Paris 📍France

The one where I lose my job and move to Paris. Oui, really.

Am I crazy? Am I absolutely batshit?

Who gets fired and, within days, puts all their things in storage, packs a carry-on, and books a one-way flight to Paris? No savings. No plan. Not even a real suitcase.

Especially not someone like me. I’m the anxious type. I thrive on routine. I need pitch-black silence, a fan overhead, and exactly one leg out of my own familiar sheets to sleep. MY sheets. Not hostel linens. Not guest couch cushions.

So yeah…what the hell am I doing?

All I know is that job was killing me.

I made it my life. Working in news meant clocking in to the worst of humanity, day after day, when all I really wanted was to make people feel something good. I tried. I pitched my own show. I did my own interviews. Wrote my own pieces. But there was always another disaster, another shooting, another soul-crushing headline.

I was burning out. Fast.

So maybe losing that job? The best thing that ever happened to me.

Sure, I complained about leaving, who doesn’t? But when was I actually going to go? When I had the perfect savings? When my student loans magically vanished? After year 10 of working weekends and holidays and canceling every plan with people I love?

I was white-knuckling my way through life.

Hanging on until “someday.”

Waiting for a day off I’d be too exhausted to enjoy.

And honestly, why was I beating myself up over a place that treated me like garbage?

Rats falling from the ceiling.
Scanners blasting full volume at my desk.
Commuting two hours a day just to be ignored or undermined.
Selling my car because I couldn’t afford the gas.

A boss who never had my back.

Overtime without pay.

Holidays spent under fluorescent lights instead of twinkle ones.

Blankets instead of turning on the heat (seriously, that was their “gift”).

A director who insulted our appearances behind closed doors.
A newsroom that chewed up creativity and spat out scripts.
A dream job that slowly, steadily, started killing my light.

No. Even if they called tomorrow and begged me back, I couldn’t go.

I’ve been so unhappy for so long.

Trying to survive instead of actually live.

And right now? I don’t know where I’ll be tomorrow. I don’t have the answers.

But I’m finally moving. And for the first time in a long time — I’m not wasting another minute.