I Turned Down My Dream Job—And Learned to Trust Myself in the Process

Earlier this year, in the doldrums of early spring, I turned down my dream job as an editor of a health and parenting publication. 

Andrew Neel for Unsplash

Well, actually, let me back up: first I accepted my dream job, waiting for that rush of joy and pride to flood through me after working for a decade to get to this very spot. But it never came. Instead, I couldn’t stop hearing a nagging voice deep inside of me that kept saying one thing and one thing only—

You need to be available for your family. 

I argued with the voice that I could do this—I could hire more childcare, rearrange my days, get a housecleaner once a month like I did when I was 100 months pregnant and couldn’t reach behind the toilet anymore. I stopped sleeping, agonizing over my decision. I developed an eye twitch, then heart palpitations. 

Finally, almost a week after initially accepting the position, I decided there was nothing to be done but trust my intuition. I turned the job down, feeling mortified of being so wishy-washy, ashamed of being “unprofessional,” and deeply disappointed in myself for not being the “have-it-all” millennial mother I idealized. 

I turned the job down, feeling mortified of being so wishy-washy, ashamed of being “unprofessional,” and deeply disappointed in myself for not being the “have-it-all” millennial mother I idealized. 

Then everything fell apart

A few days later, my 12-year-old flopped down on the kitchen stool where I was prepping breakfast. “Mom, it feels like my lungs are going to explode,” she announced. A nasal swab in a drive-through urgent care later that afternoon confirmed what my mother’s intuition already knew instantly. COVID-19 had infiltrated our home. 

The same day that would have been my very first day of work at the dream job was instead spent kicking off the beginning of quarantine with all five of my children. Because of how the virus incubates, the daughter that tested positive would quarantine for 10 days, but the rest of them would have to quarantine for a full 10 days after the end of her isolation. Then, if any of them developed symptoms, the quarantine would start over again, the thought being that they could get infected at any point in those 10 days, making them contagious for an additional 10. 

Because my husband is a high school public teacher, he was fully vaccinated and required to continue to come into work, so I was on my own. I was overwhelmed just thinking about the days that stretched ahead of us and found myself exhausted by 8:00 every night, my energy completely expended by the feeling of being on-watch 24/7, monitoring my children for every sniffle and sneeze, juggling cooking, cleaning, my work as a freelance writer, and chasing my very active toddler around. 

My 12-year-old’s symptoms worsened. 

Her fever burned for several days, she got hit with the “COVID headache,” and several days in, she struggled to breathe. The urgent care over the phone recommended a steroid inhaler to ease the inflammation in her lungs. Fortunately, I have a background as a nurse and had an oxygen monitor at home, so I was able to keep a close eye on her oxygen levels.  

Bethany Beck for Unsplash

Just as she finally started breathing easier, meaning I could breathe easier, another emergency hit. My parents have been living with us since the pandemic started because they sold their home, but have been unable to find another one with the housing market gone haywire. My dad happens to be a Type 1 diabetic and one night, as my husband and I were watching a movie at midnight (a rarity we haven’t done in actual years), my mom came upstairs to rummage around the cupboards. 

“Is everything okay?” I asked from my perch buried under blankets on the couch. “Yeah,” she replied hesitantly. “Dad’s sugar is just a little low, so I’m getting him something to eat.” Well accustomed to his low sugar incidences over the years (he’s had the condition since he was 19), I nodded and remained comfy under my nest of blankets. Half an hour later, she was back upstairs, this time sounding more panicky. My dad remained essentially unconscious and nothing she was doing was working. 

It was time to come out of my cozy blanket-nest. We headed downstairs to help and my husband, bless him, had to hold my father in his arms like a newborn baby, as my mom and I continued to try to get sugar in his body. I sprinted around the kitchen at 1 AM, trying to find anything that could absorb in his bloodstream. Finally, my eyes landed on the lone remaining cupcake that my older daughters had made a few days ago. Bingo. 

So many “what-ifs” went through my mind and I thought back to that little inner voice that had warned me for this very scenario: you need to be available for your family. I felt a chill when I realized how very right that voice had been. 

Rubbing that homemade, pure sugar icing directly on his gums finally did the trick and he started to come out of it. As he slowly regained consciousness, it hit me how dangerous the evening really had been––his sugar was so low that his monitor wasn’t even registering it and had stopped alerting. My mom had just happened to see the light flashing and realized he was in bed wearing his clothes from earlier in the day. We just happened to be awake and watching a movie and available to help her. There just happened to be one cupcake left to save the day. 

