Every day around two o'clock, you quit.
Not out loud. In your head. The little movie runs: the resignation letter, the drive home with the windows down, the small shop you'd open, the forest ranger job, the town where nobody needs anything from you.
It's a good movie. You've been running it for years.
And here's the part nobody says. The movie is why you're still there.
The daily quitting is a pressure valve. It bleeds off just enough to make one more afternoon survivable, which makes one more week survivable, which makes year seven look a lot like year six. The fantasy feels like a plan. It works like a sedative.
Real leaving, and real staying, both need the pressure. The valve makes sure you never build up enough of either.
This is no push to quit. Some jobs are worth staying in, and rent is real. It's a question about the movie. Because a rehearsal that never opens isn't a rehearsal. It's how you stay.
The one thing for the weekend:
Next time the movie starts, ask it one question. Are you a plan, or are you a valve?
Josh
P.S. I finished my 30-day Ash Journal run on July 30. In public, one page a day, no edits, all thirty.
Five minutes. One prompt. One line of ash. The first seven days are free: truevitalyou.com/journal