FloatingScarf

No, seriously. That’s not a metaphor. That’s the truth.

I quit my job because The Devil Wears Prada — my all-time favorite movie, the one I used to watch to cheer me up on the worst days — became too triggering to sit through.

Let me explain…

We all have that one thing we love. A favorite book, movie, or hangout spot. Something that grounds us. An anchor. Now imagine waking up one day and realizing that anchor no longer brings you comfort, it brings you dread.

TDWP was my anchor. I knew every line, every coat-flip, every dry “that’s all.” I loved it so much, I was deluded enough to think I could survive a Miranda Priestly. And for the longest time, I never understood why Andrea left. Why would she quit that job? Why walk away from something so powerful, so iconic, so life-changing? I mean, she just had to suck it up for a year!

Then, I got a job that looked a lot like hers. Only, my Miranda wasn’t brilliant. She wasn’t even mildly inspiring. She was cruel in subtle, cutting ways. The kind of person whose insecurity seeps into every conversation, every request, every silence. You’re either not enough, or somehow too much. There was no winning, no pleasing.

My Miranda slowly sucked the life out of me. My thoughts were consumed with work. I had started to understand why Andy quit in the middle of a workday. Still, I tolerated it. The job had its perks and there were times I had a few days off. Until… there weren’t.

I became irritable, exhausted, and developed a fuse so short it could’ve lit itself. It was like I used all my patience at work and didn’t have any left for the rest of my life. I told a few people how I felt. As expected, the opinions were split. “Our economy is on life support,” vs. “Girl, you literally don’t even need a job.”

Then it happened. One night, after a particularly brutal day, I needed comfort. I scrolled through my usuals — soft rom-coms, cozy dramas — anything to numb the ache. I hovered over The Devil Wears Prada and hit play.

Twenty minutes in, I had paused the movie seven times (my sister counted), to rant about the uncanny parallels between Andrea’s life and mine. I cussed. I sighed. I complained. Forty-two minutes after hitting play, I was still stuck at minute twenty.

I slammed my laptop shut.

I couldn’t do it.

The movie didn’t feel comforting or fabulous anymore. It felt like a mirror. One that showed me what I thought the job would be and what it never was. I realized I wasn’t building anything. I was just changing… slowly, subtly. My brain told me it was just stress, that I’d power through. But deep down, I knew: if I stayed any longer, I’d lose myself in it. I’d be unhappy, burnt out, and deeply tethered to a version of me shaped by survival, not joy.

That’s when it hit me: I wasn’t growing. I was unraveling.

So I left.

No dramatic coat drop. No grand exit monologue. Just a quiet, private decision to save what was left of me. Just. Like. Andrea.

(Okay, well, unlike Andrea, I didn’t throw my phone in a fountain when she called. I kept it. Phones are expensive. And I thoroughly enjoyed reading her groveling texts asking me to come back.)

Now, as I upload this from the desk of my new actually fun job…

Here’s what I’ve learned:

1.Sometimes your favorite movie becomes your cautionary tale.

2. If your dream is slowly turning into a nightmare, it’s not your dream anymore.

3. The glow-up sometimes starts with a resignation email.

4. You can love ambition and peace. Don’t let anyone convince you it’s one or the other.

5. You’re allowed to leave, even if nothing is falling apart yet — especially if you are.

And lastly:

6. Walking away isn’t quitting. It’s choosing something better. Something softer. Something yours.

Thank you for reading. Now, let me tell you how it really happened.

The Floating Scarf.