Latest / Starting Over: Stories of Reinvention, Hope & Second Chances / The Quiet Strength of Showing Up When You Want to Quit | Starting Over
Transcript
- There is a specific kind of exhaustion that doesn’t come from running, but from standing still while your own mind screams at you to leave. It’s the moment right before you open the door, heart hammering, wondering if today is finally the day you get to stop trying. Let’s get real for a second. We talk so much about the big leaps in life. The career change, the move across the country, the sudden ‘I quit’ that feels like liberation. But I want to talk about the other kind of quitting. The one that happens in the quiet. The kind that creeps in on a Tuesday morning when you’re staring at your coffee cup, and your body feels heavy, not because you’ve done anything physically demanding, but because the emotional labor of existing has become too much to carry alone. You know this feeling. It’s not dramatic. There are no tears, no slammed doors. Just a slow, creeping sense that maybe, just maybe, it would be easier to let go. To let the emails pile up. To let the plants die. To let people think you’ve lost interest. And in those moments, we often mistake this heaviness for failure. We tell ourselves that if we were stronger, or more disciplined, or more ‘put together,’ we wouldn’t feel this urge to retreat. But here is the truth that I’ve had to learn, often the hard way: wanting to quit doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you’re human. It means you’re carrying something heavy, and your spirit is asking for a rest that looks like withdrawal, rather than reflection. We live in a culture that worships momentum. If you’re not moving forward, you’re falling behind. If you’re not optimizing, you’re wasting time. We scroll through feeds of women who have five businesses, perfect skin, and children who sleep through the night by choice, and we internalize that pace as the baseline for normalcy. So when we hit a wall, we don’t see it as a natural part of the rhythm; we see it as a defect in our character. But resilience isn’t about never stopping. It’s about how you handle the stop. Think about the seasons. Winter doesn’t apologize for being cold. Trees don’t panic when they lose their leaves. They conserve energy. They go dormant. And yet, we shame ourselves for needing downtime. We treat rest as a reward for productivity, when really, rest is the foundation of sustainability. If you’re trying to run a marathon without ever walking, you won’t finish. You’ll collapse. And there is nothing noble about collapsing from neglect. There is only dignity in pacing yourself, even when the world around you seems to be sprinting past you. So what does it look like to show up when you feel like quitting? It rarely looks heroic. It doesn’t look like a montage set to uplifting music. More often, it looks small. It looks like sending that one difficult email even though your hands are shaking. It looks like making your bed when you’d rather stay under the covers. It looks like sitting with your partner in silence instead of arguing, even though every fiber of your being wants to defend your point. This is where the quiet strength lives. Not in the grand gestures, but in the microscopic decisions to continue. When you choose to show up despite the exhaustion, you are telling your nervous system that you are safe enough to keep going. You are proving to yourself that you can trust your own word. That promise you made to yourself three months ago? You’re keeping it now, even if it hurts. Even if it’s messy. Especially then. I remember a time in my own life when I wanted to walk away from everything. A project I loved had turned into a source of constant anxiety. I was tired of explaining myself. I was tired of the performance. One morning, I looked at the screen, felt that familiar pull to close the laptop and never open it again. Instead, I opened it. I wrote one paragraph. Then I stopped. But I showed up. That tiny act of showing up became the bridge back to myself. It wasn’t about finishing the project that day. It was about refusing to let fear dictate my actions. That’s the pivot point. The moment you realize that showing up doesn’t mean pushing through pain until you break. It means honoring your limits while still honoring your commitments. It’s a delicate balance. Sometimes, showing up means setting a boundary. Saying no. Leaving the room. Taking a nap. Those are also acts of showing up—for your health, for your peace, for your future self. We need to expand our definition of courage. Courage isn’t always loud. Sometimes, courage is whispering, ‘I’m not okay,’ and meaning it. Sometimes, courage is admitting that you need help, that you’re drowning, and reaching out a hand. In past episodes, we’ve talked about the bravery of changing your mind publicly. This is similar. It’s the bravery of changing your approach privately. Admitting that the old way isn’t working, and choosing a new one, even when you’re afraid it won’t work either. When you feel like quitting, ask yourself: Am I quitting because I’ve found a better path, or am I quitting because I’m afraid of the discomfort? There’s a difference. Discomfort is growth. Fear is stagnation. If you’re staying because you’re scared, try staying anyway. Just for today. For this hour. See what happens when you stop fighting the current and start swimming with it. And if you do quit? If you decide that this chapter, this role, this expectation is no longer serving you? That is not failure. That is wisdom. Starting over is not a punishment; it’s a privilege. It’s the dignity of starting from scratch. You get to design the next thing with the knowledge you have now. You get to build something that fits your actual life, not the imaginary life you thought you should have. Sacha Beasty here, reminding you that I’ve burned bridges. I’ve quit jobs I swore I’d love forever. I’ve walked away from relationships that felt like home but were actually cages. And each time, I thought it was the end. But it was just a comma. A pause. A breath. The stories that matter most are not the ones where everything went perfectly. They’re the ones where we stumbled, fell, got up, and kept walking. Your willingness to keep walking, even when you’re limping, is the most beautiful thing you can offer the world. So, if you’re holding on by a thread today, know that you are not alone. Know that your effort counts, even if it’s invisible. Know that showing up is enough. You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t have to be strong all the time. You just have to be present. Present to your feelings, present to your choices, present to this moment. That is where the magic happens. Not in the destination, but in the decision to take the next step, however small. I want to invite you to do something gentle tonight. Put down the phone. Step away from the to-do list. Look at yourself in the mirror, if you can, and say thank you. Thank you for getting through today. Thank you for breathing when it felt hard. Thank you for loving, even when it was risky. You are doing better than you think. You are stronger than you feel. Tomorrow, you might still feel the urge to quit. That’s okay. Let it be there. Acknowledge it. Then, choose one small thing to show up for. Make the tea. Walk around the block. Send the text. One small act of presence. That’s all it takes to rebuild the muscle of resilience. It’s not built in a day. It’s built in the quiet moments, when no one is watching, and you choose yourself anyway. Welcome back to the beautiful chaos. It’s messy, it’s unpredictable, and it’s yours. Keep going. You’re doing great. Take care of yourselves. I’ll be with you tomorrow, ready for whatever comes next. Until then, keep showing up.