I Quit My New Career

2,563 questions answered halfway through studying for the Series 65 exam. Only 54 incorrect. I was committed.

August 30, 2025

In June 2023, I made a choice that felt both terrifying and brave.

I left a steady job where I was respected, valued, and safe. After three and a half years of living with the grief of losing my family’s business—the only real safety net I’d ever known—I chose to leap into the unknown, chasing what I believed was my calling: public speaking and leadership development.

It felt bold. It felt aligned. It felt like a life finally opening back up.

And for the next year, I built toward it—investing time, energy, and heart. I said yes to opportunities that stretched me. I poured myself into growing something meaningful. At the same time, I also believed I was building a solid, healthy, long-term relationship with someone I loved and deeply respected. He felt like home to me, and I trusted him with my life.

I didn’t know then how much of it was built on illusion.

In July 2024, we hiked 107 miles through the Washington Cascades. Ten days on the Pacific Crest Trail—through snowfields and steep climbs, across rivers and down long, brutal descents. No showers. No cell service. Ten hours of hiking a day in near silence. Just the sound of my trailrunners on dirt and the relentless thoughts in my head.

I realized, somewhere out there, that I was deeply miserable.

Not because of the trail. But because of something deeper I couldn’t yet name.

I thought the solution was a new career. I thought maybe I just needed a more fulfilling professional life to feel whole again. So when we got off the trail, I went to work—not just literally, but on myself. I journaled. I asked questions. I studied my own patterns. I looked at what I was good at, what I enjoyed, what I wanted to build, and what kind of financial stability it would take to feel secure.

Financial advising rose to the top.

It made sense—my interest in investments, the work I’d already done with my own family, the conversations I’d had with my advisor two years earlier when he asked if I’d ever consider doing what he does. Back then, I wasn’t ready. But in August 2024, I said yes.

I began studying for the Series 65 in the thick of everything:

• My dad was diagnosed with a rare, aggressive lymphoma.

• I moved two of my kids out of the house.

• I lost the use of my right arm for weeks due to a spinal issue.

• My relationship was quietly unraveling in ways I didn’t yet understand.

Still, I passed the exam on December 21, 2024, and stepped into the new career right after Christmas—bright-eyed, hopeful, and proud.

The first month was solid. Hard, but promising. I was learning. Adapting. Building. Juggling school board pressures while watching my relationship strain and twist.

But in January, one bright light: my dad was doing better. He had finished chemo. He seemed stronger. Until he wasn’t.

In February, he was hospitalized for three weeks. I dropped everything and flew to be with him, holding vigil with my sister, praying for more time. Right after my dad was first hospitalized, my relationship experienced a massive fracture—but it wasn’t the end. Not for me. Not completely. 

When my dad was discharged at the end of February, I returned home and threw myself back into the work—booking meetings, meeting with clients, trying to make up for lost time. I became School Board President on March 26. My dad was hospitalized in Seattle again on March 30. I flew back the next day.

I signed up for the CFP program on April 9, still believing in the future I was trying to create.

He died on April 11.

Six days later, on April 17, I found out the truth.

About the man I loved deeply.

About the life I thought we were building.

About the lies, withheld truths, childlike cruelty.

About the emotional abuse I had been swimming in.

In an instant, the scaffolding I had built—this carefully planned life of career, relationship, and purpose—collapsed.

Everything changed.

And yet—I kept going.

I finished what needed to be finished.

I stayed present in the storm.

I kept my integrity.

I went back to work on May 15.

Hopeful. Fragile.

I showed up with a soft heart and shaky hands, still trying to believe in the future I had chosen.

And it was hard.

And it wasn't my top priority.

My school board work was.

I underperformed.

I wasted time.

I felt miserable and alone.

My bosses were gracious. Understanding. Patient. They gave me room to heal, to find my footing. And I tried. I really tried. Again and again.

But the longer I stayed, the more I knew: this wasn’t the path for me. Not anymore.

I was not the same woman who had said yes to this career.

So much had changed.

And there was something else—something more tender, more tangled.

This career wasn’t just a career.

It was tied to him.

I studied for the Series 65 at his kitchen table.

I sent him my quiz results.

We talked through calls and puts, revocable trusts, ethics questions, and suitability scenarios.

He was the first person I called when I passed.

He was the one I imagined building a future with—financially, emotionally, logistically.

It represented the version of me I became with him.

Not too long ago, I found a note he had tucked into the pages of my Series 65 book.

How I found it, I don’t know.

It’s a three-inch-thick tome crammed with more information than I ever needed to know.

But there it was—a small piece of paper from his neatly organized home.

Three words. Handwritten.

"I love you."

This path was part of the life I thought we were building together.

Leaving it isn’t just a career shift.

It’s another layer of leaving him.

Another act of truth-telling.

Another step toward disentangling myself from the story that was never real.

It hurt. God, it hurt.

But somewhere inside the ache, a quieter voice emerged—one that hadn’t spoken in years.

As I began thinking deeply about what I truly want and need, new words started bubbling up:

Freedom. Energy. Life. Purpose. Joy. Fun. Movement. Spontaneity. People.

They didn’t fit where I was.

And I knew enough not to make major life decisions in the midst of trauma. So I stayed. I honored the commitment I had made. I gave myself time.

But the longer I stayed, the worse things became for me—emotionally, mentally, physically. Until finally, a possible major firm transition was announced. And with that news, I realized I could no longer straddle the fence. I needed to be fully in—or fully out—so the firm could plan accordingly, and so could I.

So I made the best decision I could.

For me. For my future.

I chose to leave.

Not because I couldn’t do it.

Not because I failed.

But because I am finally listening.

When I chose this path, I was trying to outrun the pain.

I was trying to prove something.

I was trying to build a future that would make the past make sense.

I was trying to be a version of myself that fit in the box of him.

But I’m no longer running.

What I want now is rootedness, resonance, and joy.

I want a life that fits not just my skill set, but my spirit.

I want to build something that feels like home in my own bones.

Leaving doesn’t mean I got it wrong.

It means I’ve grown enough to know when it’s time to pivot.

It means I’m choosing alignment over appearances.

It means I am free.