I was a “flight risk.” 

I’d never heard that term before and I didn’t know it was a liability. They said I seemed like a great fit in the interview, but my resume said it wasn’t a long-term thing. It was true: I only stayed in jobs for one to two years. On the verge of turning 30, I’d lived in four different cities in the last decade, switched career paths and industries several times, and was ready to go wherever the next opportunity was to potentially discover my true calling. I’d been a photo editor, production manager, fact-checker, fundraiser, graphic designer, marketer — maybe I was meant to be a baker. 

Before I left home at 17, I never got to quit. I hated Chinese school on Saturday mornings, but on Friday nights, I had to stay up until I finished all my homework and there was no doubt I’d ace the exam the next morning. I was about eight years old when I found the conviction to announce to my parents that I was done with piano lessons. There was no joy in playing scales and my small hands hurt from stretching over the keys. We were all bored of hearing me stumble over songs for young children. 

My parents were disappointed and angry. Their answer was no and I was reproached for my hubris. Didn’t I know what they sacrificed so that we could have a piano? I cried in the restaurant, and I took lessons and practiced nearly every night for another 10 years. 

You followed through in my family. If you didn’t like it, tough. I didn’t know how good I had it, my dad told me. If I thought this was hard, I really had no idea. He stressed the importance of being there when you said you would, of committing to something and seeing it through to the end. That was integrity. That was showing humility and gratitude for the opportunities we had growing up middle class in Canada. 

I took that to heart. If I found an author I liked, I read every single one of their books. I was a completionist. I read every single Judy Blume and Beverly Cleary title. I read and collected all the Salinger titles after identifying with Franny at 16 years old. I see now that I couldn’t tell what I liked and what I didn’t. I was single-minded; I just had to get through to the end and say that I’d done it. 

My mom gave me a lot of choices as a teenager. She was too busy and too sick to manage the day-to-day decisions of my life. I steered my learning toward arts and humanities, instead of the sciences, without her input. She didn’t tell me what to do, but I didn’t have the guidance I needed. Autonomy was a huge responsibility: I’d internalized that with any choice, I had to follow through no matter what, no matter the consequences. I decided on my own to move to Toronto when I was 17. 

From the very first day, I knew it was the wrong choice in so many ways. I missed my friends and the ocean, and the campus was so far away from either of those things. I had no money, so coming home wasn’t an option. I cried all the time and drank too much. I stressed about who to call with the handful of minutes I had on my long-distance phone card. Which of my friends would understand my regret without judgement?

By the end of my second year, I knew I had to go home. I’d tried, but the campus and Toronto wouldn’t give me anything that I needed. I always felt confined and unsafe on campus. I found east coast winters to be unbearable. In Vancouver, the people around me would know me and look out for me.

Coming home was easy. I loved everything it gave me, including a new beginning and the authority to tell other people to give up. Even though I didn’t know how it would work out, I knew I was unhappy with where I was and so I packed up and left. I had to take a risk and see what was on the other side. I’d been brave and they could be, too. 

Leaving Toronto became a huge part of my identity. I’d gambled on myself and I felt that I’d won. I wanted everyone to experience that thrill, to have the confidence to take themselves out of situations that didn’t serve them. It was frustrating to see friends stay in situations they were unhappy in — especially those that seemed to have the privilege of endless choices. Ironically, I’ve stayed in so many unhappy relationships for too long. Call me Jack Twist, but I’m really working on that.

During COVID, a time of massive job insecurity, I quit two jobs. A lot of us are realising that the cost of grinding through 40 hours a week when you’re unhappy at work is too big of a price to pay in a time when we’re truly lucky just to be alive. I don’t want to pass time doing work I feel dispassionate about at best. I don’t want to exchange my autonomy for a lifestyle I can’t afford. When I have to choose between one or the other, I’ve learned to value my freedom more than following through. 

At this point, I’m so practiced in calling it quits, my friends jokingly refer to it as part of my personal brand. The only things I won’t quit are my big friendships, my family, and my dog. Some friends attribute my commitment to self-care and high standards for my work life to inspiring them to slow down or leave shitty jobs. At 35, I’m still going from place to place to try to find out where I belong and what I want to be in service of. I don’t think work as we know it often supports us to explore that. 

This summer, leisurely dog walks, luxuriously long coffee dates with loved ones, wine dates in parks, and learning about mutual aid and direct action are filling my days. I read books when I wake up in the middle of the night, knowing I can sleep in and there’s nothing on my calendar for the rest of the day. I’ve found what feels right for me at this moment. And I know I’ll move on from this someday, too. 

I still can’t believe they said “flight risk” like it was a bad thing. 

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