So many “what-ifs” went through my mind and I thought back to that little inner voice that had warned me for this very scenario: you need to be available for your family. I felt a chill when I realized how very right that voice had been. 

Days later, just when I thought the excitement had finally died down, another wild scenario hit. As in, a wildfire. I had been prepping dinner in the kitchen on a Sunday when I noticed that our yard was completely dark with smoke rolling through. Although we knew our neighbors had been burning off some brush, I mentioned to my husband that maybe he should go check that the fire hadn’t accidentally taken off into our woods. He brushed my worries aside, assuring me that the manly men who burn brush in this town certainly know what they’re doing. (What a silly female I am!) 

An hour later, our woods were filled with four different fire department crews.

Michiel Annaert for Unsplash

As the sirens flashed through the trees and smoke billowed, my husband rushed into the house, shouting at me that our woods were on fire and he was going to take some buckets back to help. I quickly donned my own rubber boots and followed him. The scene was a shocking one–by the time I got there, the fire was contained, but I can safely say that I never expected to see my backyard teeming with firefighters and fire trucks, water spewing out every which way as the trees burned above me. The crews remained well past midnight, putting out fires and overall, 15 acres of our woods burned that day.

As the weeks passed and no one else in the house got sick, thankfully, I tried to remain grateful that I was able to tackle the immediate fires that had to be put out (ha). My daughter recovered, although, sadly, she is a long-hauler with lingering symptoms affecting her taste and energy levels, but no one else in the house got sick.

Wrestling with regret and learning to care for myself

But in the months that passed, I couldn’t shake the lingering sense of regret over the job I had turned down. I felt listless, like I had missed an opportunity that would never be there again. I trudged through my current jobs, in some ways glad for the mindless work that paid the bills, but lamenting the loss of the passionate career I could so clearly envision for myself. It was like I could see two versions of myself: one, a kickass editor collaborating with smart writers on stories that mattered in the world and the other, a haggard, exhausted crumb-covered mother who eked out meaningless SEO-pieces during her toddler’s nap time and spent most of her life cleaning. 

Turning down the job somehow felt like acknowledging that the “ideal” version of who I wanted to be as an adult and working mom was never going to happen. I was never going to be the put-together version of myself that I dreamed of; the one who actually had her nails done or who finally lost the baby weight or could actually style her hair. Every time I saw an article from that publication or thought of who I could have been with them, I felt deep pangs of regret and sorrow. It felt like yet another thing I had sacrificed at the altar of motherhood. 

I buried my feelings deep down, and kept going, reconciling the fact that I’d always feel sad about the opportunity that was lost. And then, months later––a revelation. Much to my surprise, I learned that the company I had turned down had run into financial troubles and laid off countless employees, including the very person in the position I had been offered. Everyone, including people who had been with the company for decades, were let go. 

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My intuition had been right all along. 

But whereas I had convinced myself that the little voice I had listened to was only trying to convince me to sacrifice myself for the good of caring for my family, it now became apparent that wasn’t true at all––the voice had been protecting me, for the sake of me. 

And for a mother who is forever doubting herself and her ability to claim any amount of space, time, or energy for herself, that realization felt revolutionary. It meant that I mattered, not just as a vessel to care for others, but for my own sake too. I had been busy convincing myself that the voice I had listened to was only trying to take something away from me, that I never stopped to consider what it was trying to do for me. 

I had been busy convincing myself that the voice I had listened to was only trying to take something away from me, that I never stopped to consider what it was trying to do for me. 

After the fire in our woods finally stopped burning, a full three days after the initial flames had sparked, the fire crews assured us that the fire, ironically, actually caused more good than harm. Apparently, burning off the old brush would allow for new growth to sprout.

They were right––today, our woods have indeed sprouted up with new trees, brush, and leaves. Walking through the back of the woods, it’s almost impossible to tell where the fire once burned. Only a few still-charred tree trunks and branches remain, but all around them, new growth has flourished. 

And as for me? Well, I’m not entirely sure what new growth will be awaiting me, but I know now that I’m no longer afraid of listening to the inner voice when it’s paving the way for a fresh start. Because I’ve seen that, sometimes, it takes literally torching down what we thought was right to allow for possibility. 

Read More:

I’m a Better Mom When I’m Working—Here’s How I Found Acceptance

Chaunie Brusie is a mom of five, a native Michigander, and a Registered Nurse turned writer and editor. Her work has appeared everywhere from The New York Times to Glamour to Parents magazine.