice, and I’m luxuriating in newfound certainty.

With each day that passes, each item I hold and think, “I don’t need this,” I feel better, freer. As my load gets lighter, my spirit does, too.

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