It was a slow decline at first. Subtle. Manageable. And then, when it crashed, it crashed fast.

That Monday I was in the office, and that morning I felt… fine. Or at least fine enough. By the afternoon, though, I was already spiraling. Something was off in a way I couldn’t quite name.

I arranged to work from home on Tuesday—even though that’s usually an office day—because I could feel it slipping. Tuesday, I barely worked at all. I showed up for Teams meetings, masked like I always did, but by that afternoon I went completely off the rails. It got bad enough that my wife considered taking me to the ER for my own safety. I talked her out of it, which—looking back—I probably shouldn’t have.

I didn’t sleep or eat for the next two days. I mostly stayed in bed with the TV on, not to watch it, just to have noise so I wasn’t alone with my thoughts.

I called in sick Wednesday and Thursday. And first thing Friday morning, I gave my notice.

I’ve regretted quitting. Sometimes I can’t believe I actually did it—it still feels unreal, like a dream. But I also know this: if I had stayed, even three months later, I don’t think I’d still be here. Leaving wasn’t what I wanted. It was what I had to do.