I Stepped Away

Growth doesn't always mean moving forward — sometimes it means standing still long enough to listen.

There's a moment before a big decision when everything goes quiet. Your mind stops arguing and simply listens. For me, that moment came earlier this year, when I decided to step away from my role as an Applied Science Manager.

It had been building quietly for months. I was delivering results, yet feeling strangely detached from them. The environment around me had become increasingly mechanical, focused on motion instead of meaning. I realized I wasn't growing anymore; I was just keeping things running.

As a manager, I always took pride in leading with compassion and a real interest in people. But that part of me was starting to feel muted. My days were full but not fulfilling. It wasn't just about burnout; it was about finding alignment. I wanted to feel challenged again, to build things, and to reconnect to learning and creation.

I don't take this lightly, the fact that being able to step away is a privilege. Many people never get to make that choice. That awareness lingered quietly in the background, adding a layer of guilt and self-doubt. Who am I to pause when others can't?

A Career of Building and Change

For most of my career, I've relied on two strengths: spontaneity and hard work. Both require a stubborn confidence, almost to the point of delusion. That approach worked for years. But lately, those strengths felt worn out. I was showing up, but the spark was gone. My spontaneity felt dulled, and my work ethic felt heavy. More concerning, I was drifting away from what once made me feel alive.

A few years ago, I moved to a new country to explore something that lit me up: the practical side of machine learning and AI. I joined a startup, Text IQ, which was using NLP to solve breakthrough problems in the legal field. It felt like stepping into an unexplored landscape, where the papers I had read suddenly came alive in products that could change how people worked. It was thrilling, like opening a new book where every chapter promised something I had never seen before.

Text IQ shaped how I think about engineering, leadership, and craft. It taught me the value of clarity, context, and building systems that respect nuance. When the company was acquired and I transitioned into a larger organization, the challenges shifted—scaling teams, managing at a higher level, and navigating complex systems. It was new terrain. I learned a lot, but over time, the work began to feel fragmented. The creative spark that once fuelled me was buried under layers of process. I was still proud of my team and what we accomplished, but I could feel a quiet distance growing between what I did and what I loved.

That distance became a mirror. To keep evolving, I needed to reflect, rebuild from the ground up—not as a manager chasing titles, but as a leader rediscovering purpose.

The Moment of Clarity

It came slowly, then all at once. One ordinary afternoon, in a meeting that should have meant nothing, I felt it: something had broken. This constant state of anxiety wasn't leadership. It wasn't even resilience. It was survival.

And that's when I knew: staying was no longer courage; it was inertia.

I found myself thinking not about the project at hand, but about the why behind it—and the silence that followed. The truth was simple: I wanted to create and lead, not just manage. I wanted to think deeply, to learn without pressure, to work from a place of exploration rather than fear.

So I made the decision to step away.

It was both terrifying and liberating to take a break, especially since work had defined me for so long. But once I did, the noise stopped. The weight lifted. I felt light for the first time in a long while.

Active Time Off

I promised myself two months of complete rest, with no job search and no 'next big plan.' I read. I walked. I slept eight hours. I let interest and instinct guide me, rather than my calendar.

Soon, I began to notice small shifts. Walks became small adventures; conversations with friends turned into deep brainstorms. I began sketching ideas, learning new things, tinkering for the joy of it. That's when I realized what I'd been missing—the joy of building, of seeing a thought travel from idea to implementation.

A few weeks in, I caught myself doing the opposite too. I was setting goals and sprinting toward imaginary deadlines, until it dawned on me: I was racing again. It's tough for me to take it slow. I'm still learning that lesson the hard way.

So now, I'm reframing:

Habits that create space for exploration.
Rituals that remind me to find whimsy in everyday things.
Long conversations with interesting people.
Days where the measure of progress is consistency.

It's less about escaping work and more about rediscovering the joy in learning—the feeling of being surprised by yourself.

What I'm Learning

These months have taught me a few lessons worth keeping:

Intent. Doing things slower, with more attention. Giving each action its full weight.
Patience. Allowing things to unfold in their own time—whether it's a project, a hobby, or personal growth.
Consistency. Progress doesn't have to be dramatic; it just needs to continue.
Craft. Building complete things, seeing an idea through, from start to finish.

Distance gave me perspective: AI isn't a race but a field that rewards depth and thoughtfulness. I've started exploring ideas again, including entrepreneurial ones that combine creativity with impact.

Looking Ahead (and Inward)

This time away reminded me that careers aren't linear. They expand, contract, and evolve as we do. What matters isn't how fast we move, but whether we're moving in alignment with what excites us.

I'm still in the rebuilding phase, experimenting, learning, and designing new routines. But I feel more like myself now than I have in years.

If there's a single thread running through all of this, it's simple: Patience with myself. Consistency in my craft. And the intent to make space for joy.

Because stepping away wasn't about quitting. It was about returning to creativity, to meaning, and to the quiet thrill of building again.